
Class. 
Book 



PRESENTED BY 



















' 











s 



THE 



OF 



LORD BY 



EMBRACING 



HIS SUPPRESSED POEMS 



AND 



A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE 



ILLUSTRATED. 

NEW EDITION, COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 



BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, 

110 WASHINGTON STREET. 
1852. 






ADVERTISEMENT. 



In the preparation of the present edition of the works of Lord Byron, the 
publishers have spared nq expense or delay in making it entirely complete. 
In its progress through the press, it has undergone the careful supervision of a 
distinguished literary gentleman ; and its proprietors feel that they can claim for 
this edition what no other publisher can in this country, — that it contains, 
unabridged, line for line, and word for word, the complete works of Lord 
Byron, and, in this respect, the only one ever issued from the American press. 



Gift 

Judge and Mrs. \. R. H\tt 

June 23 lt>36 



WEIGHT & HASTY, PRINTERS. 
3 Watei: Street, Boston. 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS, ETC. 



Page 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 

Preface 17 

Tolanthe 18 

Canto 1 19 

Canto II 28 

Canto III 37 

Canto IV 47 

Notes to Canto 1 64 

Notes to Canto II 65 

Appendix 75 

Notes to Canto III 81 

Notes to Canto IV 84 

The Giaour 108 

Dedication 108 

Advertisement 108 

Notes 119 

The Bride of Abydos .... 122 

Dedication 122 

Canto 1 122 

Canto II 126 

Notes 132 

The Corsair 135 

Dedication 135 

Canto 1 136 

Canto II 141 

Canto III 145 

Notes 151 

Lara 154 

Canto 1 154 

Canto II. ....... 159 

Note 165 

The Siege of Corinth .... 166 

Dedication 166 

Advertisement ....*. 166 

Notes 175 

Parisina 176 

Dedication 176 

Advertisement ... . 176 

Notes . 181 



Faga 

The Prisoner of Chillon . . . 183 

Sonnet on Chillon 183 

Notes 186 

Beppo ........ 188 

Notes 195 

Mazeppa , 196 

Advertisement 196 

The Island 203 

Advertisement 203 

Canto 1 203 

Canto II 205 

Canto III 210 

Canto IV 212 

Appendix 216 

Manfred 220 

Notes 233 

The Deformed Transformed . . . 233 

Advertisement 233 

Heaven and Earth 248 

Cain 259 

Dedication 259 

Preface 259 

Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice . . 278 

Preface 278 

Notes 311 

Appendix 312 

The Two Foscari 320 

Appendix 341 

Sardanapaltjs 348 

Dedication 348 

Preface 348 

Notes 377 

Werner 378 

Dedication ...... 378 

Preface 378 

Hours of Idleness 412 

Dedication 412 

Preface ....... 412 

On leaving Newstead Abbey . . . 413 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

On a Distant View of the Village and School 
of Harrow on the Hill .... 414 

ToD 414 

Epitaph on a Friend .... 415 

A Fragment 415 

ToEddleston 415 

Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, 

Esq., on the cruelty of his Mistress . 415 

To the Sighing Strephon . . . .416 
The Tear ..:..•■ 416 

To Miss Pigot .417 

Lines written in " Letters of an Italian Nun 
and an English Gentleman. By J. J. 
Rousseau. Founded on Facts " . . 417 

Answer to the foregoing, addressed to Miss 417 

The Cornelian 417 

On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to 
the Author, and very dear to him . 418 

To Emma 418 

An Occasional Prologue. Delivered previous 
to the performance of " The Wheel of For- 
tune " at a private Theatre . 
On the Death of Mr. Fox .... 

To M. S. G 

To Caroline 

To Caroline 

To Caroline 420 

Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camoens 420 
The first Kiss of Love . . • .421 

To Mary 421 

To Woman 421 



To M. S. G. . 

To a Beautiful Quaker 

Song .... 

To 

To Mary, on receiving her Picture . 



422 
422 
422 
423 
423 



To Lesbia 424 

Lines addressed to a Young Lady . . 424 

Love's Last Adieu 424 

Damcetas 425 

To Marion 425 

Oscar of Alva 425 

To the Duke of Dorset . . . .428 
Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Dying 429 
Translation from Catullus. Ad Lesbiam . 430 
Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and 

Tibullus. By Domitius Marsus . . 430 
Imitation of Tibullus .... 430 

Translation from Catullus .... 430 
Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen . 430 

Translation from Horace. Ode 3, Lib. 3 . 430 
Translation from Anacreon. To his Lyre 431 

Ode III. 431 

Fragments of School Exercises. From the 

Prometheus Vinctus of JEschylus . . 431 
The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus. A Par- 
aphrase from the JEneid, Lib. IX. . . 431 
Translation from the Medea of Euripides 435 
Thoughts suggestedby a Colleee Examination 435 



To the Earl of 436 

Granta. A Medley 437 

Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a 
Friend to the Author, complaining that one 
of his Descriptions was rather too warmly 

drawn 438 

Lachin Y Gair 439 

To Romance 439 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey . . . 440 
On a change of Masters at a great Public 

School 442 

Childish Recollections . • • .442 

Answer to a beautiful Poem, written by Mont- 
gomery, entitled " The Common Lot" . 446 
To the Rev. J. T. Becher . . . 447 

The Death of Calmar and Orla. An Imita- 
tion of Macpherson's Ossian . . 447 

To E. N. L., Esq 448 

To 449 

Stanzas . 450 

Lines written beneath an Elm in the Church- 
yard of Harrow on the Hill, September 2, 

1807 450 

Critique on " Hours of Idleness," extracted 
from the Edinburgh Review . . . 451 
ExGLisn Bauds and Scotch Reviewers 453 
Preface . . . . . ' • • .453 

Postscript 467 

Hints from Horace 468 

The Curse of Minerva .... 480 

The Waltz 483 

To the Publisher 483 

The Age of Bronze 487 

The Vision of Judgment . . . 494 

Preface 494 

Morgante Maggoire .... 503 

Advertisement 503 

Canto 1 504 

The Prophecy of Dante . . . .510 

Dedication 510 

Preface 510 

Canto 1 511 

Canto II 512 

Canto III 513 

Canto IV 515 



Notes • 516 

Hebrew Melodies 518 

Advertisement 51S 

She Walks in Beauty 518 

The Harp the Monarch Minstrel Swept . 518 

If that High World 518 

The Wild Gazelle 518 

Oh ! Weep for Those 519 

On Jordan's Banks 519 

Jephtha's Daughter 519 

Oh ! snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom . 519 

My Soul is Dark 519 

I saw Thee Weep ..... 520 
Thy Days are Done ... .520 



CONTENTS. 



Song of Saul before his last Battle . 520 

Saul 520 

" All is Vanity, saith the Preacher " . 520 

When Coldness wraps this suffering Clay . 521 
Vision of Belshazzar .... 521 

Sun of the Sleepless ! 521 

Were ray Bosom as False as Thou dcem'st it 

to be 521 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne . . 521 

On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem 

by Titus 522 

By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down arid 

wept '. 522 

The Destruction o£ Sennacherib . . 522 

From Job 522 

The Lament of Tasso . . . . . 523 

Advertisement 523 

Monody on the Death of the Right Hon. 

R. B. Sheridan 525 

Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte . . . 527 

Notes 523 

Ode on Venice 529 

The Dream 530 

The Blues 532 

Miscellaneous Poems .... 537 

Written in an Album 537 

To * * * 537 

Stanzas written in passing the Arabracian Gulf 537 
Stanzas composed during the Night, in a 

Thunder-Storm 538 

Written at Athens 538 

Written after Swimming from Sestos to Aby- 
dos 538 

Song. Zw>7 ixou aas ayamo . . . . 539 

Translation of the famous Greek War Song, 

Acvte Tratdes tosv 'E\\>'ii>ujv .... 539 
Translation of the Romaic Song, "Mirsvu pes 

'to- nipt06\t 'Jlpuitfrarfj X.ar,li) " . . . ,540 

Written beneath a Picture . . . 540 

On Parting 540 

To Thyrza £40 

Stanzas 541 

To Thyrza 541 

Euthanasia 542 

Stanzas. " Heu quanto minus est cum reli- 

quis versari quam tui meminisse " . . 542 

Stanzas 543 

On a Cornelian Heart which was Broken . 543 

To a Youthful Friend .... 543 

To ****** 544 

From the Portuguese .... 544 

Impromptu, in reply to a Friend . . 544 
Address, spoken at the opening of Drury- 

Lane Theatre 544 

To Time 545 

Translation of a Romaic Love Song . . 545 

A Song 546 

On being asked what was the " Origin of 

Love " 546 



Pag. 

Remember Him, &c 546 

Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a 

Skull 547 

On the Death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart. 547 

To a Lady weeping 547 

From the Turkish! 547 

Sonnet. To Gencvra 548 

Sonnet. To Gegevra .... 548 
Inscription on the Monument of a Newfound- 
land Dog 548 

Farewell 548 

Bright be the Place of thy Soul . . 548 

When we Two Parted 549 

Stanzas for Music 549 

Stanzas for Music 549 

Fare Thee Well 550 

A Sketch 550 

To 551 

Ode. [From the French] .... 551 

From the French 552 

On the Star of "the Legion of Honor." 

[From the French] .... 553 

Napoleon's Farewell. [From the French] 553 
Written on a blank Leaf of " The Pleasures 

of Memory " 554 

Sonnet 554 

Stanzas to 554 

Darkness 554 

Churchill's Grave 555 

Prometheus 555 

The Prayer of Nature 556 

Romance muy Doloroso del Sitio y Toma de 

Alhama 557 

A very mournful Ballad on the Siege and 

Conquest of Granada .... 557 

Sonetto di Vittorelli. Per Monaca . 559 

Translation from Vittorelli. On a Nun . 559 

To my dear Mary Anne .... 559 

To Miss Chaworth 559 

Fragment 560 

Fragment 560 

On Revisiting Harrow , 560 

L'Amitie est l'Amour sans Ailes . . 560 

To my Son ... 561 

Epitaph on John Adams, of Southwell . 561 

Fragment 561 

To Mrs. * * *, on being asked my reason for 

quitting England in the Spring . . 562 

A Love Song 562 

Stanzas to ****** * . . . 562 

To the Same 562 

Song 56.3. 

Stanzas to * * *, on leaving England . 563 

Lines to Mr. Hodgson .... 564 
Lines in the Travellers' Book at Orchomenus 564 

On Moore's Last Operatic Farce . . 565 

Epistle to Mr. Hodgson .... 565 

On Lord Thurlow's Poems . . . 565 

To Lord Thurlow 56-5 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

To Thomas Moore 566 

Fragment of an Epistle to Thomas Moore 566 

The Devil's Drive 566 

Windsor Poetics 567 

Additional Stanzas to the Ode to Napoleon 

Bonaparte 567 

To Lady Caroline Lamb .... 567 

Stanzas for Music 568 

Address intended to be recited at the Caledo- 
nian Meeting 568 

Ca the Prince Regent's returning the Picture 
of Sarah, Countess of Jersey, to Mrs. Mee 568 

To Belshazzar 569 

Hebrew Melodies 569 

Lines intended for the opening of " The Siege 

of Corinth " 569 

Extract from an Unpublished Poem . . 570 

To Augusta 570 

On the Bust of Helen, by Canova . . 571 
Fragment of a Poem on hearing that Lady 

Byron was 111 571 

To Thomas Moore 572 

Stanzas to the River Po 572 

Sonnet to George the Fourth . . . 572 

Francesca of Rimini 572 

The Irish Avatar 573 

Stanzas to Her who can best understand Them 574 
Stanzas written on the Road between Florence 

and Pisa 575 

Impromptu, on Lady Blessington expressing 

her Intention of taking the Villa called 

" II Paradiso," near Genoa . . 575 

To the Countess of Blessington . . . 575 

On this Day I complete my Thirty-Sixth Year 576 

To a Lady who presented the Author with 

the Velvet Band which bound her Tresses 576 



Pap 

576 
576 

577 
578 

578 



Remembrance 

The Adieu .... 

To a Vain Lady 

To Anne 

To the Same 

To the Author of a Sonnet beginning " ' Sad 

ismy Verse,' you say, " 'and yet no. Tear' " 578 

On Finding a Fan 578 

Farewell to the Mus? 579 

To an Oak at Newstead .... 579 

Lines, on hearing that Lady Byron was 111 579 

Stanzas. " Could Love for ever " . . 580 

Stanzas. To a Hindoo Air . . . 581 

Oh, never talk again to me . . . 5S1 
The Third Act of Manfred, in its original 

Shape, as first sent to the Publisher . 581 

Don Juan 585 

Dedication 585 

Canto 1 587 

Canto II 603 

Canto III 618 

Canto IV 627 

Canto V 635 



647 
648 
656 
663 
673 



Preface to Cantos VI. VII. and VIII. 

Canto VI 

Canto VII 

Canto VIII 

Canto IX 

Canto X 679 

Canto XI 685 

Canto XII 692 

Canto XIII 698 

Canto XIV 706 

Canto XV 713 

Canto XVI 721 

Notes 730 





•n 














j JDDG! S. BAA 








WASHINGTON, D. C. 

• 








193 fc 








CONTENTS. 




LETTERS, ETC. 




Page 




Pag* 


LETTERS 


LETTERS 




I. to Miss Pigot . . . .739 


XXXIX. to Mr. Harness 


751 


II. to Mr. Pigot .... 739 


XL. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. . 


. 751 


III. to Miss Pigot . . . .739 


XLI. to Mr. William Bankes . 


751 


IV. to Mr. Pigot .... 740 


XLII. to Mrs. Byron 


. 752 


V. to Mr. Pigot . . . .740 


XLIII. to Mr. Henry Drury 


752 


VI. to Mr. Pigot .... 740 


XLIV. to Mr. Hodgson . 


. 752 


VII. to Mr. Pigot . . . .740 


XLV. to Mr. Hodgson 


752 


VIII. to Miss Pigot .... 741 


XLVI. to Mr. Hodgson . 


. 753 


IX. to the Earl of Clare . . .741 


XLVII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 


753 


X. to Mr. Pigot .... 741 


XLVIII. to Mr. Rushton . 


. 754 


XL to Mr. William Bankes . . 742 


XLIX. to the Honorable Mrs. Byro 


n 755 


XII. to Mr. William Bankes . . 742 


L. to Mrs. Byron 


. 755 


XIII. to Mr. Falkner . . . .742 


LI. to Mrs. Byron . 


757 


XIV. to Mr. Pigot .... 742 


LII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 


. 757 


XV. to Miss Pigot . . . .743 


LIII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 


757 


XVI. to Miss Pigot .... 743 


LIV. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 


. 757 


XVII. to Miss Pigot . . . .743 


LV. to Mr. Henry Drury 


757 


XVIII. to Miss Pigot .... 744 


LVI. to Mr. Hodgson . 


. 759 


XIX. to Miss Pigot . . . .744 


LVII. to the Honorable Mrs. Byro 


n 759 


XX. to Miss Pigot .... 745 


LVIII. to Mr. Henry Drury . 


. 759 


XXI. to Miss Pigot . . . .745 


LIX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 


760 


XXII. to Mr. Dallas .... 746 


LX. to Mrs. Byron 


. 761 


XXIII. to Mr. Dallas . . . .746 


LXI. to Mrs. Byron . 


761 


XXIV. to Mr. Henry Drury . . 747 


LXII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 


. 762 


XXV. to Mr. Harness . . . .747 


LXIII. to Mr. Hodgson 


762 


XXVI. to Mr. Harness ... 747 


LXIV. to Mrs. Byron 


. 763 


XXVII. to Mr. Becher . . . .748 


LXV. to Mrs. Byron . 


764 


XXVIII. to Mr. Becher .... 748 


LXVI. to Mrs. Byron 


. 764 


XXIX. to Mr. Jackson . . . .748 


LXVII. to Mr. Hodgson 


764 


XXX. to Mr. Jackson ... 749 


LXVIII. to Mr. Dallas 


. 765 


XXXI. to Mr. Jackson . . . .749 


LXIX. to Mr. Henry Drury 


765 


XXXII. to Mr. Becher .... 749 


LXX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 


. 76«. 


XXXIII. to the Honorable Mrs. Byron . 749 


LXXI. to Dr. Pigot . 


766 


XXXIV. to Mrs. Byron .... 749 


LXXII. to Mr. Scrope Davies . 


. 766 


XXXV. to Mr. Hodgson . . . .750 


LXXIII. to Bolton, Esq. 


766 


XXXVI. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. . . 750 


LXXIV. to Mr. Bolton 


. 767 


XXXVII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. . . .750 


LXXV. to Mr. Bolton . 


767 


XXXV1I1. to Mrs. Byron .... 751 


LXXVI. to Mr. Dallas 


. 767 


2* 





ii 


CONTENTS. 






Pajc 




Paja 


LETTERS 




LETTERS 




LXXVII. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 767 


CXXXV. to Lord Holland . 


. 786 


LXXVIII. to Mr. Dallas 


768 


CXXXVI. to Lord Holland 


786 


LXXIX. to Mr. Murray 


. 768 


CXXXVII. to Lord Holland . 


. 786 


LXXX. to Mr. Dallas . 


769 


CXXXVIII. to Lord Holland 


787 


LXXXI. to Mr. Dallas . 


| 769 


CXXXIX. to Lord Holland . 


. . 787 


LXXXII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. J 709 


CXL. to Lord Holland 


787 


LXXXIII. to Mr. Murray 


. 770 


CXLI. to Mr. Murray 


. 787 


LXXXIV. to Mr. Dallas . 


770' 


CXLII. to Mr. Murray . 


787 


LXXXV. to It. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. 771 


CXLII1. to Mr. William Bankes 


. 788 


LXXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 


771 


CXLIV. to Mr. Murray . 


783 


LXXXVII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. 771 


CXLV. to Mr. Murray 


. 789 


LXXXVIII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


771 


CXLYI. to Lord Holland 


789 


LXXXIX. to Mr. Murray 


. 771 


CXLVII. to Mr. Murray 


. 789 


XC. to Mr. Dallas 


771 


CXLVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


789 


XCL to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. 772 


CXLIX. to Mr. Murray 


. 789 


XCII. to Mr. Dallas 


772 


CL. to Mr. Murray . 


790 


XCIII. to Mr. Dallas . 


. 772 


CLI. to Mr. William Bankes 


. 790 


XCIV. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


772 


CLII. to Mr. Murray . 


790 


XCV. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. 773 


CLIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


. 790 


XCVI. to Mr. Dallas 


773 


CLIV. to Mr. Murray . 


791 


XCVII. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 774 


CLV. to Mr. Murray 


. 791 


XCVIII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


775 


CLVI. to Mr. Murray . 


791 


XCIX. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. 775 


CLVII. to Mr. Murray 


. 791 


C. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


775 


CLVIII. to W. Gifford, Esq. . 


792 


CI. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. 775 


CLIX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 792 


CII. to Miss Pigot 


776 


CLX. to Mr. Moore 


792 


CHI. Mr. Moore to Lord Byron 


. 776 


CLXI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 792 


CIV. to Mr. Moore 


776 


CLXII. to Mr. Moore 


793 


CV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 776 


CLXIII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 793 


CVI. to Mr. Moore 


777 


CLXIV. to Mr. Moore 


793 


CVII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 777 


CLXV. to Mr. Croker . 


. 794 


CVIII. to Mr. Harness . 


777 


CLXVI. to Mr. Murray . 


794 


CIX. to Mr. Harness 


. 777 


CLXVII. to Mr. Murray 


. 794 


CX. to Mr. Hodgson . 


778 


CLXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


795 


CXI. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 778 


CLXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 795 


CXII. to Mr. Harness . 


779 


CLXX. to Mr. Moore 


796 


CXIII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 779 


CLXXI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 796 


CXIV. to Mr. Moore 


779 


CLXXII. to Mr. Moore 


797 


CXV. to Robert Rnshton . 


. 780 


CLXXIII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 797 


CXVI. to Robert Rushton . 


7S0 


CLXXIV. to Mr. Moore 


797 


CXVII. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 780 


CLXXV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 797 


CXVIII. to Master John Cowell 


780 


CLXXVI. to Mr. Moore 


798 


CXIX. to Mr. Rogers . 


. 781 


CLXXVII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 70S 


CXX. to Lord Holland 


781 


CLXXVIII. to Leigh Hunt . 


799 


CXXI. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 781 


CLXXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 799 


CXXII. to Lord Holland 


781 


CLXXX. to Mr. Murray 


800 


CXXIII. to Mr. William Bankes . 


. 782 


CLXXXI. to Mr. Gifford . 


. 800 


CXXIV. to Mr. William Bankes 


782 


CLXXXII. to Mr. Murray . 


800 


CXXV. to Lord Holland 


. 783 


CLXXXIII. to Mr. Murray 


. 801 


CXXVI. to Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 


783 


CLXXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


801 


CXXVII. to Lord Holland 


. 784 


CLXXXV. to Mr. Murray 


. 802 


K CXXVIII. to Lord Holland 


784 


CLXXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 


802 


CXXIX. to Lord Holland 


. 7S4 


CLXXXVII. to Mr. Murray 


. 802 


CXXX. to Lord Holland 


784 


CLXXXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


803 


CXXXI. to Lord Holland 


. 784 


CLXXXIX. to Mr. Ashe . 


. 803 


CXXXII. to Lord Holland 


785 


CXC. to Mr. Ashe 


804 


CXXXIII. to Lord Holland 


. 785 


CXCI. to Mr. Gait 


. 804 


CXXXIV. to Lord Holland 


785 


CXCII. to Mr. Leigh Hunt . 


804 

: 







CONTENTS. 


iii 






P-'SB 




Vag» 


LETTERS 






LETTERS 




CXCIII. 


to Mr. Merivale . 


. 804 


CCLI. to Mr. Murray 


. 823 


CXCIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


804 


CCLII. to Mr. Murray . 


S24 


cxcv. 


to Mr. Moore 


. SOo 


CCLIII. to Mr. Nathan . 


. 824 


CXCVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


805 


CCLIV. to Mr. Moore . 


824 


CXCVII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 806 


CQLV. to Mr. Moore 


. 824 


CXCVIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


806 


CCLVL to Mr. Moore . 


824 


CXCIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 806 


CCLVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 825 


cc. 


to Mr. Murray . 


807 


CCLVIII. to Mr. Moore . 


825 


CCI. 


to Mr. Hodgson . 


. 807 


CCLIX. to Mr. Moore 


. 825 


ecu. 


to Mr. Moore . 


808 


CCLX. to Mr. Moore . 


825 


CCIII. 


to Mr. Hunt . . ' . 


. 808 


CCLXI. to Mr. Moore 


. 826 


CCIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


809 


CCLXII. to Mr. Moore . 


826 


ccv. 


to Mr. Rogers 


. 809 


CCLXIII. to Mr. Moore 


. 821 


CCVI. 


to Mr. Rogers . 


S09 


CCLXIV. to Mr. Coleridge 


82, 


CCVII. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 809 


CCLXV. to Mr. Murray 


. 82S 


CCVIIL to Mr. Dallas . 


810 


CCLXVI. to Mr. Moore . 


828 


CCIX. 


to * * * * 


. 810 


CCLXVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 828 


ccx. 


to Mr. Moore . 


810 


CCLXVIII. to Mr. Hunt . 


828 


CCXI. 


to W * * W * *, Esq. 


. 811 


CCLXIX. to Mr. Moore 


. .829 


CCXII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


811 


CCLXX. to Mr. Moore . 


829 


CCXIII. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 811 


CCLXXI. to Mr. Sotheby . 


. 830 


CCXIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


812 


CCLXXII. to Mr. Sotheby 


830 


cexv. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 812 


CCLXXIII. to Mr. Taylor 


. 830 


CCXVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


812 


CCLXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


S30 


CCXVII. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 813 


CCLXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. S31 


CCXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


814 


CCLXXVI. to Mr. Hunt . 


831 


CCXIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 814 


CCLXXVII. to Mr. Hunt 


. 831 


cexx. 


to Mr. Murray . 


814 


CCLXXVIII. to Mr. Hunt . 


831 


CCXXI. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 814 


CCLXXIX. to Mr. Moore 


. 832 


CCXXII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


814 


CCLXXX. to Mr. Hunt . 


832 


CCXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 815 


CCLXXXI. to Mr. Moore 


. S33 


CCXXIV. 


to Mr. Moore . 


816 


CCLXXXII. to Mr. Moore . 


833 


cexxv. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 816 


CCLXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 834 


CCXXVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


816 


CCLXXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


834 


CCXXVII. 


to Mr. Rogers 


. 816 


CCLXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 834 


CCXXVIII. 


to Mr. Rogers . 


817 


CCLXXXVI. to Mr. Moore . 


834 


CCXXIX. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 817 


CCLXXXVII. to Mr. Hunt . 


. 835 


CCXXX. 


to Mr. Moore . 


817 


CCLXX XVIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


835 


CCXXXI. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 818 


CCLXXXIX. to Mr. Moore 


. 835 


CCXXXII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


818 


CCXC. to Mr. Hunt . 


836 


CCXXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 818 


CCXCI. to Mr. Moore 


. 836 


CCXXXIV. 


to Mr. Moore . 


818 


CCXCII. to Mr. Murray . 


837 


cexxxv. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 819 


CCXCIII. to Mr. Rogers 


. 837 


CCXXXVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


819 


CCXCIV. to Mr. Murray . 


837 


CCXXXYII. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 819 


CCXCV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 837 


CCXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


820 


CCXCVI. to Mr. Murray . ' . 


837 


CCXXXIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 820 


CCXCVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. . 837 


CCXL. 


to Mr. Murray . 


820 


CCXCVIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


838 


CCXLI. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 821 


CCXCIX. to Mr. Murray . 


. 838 


CCXLII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


821 


CCC. to Mr. Murray . 


S3S 


CCXLIII. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 821 


CCCI. to Mr. Rogers 


. 839 


CCXLIV. 


to the Countess of * * * 


822 


CCCTI. to Mr. Murray . 


839 


CCXLV. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 822 


' CCCIII. to Mr. Murray 


. 840 


CCXLVI. 


to Mr. Hunt . 


822 


CCCIV. to Mr. Murray . 


840 


CCXLVII. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 822 


CCCV. to Mr. Murray 


. S4C 


CCXLVIII. 


to Mr. Henry Drury 


823 


CCCVI. to Mr. Murray . 


811 


CCXLIX. 


to Mr. Cowell 


. 823 


CCCVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 841 


CCL. 


to Mr. Moore . 


823 


CCCVIII. to Mr. Moore . 


84£ 



►V 




CONTENTS. 










Page 






Pag« 


LETTERS 






LETTERS 






CCCIX. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 843 


CCCLXVII. 


to Mr. Rogers 


872 


CCCX. 


to Mr. Moore . 


843 


CCCLXVIII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


872 


CCCXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 845 


CCCLXIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


873 


CCCXII. 


to Mr. Murray 


845 


CCCLXX. 


to Mr. Murray 


873 


CCCXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 846 


CCCLXXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


873 


CCCXIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


846 


CCCLXXII. 


to Mr. Murray 


874 


cccxv. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 847 


CCCLXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


874 


CCCXVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


848 


CCCLXXIV. 


to Mr. Moore . 


874 


CCCXVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 849 


CCCLXXV. 


to * * * * * . . 


875 


CCCXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


849 


CCCLXXVI. 


to Mr. Murray 


877 


CCCXIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 850 


CCCLXXVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


877 


cccxx. 


to Mr. Moore . 


850 


CCCLXXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


877 


CCCXXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 851 


CCCLXXIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


878 


CCCXXII. 


to Mr. Murray 


851 


CCCLXXX. 


to Capt. Basil Hall 


878 


CCCXXIII. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 852 


CCCLXXXI. 


to Mr. Moore 


878 


CCCXXIV. 


to Mr. Moore . 


852 


CCCLXXXII. 


to Mr. Murray 


879 


cccxxv. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 853 


CCCLXXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


879 


CCCXXVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


854 


CCCLXXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


879 


CCCXXVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 855 


CCCLXXXV. 


to Mr. Murray 


880 


CCCXXVIII. 


to Mr. Rogers 


855 


CCCLXXXVI. 


to Mr. Murray 


880 


CCCXXIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 856 


CCCLXXXVII. 


to the Editor of Galignani's 


cccxxx. 


to Mr. Moore . 


856 




Messenger 


881 


CCCXXXI. 


to Mr. Murray 


'. . 857 


CCCLXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


881 


CCCXXXII. 


to Mr. Murray 


858 


CCCLXXXIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


881 


CCCXXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 858 


CCCXC. 


to Mr. Murray . 


882 


CCCXXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


858 


CCCXCI. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


882 


cccxxxv. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 859 


CCCXCII. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


882 


CCCXXXVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


859 


CCCXCIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


883 


CCCXXXVII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 859 


CCCXCIV. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


884 


CCCXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


860 


CCCXCV. 


to Mr. Murray 


884 


CCCXXXIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. S61 


CCCXCVI. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


885 


CCCXL. 


to Mr. Murray 


861 


CCCXCVII. 


to Mr. Murray 


885 


CCCXLI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 861 


CCCXCVIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


885 


CCCXLII. 


to Mr. Murray 


862 


CCCXCIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


886 


CCCXLIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 862 


cccc. 


to Mr. Murray . 


887 


CCCX LI V. 


to Mr. Murray 


862 


CCCCI. 


to the Countess Guiccioli 


887 


CCCXLV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 863 


CCCCII. 


to 31 r. Murray 


S87 


CCCXLVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


863 


CCCCIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


8S7 


CCCXLVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 863 


CCCCIV. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


888 


CCCXLVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


864 


CCCCV. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


889 


CCCXLIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 864 


CCCCVI. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


889 


CCCL. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 865 


CCCCVII. 


to Mr. Murray 


889 


CCCLI. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 865 


CCCCVIII. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


890 


CCCLII. 


to Mr. Murray 


866 


CCCCIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


890 


CCCLIII. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


. 866 


CCCCX. 


to Mr. Bankes 


891 


CCCLIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


866 


CCCCXI. 


to Mr. Murray 


891 


CCCLV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 867 


CCCCXII. 


to the Countess Guiccioli 


892 


CCCLVI. 


to Mr. Murray 


867 


CCCCXIII. 


to the Countess Guiccioli 


892 


CCCLVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 868 


CCCCXIV. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


892 


CCCLVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


868 


ccccxv. 


to Mr. Murray 


892 


CCCLIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 869 


CCCCXVI. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


893 


CCCLX. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


869 


CCCCXVII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


893 


CCCLXI. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 869 


CCCCXVIII. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


893 


CCCLXII. 


to Mr. Murray 


870 


CCCCXIX. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


894 


CCCLXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 870 


ccccxx. 


to Mr. Murray . 


894 


CCCLXIV. 


to Mr. Moore . 


870 


CCCCXXI. 


to Mr. Bankes 


894 


CCCLXV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 870 


CCCCXXII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


895 


CCCLXYI 


to Mr. Hoppner 


871 


CCCCXXIII. 


to Mr. Bankes 


896 



• 


CONTENTS. 




V 




Page 






Page 


LETTERS 




LETTERS 






CCCCXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 896 


CCCCLXXXI 


to Mr. Murray . 


921 


CCCCXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


897 


CCCCLXXXII 


to Mr. Perry 


921 


CCCCXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 


. 897 


CCCCLXXXIII 


to Mr. Murray . 


922 


CCCCXXVII. to Mr. Murray . 


897 


CCCCLXXXIV. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


922 


CCCCXXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 897 


CCCCLXXXV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


923 


CCCCX XIX. to Mr. Murray . 


897 


CCCCLXXXVI. 


to Mr. Shelley . 


923 


CCCCXXX. to Mr. Murray. 


. 898 


CCCCLXXXVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


923 


CCCCXXXI. to Mr. Hoppner . 


898 


CCCCLXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Moore 


924 


CCCCXXXII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 898 


CCCCLXXXIX. 


to Mr. Moore . 


924 


CCCCXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


899 


ccccxc. 


to Mr. Murray . 


924 


CCCCXXXIV. to Mr. Hoppner 


. 899 


CCCCXCI. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


925 


CCCCXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


899 


CCCCXCII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


925 


CCCCXXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 


. 900 


CCCCXCIII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


925 


CCCCXXXVII. to Mr. Murray . 


901 


CCCCXCIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


926 


CCCCXXXVIII. to Mr. Murray. 


. 901 


ccccxcv. 


to the Countess Guiccioli 


926 


CCCCXXXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


901 


CCCCXCVI. 


to Mr. Moore 


926 


CCCCXL. to Mr. Hoppner 


. 902 


CCCCXCVII. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


927 


CCCCXLI. to Mr. Moore . 


902 


CCCCXCV1II. 


to Mr. Murray . 


927 


CCCCXLII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 903 


CCCCXCIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


927 


CCCCXLIII. to Mr. Moore . 


903 


D. 


to Mr. Murray . 


927 


CCCCXLIV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 903 


DI. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


928 


CCCCXLV. to Mr. Murray . 


904 


DII. 


to Mr. Moore 


928 


CCCCXLVI. to Mr. Murray . 


. 905 


Dili. 


to Mr. Moore . 


928 


CCCCXLVII. to Mr. Moore . 


90.5 


DIV. 


to Mr. Moore 


929 


4CCCXLVTII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 905 


DV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


929 


CCCCXLIX. to Mr. Murray . 


906 


DVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


929 


CCCCL. to Mr. Murray . 


. 906 


DVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


930 


CCCCLI. to Mr. Murray . 


906 


DVIII. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


930 


CCCCLII. to Mr. Murray. 


. 906 


DIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


930 


CCCCLIII. to Mr. Murray . 


906 


DX. 


to Mr. Moore 


931 


CCCCLIV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 907 


DXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


932 


CCCCLV. to Mr. Murray . 


908 


DXII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


932 


CCCCLVI. to Mr. Murray . 


. 908 


DXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


932 


CCCCLVII. to Mr. Murray . 


909 


DXIV. 


to Mr. Moore 


933 


eCCCLVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 909 


DXV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


933 


CCCCLIX. to Mr. Moore . 


910 


DXVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


933 


CCCCLX. to Mr. Murray . 


. 910 


DXVII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


934 


CCCCLXI. to Mr. Murray . 


911 


DXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


934 


CCCCLXII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 911 


DXIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


935 


CCCCLXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


912 


DXX. 


to Mr. Moore 


935 


CCCCLXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 912 


DXXI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


935 


CCCCLXV. to Mr. Murray . 


913 


DXXII. 


to Mr. Moore 


936 


CCCCLXVI. to Mr. Murray . 


. 914 


DXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


936 


CCCCLXVII. to Mr. Moore . 


914 


DXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


937 


CCCCLXVIII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 915 


DXXV. 


to Mr. Moore 


938 


CCCCLXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


915 


DXXVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


938 


Address to the Neapolitan Government 


. 916 


DXXVII. 


to Mr. Moore 


938 


CCCCLXX. to Mr. Moore . 


916 


DXXVIII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


939 


CCCCLXXI. to Mr. Murray . 


. 917 


DXXIX. 


to Mr. Moore 


939 


CCCCLXXII. to Mr. Murray . 


917 


DXXX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


940 


CCCCLXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 918 


DXXXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


940 


CCCCLXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


918 


DXXXII. 


to Mr. Rogers . 


940 


CCCCLXXV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 918 


DXXXIII. 


to Mr. Moore 


941 


CCCCLXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 


918 


DXXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


941 


CCCCLXXVII. to Mr. Murray. 


. 919 


DXXXV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


941 


CCCCLXXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


919 


DXXXVI. 


to Mr. Moore . . 


942 


CCCCLXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 


. 920 


DXXXVII. 


to Mr. Sheppard . 


943 


CCCCLXXX. to Mr. Moore . 


921 


DXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray . . . 


943 



vi 




CONTENTS. 








Pag-e 




Page 


LETTERS 






LETTERS 




DXXXIX. 


to Mr. Murraj 


. 943 


DXCVI. to Goethe 


965 


DXL. 


to Mr. Moore . 


944 


DXCVII. to Mr. Bowring . 


965 


DXLI. 


to Mr. Shelley 


. 944 


DXCVIII. to the General Government o 


f 


DXLII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


944 


Greece .... 


966 


DXLIII. 


to Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 


„ 945 


DXCIX. to Prince Mavrocordato . 


966 


DXLIV. 


to Douglas Kinnaird 


945 


DC. to Mr. Bowring . 


966 


DXLV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 946 


DCI. to Mr. Bowring 


967 


DXLVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


946 


DCII. to Mr. Bowring . 


967 


DXLVII. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 947 


DCIII. to the Honorable Mr. Douglas 




DXLVIII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


947 


Kinnaird 


967 


DXLIX. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 947 


DCIV. to Mr. Bowring . «. 


968 


DL. 


to Mr. Moore . 


948 


DCV. to Mr. Moore 


968 


DLL 


to Mr. Moore 


. 948 


DCVI. to the Hon. Colonel Stanhope 


969 


DLII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


948 


DCVII. to Mr. Muir .... 


969 


DLIII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


949 


DCVIII. to Mr. C. Hancock . 


969 


DLIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 949 


DCIX. to Mr. Charles Hancock 


970 


DLV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


949 


DCX. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 


971 


DLVI. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 950 


DCXI. to Mr. Charles Hancock 


971 


DLVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


950 


DCXII. to * * * * 


971 


DLVIII. 


to Mr. Shelley 


. 950 


DCXIII. to Mr. Charles Hancock 


972 


DLIX. 


to Sir Walter Scott . 


950 


DCXIV. to Andrew Londo . 


973 


DLX. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 951 


DCXY. to His Highness Yussuff 




DLXI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


951 


Pacha 


973 


DLXII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 951 


DCXVI. to Mr. Barff .... 


973 


DLXIIL 


to Mr. Murray . 


952 


DCXVII. to Mr. Mayer . 


973 


DLXIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 952 


DCXYIII. to the Honorable Douglas 




DLXV. 


to Mr. Moore . 


952 


Kinnaird . 


974 


DLXVI. 


to Mr. Ellice 


. 953 


DCXIX. to Mr. Barff .... 


974 


DLXVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


953 


DCXX. to Mr. Murray . 


974 ' 


DLXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 953 


DCXXI. to Mr. Moore 


975 


DLXIX. 


to Mr. Moore . 


953 


DCXXII. to Dr. Kennedy 


975 


DLXX. 


to Mr. Moore ' 


. 954 


DCXXIII. to Mr. Barff .... 


976 


DLXXI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


954 


DCXXIV. to Mr. Barff . 


976 


DLXXII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 955 


DCXXV. to Sr. Parruca 


976 


DLXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


955 


DCXXVI. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 


976 


DLXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 956 


DCXXVII. to Dr. Kennedy . 


976 


DLXXV. 


to Lady 


957 


DCXXVIII. to Colonel Stanhope 


977 


DLXXVI. 


to Mr. Proctor 


. 957 


DCXXIX. to Mr. Barff .... 


977 


DLXXVIL 


to Mr. Moore . 


957 


DCXXX. to Mr. Barff . 


977 


DLXXVIII. 


to Mrs. . 


. 957 


DCXXXI. to Mr. Barff .... 


978 


DLXXIX. 


to Lady * * ' * . 


958 


DCXXXII. to * * * * *, a Prussian Office] 


978 


DLXXX. 


to Mr. Moore 


. 958 


DCXXXIII. to Mr. Barff .... 


978 


DLXXXI. 


to the Earl of Blessington 


959 


DCXXXIV. to Mr. Barff . 


978 


DLXXXII. 


to the Earl of Blessington 


. 959 


DCXXXV. to Mr. Barff .... 


979 


DLXXXIII. 


to the Earl of Blessington 


960 


Extracts from a Journal, begun November 14, 




DLXXXIV. 


to the Count * * 


960 


1813 


979 


DLXXXV. 


to the Countess of Blessing 


ton 960 


Extracts from a Journal in Switzerland 


995 


DLXXXYI. 


to the Countess of * * * 


. 961 


Extracts from a Journal in Italy 


998 


DLXXXYII. 


to Lady Byron . ... 


961 


Detached Thoughts, extracted from various 




DLXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Blaquiere . 


. 951 


Journals, Memorandums, &c, &c. 


1010 


DLXXXIX. 


to Mr. Bowring 


962 


Review of Wordsworth's Poems 


1022 


DXC. 


to Mr. Bowring 


. 963 


Review of Gell's Geography of Ithaca, and 




DXCI. 


to Mr. Church, Ameri 


:an 


Itinerary of Greece 


1023 




Consul at Genoa . 


. 963 


The First Chapter of a Novel, contemplated 




DXCII. 


to M. H. Beyle 


963 


by Lord Byron in the Spring of 1812 ; (after- 




DXCIII. 


to Lady * * * * . 


. 964 


wards Published in one of Mr. Dallas's 




DXCIV. 


to the Countess of Blessing 


ton 964 




1028 


DXCV. 


to Mr. Bowring . 


. 964 




1029 



CONTENTS 



A. Fragment. ... ... 1035 

Letter to John Murray on the Rev. W. L. 
Bowles's Strictures on the Life and Writings 

of Pope 1037 

Notes 1046 

Observations upon " Observations." A Sec- 
ond Letter to John Murray, Esq., on the 
Itev. W. L. Bowles's Strictures on the Life 
and Writings of Pope .... 



Vll 

P&ge 

Note 1054 

Some Observations upon an Article in Black- 
wood's Magazine 105j 

Letter to the Editor of My Grandmother's 
Review 1061 

Lord Bacon's Apothegms .... 10GS 

Translation of Two Epistles from the Arme- 
nian Version 106S 

. • . 107" 



1046 The Will of Lord Byron 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



George Gordon Byron was born in Holies 
street, London, on the 22d day of January, 1788. 
Soon after his birth, his father deserted him, and the 
whole responsibility of his early training devolved 
on his mother, who, with him, soon after repaired 
to Aberdeen, where they resided for some time in 
almost complete seclusion. 

The infancy of Byron was marked with the work- 
ings of that wild and active spirit which he so fully 
displayed in all subsequent years of his life. As a 
child, his temper was violent, or rather, sullenly 
passionate. Being angrily reprimanded by his nurse, 
one day, for having soiled or torn a new frock in 
which he had just been dressed, he got into one of 
his " silent rages," (as he termed them,) seized the 
frock with both hands, rent it from top to bottom, 
and stood in sullen stillness, setting his censurer 
and her wrath at defiance. 

Notwithstanding these unruly outbreaks, in which 
he was too much encouraged by the example of his 
mother, who frequently proceeded to the same ex- 
tremities with her own caps, gowns, &c, there 
was in his disposition a mixture of affectionate 
sweetness and playfulness, which attached many to 
him, and which rendered him then, as in riper years, 
easily manageable by those who loved and under- 
stood him sufficiently to be at once gentle and firm 
enough for the task. 

The undivided affection of the mother was natu- 
rally centered in her son, who was her darling; and 
when he only went out for an ordinary walk, she 
would entreat him, with tears in her eyes, to take 
care of himself, as " she had nothing on earth but 
him to live for; " a conduct not at all pleasing to 
his adventurous spirit ; the more especially as some 
of his companions, who beheld the affectionate 
scene, would laugh and ridicule about it. This ex- 
cessive maternal affection and indulgence, and the 
entire absence of that salutary discipline so neces- 
sary to childhood, doubtless contributed to the 
formation of these unpleasant traits of character 
that distinguished Byron from all others in subse- 
quent years. 

An accident, at the time of birth, caused a mal- 
formation of one of his feet. Many expedients 
were used to restore the limb to its proper shape, 
under the direction of Dr. Hunter. His nurse, to 
whom fell the task of putting on the bandages, 
would often sing him to sleep, or relate to him sto- 
ries and legends, in which, like most other children, 
he manifested great delight. She also taught him 
to repeat a great number of Psalms ; and the first 
and twenty-third were among the earliest that he 
committed to memory. Out of these lessons arose, 
long afterwards, the " Hebrew Melodies ; " which, 
but for them, never would have been written, though 
Byron studied Lowth on the Sacred Poetry of the 
Hebrews all his life. It is a remarkable fact, that, 



through the care and daily instruction of this nurse, 
he attained a far earlier and more intimate acquaint- 
ance with the Sacred Writings, than falls to the lot 
of most young people. 

The defect in the formation of his foot, and a great 
weakness of constitution, induced his mother to keep 
him from an attendance on school, that he might 
expand his lungs and brace his limbs, upon the 
mountains of the neighborhood. 

This was evidently the most judicious method for 
imparting strength to his bodily frame ; and the se- 
quel showed that it likewise imparted tone and 
vigor to his mind. The savage grandeur of nature 
around him ; the feeling that he was upon the hills 
where 

" Foreign tyrant never trod, 
But freedom, with her falchion bright, 
Swept the stranger from her sight ; " 

his intercourse with a people whose chief amuse- 
ments consisted in the recital of heroic tales of other 
times, feats of strength, and a display of independ- 
ence, blended with the wild, supernatural stories pe- 
culiar to remote and thinly-peopled districts ; — all 
these were calculated to foster that peculiar poetical 
feeling innate in his character. 

The malformation of his foot was a subject on 
which young Byron was extremely sensitive. As 
his nurse was walking with him one day, she was 
joined by a female friend, who said, " What a pretty 
boy, Byron is ! what a pity he has such a leg." On 
hearing this allusion to his infirmity, the child's 
eyes flashed with anger, and, striking at her with a 
little whip which he held in his hand, he impatiently 
exclaimed, " Dinna speak of it ! " 

As an instance of his quifckness and energy at this 
period, might be mentioned a little incident that oc- 
curred one night during the performance of " Tam- 
ing a Shrew," which his nurse had taken him to see. 
He had attended some time, with silent interest ; 
but, in the scene between Katherine and Petruchio, 
where the following dialogue takes place, — 

" Kath.— \ know it is the moon. 
Pet. — Nay, then, you lie, — it is the blessed sun," 

George started up, and cried out boldly, " But I say 
it is the moon, sir." 

Byron was not quite five years of age when he was 
sent to a day school at Aberdeen, taught by Mr. 
Bowers. At that school he remained about one 
year. 

During his schoolboy days he was lively, warm- 
hearted, generous, and high-spirited. He was, how- 
ever, passionate and resentful, and to a remarkable 
degree venturesome and fearless. If he received an 
injury, he was sure to revenge it : though the casti- 
gation he inflicted might be long on its way, yet it 
came at length, and severely. 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Ho was a brave youth, and was much more anx- 
ious to excel his fellows by prowess in sport and 
gymnastic exercises, than by advancement in learn- 
ing- 

When any study pleased him, he devoted all his 
attention to it, and was quick in the performance of 
his task. He cared but little where he stood in his 
class ; and at the foot was as agreeable to him as at 
the head. 

He remained at school until the year 1796, when 
an attack of scarlet fever weakened his, by no means 
strong, constitution, and he was removed by his 
mother to the Highlands. 

From the period of his residence in the High- 
lands, Byron dated his love of mountainous coun- 
tries and his equally ardent love of solitude. While 
at Aberdeen, he would escape unnoticed, and find 
his way to the sea-side. At one time, it was sup- 
posed he was lost, and after a long and anxious 
search he was found struggling for his life in a sort 
of morass or marsh, in which he would undoubtedly 
have perished, had not some one came to the rescue. 

Many like instances occurred during his residence 
among'the Highlands. His love of adventure often 
led him into difficulty and danger. While scram- 
bling over a declivity that overhung a small water- 
fall, called the Linn of Dee, some heather caught 
his lame foot, and he fell. He was rolling down- 
ward, when the attendant luckily caught him, and 
was but just in time to save him from being killed. 
* On the 17th of May, 1798, William, the fifth Lord 
Byron, died without issue, at Newstead, and young 
Byron, then in his tenth' year, succeeded to his 
titles and his estates ; and his cousin, the Earl of 
Carlisle, the son of the late Lord's sister, was ap- 
pointed his guardian. 

Upon this change of fortune, Lord Byron was 
removed from under the immediate care of his 
mother. 

In the latter part of 1793 he went with his mother 
to Newstead Abbey. On their arrival, he was placed 
at Nottingham, under the care of a person who 
professed to be able to cure his lameness ;_ at the 
same time, he made some advancement in Latin 
studies, under the tuition of a schoolmaster of that 
town, a Mr. Rogers, who read parts of Virgil and 
Cicero with him. The name of the man whose 
pretensions in curing excelled his skill, and under 
whose empiricism the young lord was placed, was 
Lavender ; and the manner in which he proceeded 
to effect a cure was, by first rubbing the foot over 
for a long time with handsful of oil, and then 
forcibly twisting the foot round, and binding it up in 
a sort of a machine, with about as much care and 
thought of the pain he might give, as if straighten- 
ing up a crooked limb of a tree. 

Byron, during his lessons with Mr. Rogers, was 
often in violent pain ; and one day the latter said to 
him, " It makes me uncomfortable, my lord, to see 
you sitting there in such pain as I knoio you must be 
suffering." "Never mind, Mr. Rogers," answered 
the boy; "you shall not see any signs of it in me." 

This gentleman often spoke of the gaiety of his 
pupil, aud the delight he experienced in exposing 
Lavender's pompous ignorance. One day he wrote 
down on a sheet of paper all the letters of the 
alphabet, put together at random, and placing them 
before this concentrated body of pretension, asked 
him very seriously what language it was. Not 
wishing to expose his ignorance, and not dreaming 
of the snare to trip him, he replied as seriously as 
the inquiry was put, that it was Italian, to the 
infinite delight of the young satirist, who burst 
into a loud laugh. 

At about this period, Lord Byron's first symptom 
of a tendency to rhyme manifested itself. The 
occasion which gave -rise to it is thus related : — 

An elderly lady, who was in the habit of visiting 
his mother/had made use of some expressions that 
very much affronted him ; and these slights, his 
nurse said, he generally resented violently and im- 



placably. The old lady had some curious notions 
respecting the soul, which, she imagined, took its 
flight to the moon after death, as a preliminary 
essay, before it proceeded further. One day, after 
a repetition, it is supposed, of her original insult to 
the boy, he appeared before his nurse in a violent 
rage. " Well, my little hero," she asked, "what's 
the matter with you, now ? " Upon which the 
child answered, that "this old woman had put him 
in a terrible passion, — that he could not bear the 
sight of her," &c, &c, — and then broke out into 
the following doggerel, which he repeated over and 
over, as if delighted with the vent he had found for 
his rage ; — 

" In Nottingham county, there lives at Swan Green, 
As curst an old lady as ever was seen ; 
And when she does die, which 1 hope will be soon, 
She firmly believes she will go to the moon." 

This was the occasion and the result of his first 
effort at rhyming. His "first dash at poetry," as 
he calls it, was made one year later, during a vaca- 
tion visit at the house of a cousin, Miss Parker. 
Of that poem, he says, " It was the ebullition of a 
passion for my first cousin, one of the most beauti- 
ful of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten 
the verses, but it would be difficult for me to forget 
her — her dark eyes — her long eye-lashes — her com- 
pletely Greek cast of face and figure ! I was then 
about twelve — she rather older, perhaps a year." 
Love for this young lady obtained strong hold of 
his heart. Of her personal appearance, he says, 
" I do not recollect any thing equal to the transpa- 
rent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of her 
temper, during the short period of our intimacy. 
She looked as if she had been made out of a rain- 
bow — all beauty and peace." 

After a short visit at Cheltenham, in the" summer 
of 1801, at the earnest solicitation of his mother, 
he was placed at Harrow, under the tuition of 
Doctor Drury, to whom he testified his gratitude in 
a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold. In 
one of his manuscript journals, he says, "Dr. 
Drury was the best, the kindest friend I ever had — 
and I look upon him still as a father." 

" Though he was lame," says one of his school- 
fellows, "he was a great lover of sports, and pre- 
ferred hockey to Horace, relinquished even Helicon 
for 'duck puddle,' and gave up the best poet that 
ever wrote hard Latin for a game of cricket on the 
common. He was not remarkable (nor was he ever) 
for his learning, but he was always a clever, plain- 
spoken, and undaunted boy. I have seen him fight 
by the hour like a Trojan, and stand up against the 
disadvantage of his lameness with all the spirit of 
an ancient combatant." 

It was during a vacation, and his residence at 
Newstead, that he formed an acquaintance with 
Miss Chaworth, an event which, according to his 
own deliberate persuasion, exercised a lasting and 
paramount influence over the whole of his sub- 
sequent character and eventful career. 

Twice had he loved, and now a third time he 
bowed before beauty, wit, and worth. 

The father of this young lady had been killed in 
a duel by the eccentric grand-uncle of Byron, and 
the union of the young peer with her, the heiress of 
Annesley Hall, " would," as he said, " have healed 
feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers ; 
it would have joined lands rich and broad ; it would 
have joined at least one heart, and two persons not 
ill-matched in years." But all this was destined to 
exist but in imagination. They had a parting 
interview in the following year ; and, in 1805, Miss 
Chaworth was married to Mr. Musters, with whom 
she lived unhappily. She died in 1831. Many of 
his smaller poems are addressed to this lady. The 
scene of their last interview is most exquisitely 
described in " The Dream." 

During one of the Harrow vacations he studied 
French, but with little success, under the direction 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



at the Abbe de Rouffigny. The vacation of 1804 
he spent with his mother at Southwell, and in 
October, 180.5, he left Harrow, and entered Trinity 
College, Cambridge. He left with feelings of sad- 
ness. He says, "I always hated Harrow till the 
last year and a half, but then I liked it." He now 
began to feel that he was no longer a boy, and in 
solitude he mourned over the truth ; this sorrow he 
could not at all times repress in public. 

Soon after entering college, he formed an attach- 
ment with a youth named Eddleston, which exceeded 
in warmth and romance all his schoolboy attach- 
ments. 

In the summer of 1806, another visit to South- 
well resulted in an acquaintance with the family of 
Pigots, to a lady of which the earliest of his pub- 
lished letters were addressed. 

The temper of his mother exceeded all bounds. 
This temper, Byron in a great degree inherited. In 
his childhood, this passion often broke out in the 
most violent manner. Mother and son were often 
quarrelling, and provocations finally led to a sepa- 
ration, in August, 1806. Byron fled to London, 
where his mother followed him, made overtures of 
peace, and a reconciliation was brought about. 

Early in November, his first volume of poems 
were put in press. It was entitled " Poems on 
Various Occasions," and was printed anonymously 
by Mr. Ridge, a bookseller at Newark. Becoming 
dissatisfied with this, he caused a second edition to 
be printed in January, in which he omitted many 
pieces which had appeared in the first. This was 
not intended for public scrutiny, but merely circu- 
lated among his friends, and such persons as he 
thought well disposed towards the first effort of a 
young and inexperienced author. 

Encouraged by its favorable reception, he again 
re-wrote the poems, made many additions and 
alterations, and, under the name of " Hours of 
Idlerfess," sent his volume forth to the public. 

This book, containing many indications of genius, 
also contained many errors of taste and judgment, 
which were fiercely assailed by a critique* in the 
Edinburgh Review, and brought forth from Byron 
the stinging satire, " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers." 

The minor reviews gave the " Hours of Idleness " 
a better reception, yet we may, with no degree of un- 
reasonableness, suppose that to the scorching words 
of the Edinburgh he owed much of future success 
and fame. He was roused like a lion in its lair. 
He felt, though it might be true, he did not deserve 
such an article, and he resolutely determined to 
show the critic that he had talent and genius, 
though the reviewer, in his eager search . for its 
absence, could not discovei its presence. 

Lord Byron supposed Jeffrey to be the author of 
the obnoxious article, and he poured out on him 
his vials of wrath and merciless satire. 

During the progress of his poem through the 
press, he added to it more than a hundred lines. 
New impressions and influences gave birth to new 
thoughts, and he made his Bards and Reviewers 
carry them forth to vex and annoy his victims. 
The person who superintended its progress through 
the press, daily received new matter for its pages ; 
and, in a note to that gentleman, Byron says, 
" Print soon, or I shall overflow with rhyme." It 
was so in subsequent years. If he could reach his 
printer, he would continue to send his " thick- 
coming fancies," which were suggested by perusals 
of what he had already written. 

On the 13th of March, he took his seat in the 
House of Lords, and on the middle of the same 
month published his satire. From the hour of its 
appearance, fame and fortune followed him. Its 
success was such as to demand his attention in the 
preparation of a second edition. To this much was 
added, and to it was prefixed his name. 



His residence was now at Newstead, where, during 
the preparation of the new edition of his poems, he 
dispensed with a liberal hand the hospitalities of 
the old Abbey to a party of college friends. C. S. 
Matthews, one of this partv, in a letter to an 
acquaintance, gives the following description of the 
Abbey at that time, and amusing account of the 
proceedings and habits of its occupants :— 

"Newstead Abbey is situated one hundred and 
thirty-six miles from London— ;four on this side 
Mansfield. Though sadly fallen to decay, it is still 
completely an abbey, and most part of it is still 
standing in the same state as^when it was first 
built. There are two tiers of cloisters, with a 
variety of cells and rooms about them, which 
though not inhabited, nor in an inhabitable stated 
might easily be made so ; and many of the original 
rooms, amongst which is a fine stone hall, are still 
in use. Of the abbey-church only one end remains ; 
and tire old kitchen, with a long range of apart- 
ments, is reduced to a heap of rubbish. Leading 
from the abbey to the modern part of the habita- 
tion is a noble room, seventy feet in length and 
twenty-three in breadth ; but every part of the 
house displays neglect and decay, save those which 
the present lord has lately fitted up. 

" The house and gardens are entirely surrounded 
by a wall with battlements. In front is a large 
lake, bordered here and there with castellated 
buildings, the chief of which stands on an eminence 
at the further extremity of it. Fancy all this 
surrounded with bleak and barren hills, with scarce 
a tree to be seen for miles, except a solitary clump 
or two, and you will have some idea of Newstead. 

" So much for the place, concerning which I have 
thrown together these few particulars. But if the 
place itself appears rather strange to you, the ways 
of its inhabitants will not appear much less so. 
Ascend, then, with me the hall steps, that I may 
introduce you to my lord and his visitants. But 
have a care how you proceed ; be mindful to go 
there in broad daylight, and with your eyes about 
you. For, should you make any blunders, — should 
you go to the right of the hall steps, you are laid 
hold of by a bear ; and should you go to the left, 
your case is still worse, for you run full against a 
wolf.* Nor, when you have attained the door, is 
your danger over ; for the hall being decayed, and 
therefore standing in need of repair, a bevy of 
inmates are very probably banging at one end of it 
with their pistols; so that if you enter without 
giving loud notice of your approach, you have only 
escaped the wolf and the bear, to expire by the 
pistol-shots o> the merry monks of Newstead. 

" Our party consisted of Lord Byron and four 
others, and was, now and then, increased by the 
presence of a neighboring parson. As for our way. 
of living, the order of the day was generally this : — 
for breakfast we had no set hour, but each suited 
his own convenience, — every thing remaining on 
the table till the whole party had done ; though 
had one wished to breakfast at the early hour of 
ten, one would have been rather lucky to find any 
of the servants up. Our average hour of rising 
was one. I, who generally got up between eleven 
and twelve, was always — even when an invalid — 
the first of the party, and was esteemed a prodigy 
of early rising. It was frequently past two before 
the breakfast party broke up. Then, for the amuse- 
ment of the morning, there was reading, fencing, 
single-stick, or shuttlecock, in the great room ; 
practising with pistols in the hall ; walking, riding, 
cricket, sailing on the lake, playing with the bear, 
teasing the wolf. Between seven and eight we 
dined ; and our evening lasted from that time till 
one, two, or three in the morning. The evening 
diversions may be easily conceived. 

" I must not omit the custom of handing round, 
after dinner, on the removal of the cloth, a human 



* Lord Brougham. 



Lord Byron 'a pet anniuials at Newstead. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



skull filled with Burgundy. After revelling on 
choice viands, and the finest wines of France, we 
adjourned to tea, where we amused ourselves with 
reading or improving conversation,— each according 
to his fancy, — and, after sandwiches, &c, retired 
to rest. A set of monkish dresses, which had been 
provided, with all the proper apparatus of crosses, 
beads, tonsures, &c, often gave a variety to our 
appearance, and to our pursuits." 

Byron was at London when he put the finishing 
touches upon the new edition, which, having done, 
he took leave of that city, and soon after sailed for 
Lisbon. After a passage of four days, he arrived 
at his destination, in company with his friend, Mr. 
John Cam Hobhouse. They remained but a short 
time in Lisbon, from whence they travelled on 
horseback to Seville and Cadiz. He was as free 
and easy in each of these places as he had been at 
home. In Lisbon, as he said, he ate oranges, 
talked bad Italian to the monks, went into society 
with pocket pistols, swam the Tagus, and became 
the victim of musquitoes. In Seville, a lady of 
character became fondly attached to him, and at 
parting gave him a lock of her hair " three feet in 
length," which he sent home to his mother. In 
Cadiz, "Miss Cordova and her little brother" 
became his favorites, and the former his preceptress 
in Spanish. He alludes to this in one of his poems. 

" 'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean. 
When both the teacher and the taught aTe young, 
As was the case, at least, where 1 have been." 

Leaving Cadiz, in the Hyperion frigate, he sailed 
for Gibralter, where he remained till the 19th of 
August, when he left for Malta. 

At this latter place, he formed an acquaintance 
with Mrs. Spencer Smith, a lady whose life had 
been fertile with remarkable incidents, and whom 
he addresses, in his poetry, under the name of 
" Florence." 

After remaining at anchor for three or four day: 
off Patras, Byron and his friend proceeded to their 
ultimate destination. On their passage, they had a 
most charming sunset view of Missolonghi. They 
landed at Prevesa on the 29th of September. From 
Prevesa they journeyed to the capital of Albania, 
and, soon after, to Yanina ; at which place he 
learned that Ali Pacha was with his troops in 
Illyrium, besieging Ibrahim Pacha in Berat. From 
Yanina, Lord Byron passed to Tepaleen. Being 
among the first English travellers in that part of 
the world, they met with much attention, and the 
greatest show of hospitality. I 

With the intention of going to Patras, Lord 
Byron embarked on board a Turkish ship of war, 
provided for him by Ali Pacha. A moderate gale 
of wind arose, and, owing to the ignorance of the 
Turkish officers, the vessel came near being wrecked. 
Luckily for all on board, the wind abated, and drove 
them on the coast of Suli, where they landed, and, 
by aid of the natives, returned again to Prevesa. 

While at the Suliote village, a poor but honest 
Albanian supplied his wants. Byron pressed him 
to take money in return for his kindness, but he 
refused, with the reply, "I wish you to love me, 
not to pay me." 

Attended by a guard of forty or more Albanians, 
they passed through Acarnania and Etolia to Mis- 
solonghi, crossed the Gulf of Corinth to Patras, 
and proceeded from thence, by land, to Vostizza, 
where they caught the first glimpse of Mount Par- 
nassus. In a small boat they were conveyed to the 
opposite shore of the gulf; rode on horseback from 
Salona to Delphi, and after travelling through Liva- 
dia, and making a brief stop at Thebes, and other 
places, arrived at Athens on the 25th of Decem- 
ber. 

He remained at Athens between two and three 
months, employing his time in visiting the vast and 
splendid monuments of ancient genius, and calling 



around him from the depths of solitude the spirits 
of other times to people its ruins. 

He made frequent excursions to Attica, on one 
of which he came near being seized by a band of 
pirates dwelling in a cave under the cliffs of Mi- 
nerva Sunias. 

His beautiful song, " Maid of Athens, ere we 
part," was addressed to the eldest daughter of the 
Greek lady, at whose house he lodged. 

Ten weeks had flown rapidly and pleasantly away, 
when the unexpected offer of a passage in a Brit- 
ish sloop of war to Smyrna, induced the travellers 
to leave Athens, which they did, on the 5th ol 
March, with much reluctance. 

At Smyrna, Lord Byron resided in the house of 
the Consul-General. In the course of his residence 
here, he made a three-day visit to the ruins of Ephe- 
sus. While at S.. he finished the two first cantos 
of " Childe Harold," which he had commenced five 
months before at Joannina. 

The Salsette frigate being about to sail for Con- 
stantinople, Lord Byron and Hobhouse took pas- 
sage in her. It was while this frigate lay at anchor 
in the Dardanelles, that Byron accomplished his 
famous feat of swimming the Hellespont. The 
distance across was about two miles ; but the tide 
ran so strong that a direct course could not be pur- 
sued, and he swam three miles. 

He arrived at Constantinople on the 13th of May. 
While there, he wore a scarlet coat, richly embroi- 
dered with gold, with two heavy epaulettes and a 
feathered cocked hat. He remained about two 
months, during which time he was presented to the 
Sultan, and made a journey to the Black Sea and 
other places of note in that vicinity. On the 14th 
of July, they left in the Salsette frigate, — Mr. Hob- 
house intending to accompany Mr. Adair, the Eng- 
lish ambassador, to England, and Byron determined 
to visit Greece. 

The latter landed at Zea, with two Albanians, a 
Tartar, and his English servant. Leaving Zea, he 
reached Athens on the 18th. From thence, he made 
another tour over the same places he had previously 
visited, and returned to Athens in December, with 
the purpose of remaining there during his sojourn 
in Greece. The persons with whom he associated 
at Athens, were Lord Sligo, Lady Hester Stanhope, 
and Mr. Bruce. Most of his time was employed in 
collecting materials for those notes on the state of 
modern Greece, appended to the second canto of 
Childe Harold. Here also he wrote, " Hints from 
Horace," a satire full of London life, yet, singular 
as it may appear, dated, "Athens, Capuchin Con- 
vent, March 12, 1811." 

He intended to have gone to Egypt, but failing 
to receive expected remittances, he was obliged to 
forego the pleasure of that trip, and he left Athens 
and landed at Malta. There he suffered severely 
from an attack of fever, recovering from which, he 
sailed in the Volage frigate for England. He left 
Greece with more feelings of regret than he had 
left his native land, and the memories of his sojourn 
in the East, immortalized in Childe Harold, were 
among the pleasantest that accompanied him through 
life. 

He arrived at London after an absence of just two 
years. Mr. Dallas, the gentleman who had super- 
intended the publication of "English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers," called on him the day after his 
arrival ; Lord Byron mentioned having written a 
new satire, and handed the MSS. to him for exami- 
nation. Mr. Dallas was grieved, supposing that 
the inspiring lands of the East had brought from 
his mind no richer poetical works. 

Meeting him the next morning, Mr. Dallas ex- 
pressed surprise that he had, during his absence, 
written nothing more. Upon this, Lord Byron told 
him that he had occasionally written short poems, 
besides a great many stanzas in Spenser's measure, 
relative to the countries he had visited. " They are 
not worth troubling you with," said Byron, "but 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



you shall have them all with you, if you like." 
He then took Childe Harold's Pilgrimage from a 
small trunk, and handed it to Mr. Dallas, at the 
same time expressing a desire to have the " Hints 
from Horace " put to press immediately. He 
undervalued Childe Harold, arid overvalued the 
" Hints." He thought the former inferior to the 
latter. As time passed on, he altered his mind in 
reference to this matter. "Had Lord Byron," 
savs Moore, "persisted in his original purpose of 
giving this poem to the press, instead of Childe 
Harold, it is more than probable, that he would 
have been lost, as a great poet to the world." 

He finally consented to the publication of Childe 
Harold, yet, to the last, he expressed doubts as to 
its merit, and the reception it would meet with at 
the hands of the public. Doubts and difficulties 
arose as to a publisher. Messrs. Longman had re- 
fused to publish " English Bards and. Scotch Re- 
viewers ; " and it was expressly stipulated with Mr. 
Dallas, to whom Lord Byron had presented the 
copyright, that Childe Harold should not be offered 
to that house. An application was made to Mr. 
Miller, but owing to the severity in which a per- 
sonal friend of that gentleman was mentioned, in 
the poem, he declined publishing it. At length it 
passed into the hands of Mr. Murray, then residing 
in Fleet street, who was proud of the undertaking, 
and by whom it was immediately put to press ; — 
and thus was laid the foundation of that friendly 
and, profitable connection, between that publisher 
and the author, which continued, with but little 
interruption, during the poet's life.* 

About this time, the fifth edition of his satire was 
issued, and, soon after, every copy that could be 
found was taken and destroyed. In America, how- 
ever, and on the continent, where the law of Eng- 
land had no power, it continued to meet with an 
unprohibited sale. 

While busily engaged in literary projects, he was 
suddenly called to Newstead, by information of the 
sickness of his mother. He immediately departed, 
and travelled with all possible speed, yet death pre- 
ceded him. When he arrived, he found her dead. 

In a letter, the day after, he says, "I now feel 
the truth of Mr. Gray's observation, 'we can only 
have one mother.' " Mrs. Byron had, undoubtedly, 
loved her son, and he her, with a depth of feeling 
hardly supposable by those who had seen them in 
their fits of ungovernable passion. An incident 
ihat occurred at Newstead, at this time, proves the 
sincerity of his affection. On the night after his 
arrival, the waiting woman of Mrs. Byron, in pass- 
ing the door of the room, where the deceased body 
lay? heard a sound as of some one sighing heavily 
from within ; and, on entering the chamber, found, 
to her surprise, Lord Byron, sitting in the dark, 
beside the bed. On her representing to him the 
weakness of thus giving way to grief, he burst into 



•The following memorandum exhibits the amounts paid by Mr. Murray j 

It various times, for tire copyrights of his poems : 

Childe Harold, I. 11 600?. 

" 111 1,575 

" "IV 2,100 

Ciaour, 525 

Bride of Abydos, . 525 

Corsair 5*5 

Lara, 700 

Siege of Corinth, 525 

Parisina, 525 

■ Lament of Tasso, 315 

Manfred, 315 

Beppo, 525 

DonJuan,!. 11 1,525 

" " III. IV. V 1,525 

Doge of Venice, ......... 1,050 

Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari, 1,100 

Mazeppa 525 

Prisoner of Chillon, 525 

Sundries t 45q 

Total 15,455!. 



tears, and exclaimed, " O, Mrs. By, I had but one 
friend in the world, and she is gone ! " 

He was called at this time to mourn over the loss, 
not only of his mother, but of six relatives and 
intimate friends. 

He returned to London in October, and resumed 
the toils of literary labor, revising Childe Harold, 
and making many additions and alterations. He 
had, also, at this time, two other works in press, 
"Hints from Horace," and "The Curse of Miner- 
va." In January, the two cantos of Childe Harold 
were printed, but not ready for sale until the month 
of March, when " the effect it produced on the 
public," says Moore, "was as instantaneous as it 
has proved deep and lasting. It was electric ; — his 
fame had not to wait for any of the ordinary grada- 
tions, but seemed to spring up, like the palace of a 
fairy tale, in a night." Byron, himself, in a mem- 
oranda of the sudden and wholly unexpected effect, 
said, "I awoke one morning, and found ^myself 
famous." 

It was just previous to this period, that he 
became acquainted with Moore, the poet. The 
circumstance which led to their acquaintance was 
a correspondence caused by a note appended to 
" English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." The ac- 
quaintance thus formed, was continued, with the 
utmost familiarity, through life. Lord Byron was 
personally introduced to Moore at the house of 
Rogers, the poet, where, on the same day, these 
three, together with Campbell, dined. 

Among the many tributes to his genius, which 
Lord Byron received, was that of the Prince Re- 
gent. At an evening party he was presented to 
that personage, at the request of the latter. The 
Regent expressed his admiration of Childe Harold, 
and entered into a long and animated conversation, 
which continued all the evening. 

In the month of August, 1811, the new theatre in 
Drury Lane was finished, and, after being urgently 
requested, Byron wrote an opening address for the 
occasion. He now resided at Cheltenham, where, 
in addition to the address, he wrote a poem on 
"Waltzing." In May, appeared "The Giaour," 
which rapidly passed through several editions. The 
first contained but about four hundred lines, the 
last edition, about fourteen hundred. Many of its 
choicest parts were not in the early copies, yet it 
was received with the greatest favor, and the admir- 
ers of Childe Harold equally admired this new pro- 
duct of the mind of its author. 

In December, 1813, he published "The Bride of 
Abydos." To this, while being printed, he added 
nearly two hundred lines. It met with a better re- 
ception, if possible, than either of his former works 
Fourteen thousand copies were sold in one week ; 
and it was with the greatest difficulty and labor that 
the demand for it could be supplied. In January 
following, appeared the " The Corsair." In April, 
the "Ode to Napoleon," and, during the ensuing 
month, he published " Hebrew Melodies." 

In May, he adopted the strange and singular reso 
lution of calling in all he had written, buying up 
all his copyrights, and not writing any more. For 
two years, he had been the literary idol of the peo • 
pie. They had bestowed upon him the highest 
words of praise, and shouted his genius and fame 
to the skies. His name had ever been on the lips, 
his writings in the head, and his sentiments in the 
heart of the great public. This strong popularity 
began to wane, as the excitement caused by the 
sudden appearance of any new thing, always will. 
The papers raised a hue and cry against a few of 
his- minor poems. His moral and social character 
was brought into prominency ; all that had occurred 
during his short, but eventful life, and much that 
had never an existence, except in the minds of his 
opponents, was related with minute particularity 
Not only this, but the slight opinion these journal 
ists expressed of his genius, — seconded, as it was 
by that inward dissatisfaction with his own power*. 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



which they, whose standard of excellence is highest, 
are always surest to feel, mortified and disturbed 
him. In noticing these attacks, he remarks, "I 
■mi afraid what you call trash is plaguily to the pur- 
pose; and, to tell the truth, for some time past, I 
have been myself much of the same opinion." In 
this 6tate of mind, he resolved upon bidding fare- 
well to the muses, and betaking himself to some 
other pursuit. Mentioning this determination to 
Mr. Murray, that gentleman doubted his serious- 
ness ; but on the arrival of a letter, enclosing a 
draft for the amount of the copyrights, and a re- 
quest to withdraw all the advertisements, and de- 
stroy all copies of his poems, remaining in store, 
except two of each for himself, all doubts vanished. 
Mr. Murray wrote an answer, that such an act 
would be deeply injurious to both parties, and final- 
ly induced him to continue publishing. 

In connection with " Jacqueline," a poem, by Mr. 
Rogers, "Lara" appeared in August. This was 
his last appearance as an author, until the spring 
of 1816. 

On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron pro- 
posed and was accepted in marriage, by an heiress, 
Miss Milbanke, daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, a 
baronet, in the- county of Durham. Her fortune 
was upwards of ten thousand pounds sterling, which 
was considerably increased by the death of her pa- 
rents, a few years subsequent to her union with the 
poet. This union cast a shade on his hitherto 
bright career. A twelve-months' extravagance, 
embarrassments, and misunderstandings, dissolved 
it, and the lady retired to the country-seat of her 
parents, from the unpleasant scenes of her own 
home. One child was the result of this marriage, 
Ada Augusta Byron. Previous to the separation, 
Byron's muse was stimulated to exertion by his 
fast-gathering misfortunes, and he produced the 
"Siege of Corinth" and " Parisina." 

At the time of their separation, Lord Byron and 
Lady Byron resided in London. He entered into a 
giddy^vhirlpool of frolicking and unrestrained gai- 
ety, which at length brought upon him great pecu- 
niary embarrassments, which so increased, that in 
November, he was not only obliged to sell his libra- 
ry, but his furniture, and even his beds, were seized 
by the bailiffs. 

As soon as the separation took place, the full tide 
of public opinion set against him, and those who 
had sought his acquaintance, coveted his friendship, 
and envied him his position, were among his dead- 
liest foes and his most slanderous vilifiers. " In 
every form of paragraph, pamphlet and caricature, 
both his person and character were held up to odi- 
um ; hardly a voice was raised, or at least listened 
to, in his behalf ; and though a few faithful friends 
remained unshaken by his side, the utter hopeless- 
ness of stemming the torrent, was felt as well by 
them, as by himself; and after an effort or two to 
gain a fair hearing, they submitted in silence." 

Thus miserable, yet conscious of his newly- 
awakening strength, Byron determined to leave 
England. At leaving, the only person with whom 
he parted with regret, was his sister, and to her he 
penned the touching tribute, "Though the Day 
of my Destiny's over." To Mr. Moore he addressed, 
"My, Boat is on the Shore ; " and to Lady Byron, 
" Pare thee well." 

He sailed for Ostend on the 2oth of April. His 
journey lay by the Rhine. He made a short stay at 
Brussels. At Geneva he spent the remainder of the 
summer ; living in a beautiful villa on the borders 
of the lake. While there, he made frequent excur- 
sions to Coppet, Chamouni, the Bernese Alps, and 
other places of interest. Mr. and Mrs. Shelley were 
also residing at Geneva at that time. It was in this 
villa, on the banks of the lake, that he finished the 
third canto of " Childe Harold." He also wrote 
" The Prisoner of Chillon," stanzas "To Augusta," 
"The Fragment," "Darkness," and "The Dream." 

In the month of August he was visited by Mr. 



M. G. Lewis, Mr. Ilobhouse and Mr. S. Davies, 
with whom he made the excursions previously al- 
luded to. It was while here, that he began his prose 
romance of "The Vampire ; " also another, founded 
upon the story of the Marriage of Belphegor, both 
of which he left unfinished. 

From the commencement of the year 1817, to that 
of 1820, Lord Byron's principal residence was at 
Venice. Soon after reaching that city, he began 
the study of the Armenian language, in which he 
made considerable progress. While there, he pur- 
sued his literary labors with much diligence and 
success. He wrote " The Lament of Tasso." the 
fourth canto of "Childe Harold," the dramas of 
" Marino Faliero," and the " Two Foscari ; " " Bep- 
po," " Mazeppa," and the first cantos of "Don 
Juan." 

He formed an acquaintance with Madame Guicci- 
oli, which soon grew to a passionate love, and was 
duly reciprocated by her. She was a Romagnese 
lady. Her father was Count Gamba, a nobleman of 
high rank and ancient name, at Ravenna. She had 
been married, when at the age of sixteen, without 
reference to her choice or affection, to the Count 
Guiccioli, an old and wealthy widower. At the 
time Byron was introduced to her, she was' about 
twenty ; with fair and delicate complexion, large, 
dark eyes, and a profusion of auburn hair. This 
lady almost entirely governed the movements of 
Byron, while in Italy; and it was a government 
which he appeared to love, and from which he man- 
ifested no desire to escape. 

'She proceeded with her husband to Ravenna, in 
April, 1819, and Lord Byron soon followed. He 
shortly returned to Venice, where he received a visit 
from Moore, in the course of which he presented to 
him a large manuscript volume, entitled, "My Life 
and Adventures." As he handed it to him, he re- 
marked, " It is not a thing that can be published 
during my lifetime ; but you may have it, if you 
like, — there, do whatever you please with it; " and 
soon after added, " This will make a nice legacy for 
my little Tom, who shall astonish the latter days 
of the nineteenth century with it." 

This manuscript was a collection of various jour- 
nals, memorandas, etc. At Byron's request, Mr. 
Moore sold the copyright to Murray for two thou- 
sand pounds, with the stipulation that it was not to 
be published until after the author's decease. When 
that event occurred, Mr. Moore returned to Mr. 
Murray the money advanced, and placed the manu- 
script at the disposal of Lord Byron's sister, Mrs. 
Leigh ; at whose request, and, with the accordant 
opinion of Lord Byron's best friends, it was de- 
stroyed. The motive for its destruction is said to 
have been an unwillingness to offend the feelings of 
many of the individuals mentioned in it. 

Towards the close of the year 1819, Lord Byron 
removed to Ravenna, where he wrote " The Proph- 
ecy of Dante," " Sardanapalus," "Cain," "Heaven 
and Earth," the third, fourth and fifth cantos of 
" Don Juan," and " The Vision of Judgment." 

He remained at Ravenna during the greater part 
of the two succeeding years. In the autumn of 
1821 he removed to Pisa, in Tuscany, where he 
remained until the middle of May. His habits of 
life, while at Pisa, are thus described by Moore : — 

" At two, he usually breakfasted, and" at three, or, 
as the year advanced, four o'clock, those persons 
who were in the habit of accompanying him in his 
rides, called upon him. After, occasionally, a game 
of billiards, he proceeded, — and in order to avoid 
stares, in his carriage, — as far as the gates of the 
town, where his horses met him. At first, the route 
he chose for these rides was in the direction of the 
Cascine, and of the pine forest that reaches towards 
the sea ; but having found a spot more convenient 
for his pistol exercise, on the road leading from 
Portalla Spiaggia to the east of the city, he took 
daily this course during the remainder of his stay 
When arrived at the Podere, or farm, in the garden 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



»f which they were allowed to erect their target, his 
friends and he dismounted, and, after devoting 
about half an hour to a trial of skill at the pistol, 
returned, a little before sunset, into the city." 

Leaving Pisa, he removed to Genoa, where he 
remained till his final departure for Greece, in July, 
1823. Luring this time, he produced "Werner," 
"The Deformed Transformed," "The Island," 
" The Age of Bronze," and the last cantos of " Don 
Juan." 

He became interested in the struggle of the 
Greeks for freedom, and offered his services in their 
behalf. He obtained the advance of a large sum of 
money, and chartered an English vessel, the Hercu- 
les, for the purpose of taking him to Greece. 

All things being ready, on the 13th of July, he, 
and those who were to accompany him, embarked. 
His suite consisted of Count Pietro Gamba, brother 
of the Countess Guiccioli ; Mr. Trelawny, an Eng- 
lishman ; and Doctor Bruno, an Italian physician, 
who had just left the university, and was somewhat 
acquainted with surgery. He had, also, at his ser- 
vice, eight servants. 

There were on board five horses, arms and ammu- 
nition for the use of his own party, and medicine 
enough for the supply of one thousand men for one 
year. 

On the morning of the 14th of July, the Hercules 
sailed ; but, encountering a severe storm, was obliged 
to put back. On the evening of the 15th, they 
again .started, and after a passage of five days, 
reached Leghorn, where they shipped a supply of 
gunpowder, and other English goods. Receiving 
these, they immediately sailed for Cephalonia, and 
reached Argolosti, the principal port of that island, 
on the 21st of July. He was warmly received by 
the Greeks and English, among whom his presence 
created a lively sensation. 

Wishing information, in order to determine upon 
the best course for him to pursue, he despatched 
Mr. Trelawny and Mr. Hamilton Browne with a 
letter to the Greek government, in order to obtain 
an account of the state of public affairs. Here, as 
in many other places, he displayed his generosity, 
by relieving the distressed, who had fled from Scio. 

He was delayed at Argolosti about six weeks, by 
adverse winds. At length, the wind becoming fair, 
he embarked on board the Mistico, and Count 
Gamba, with the horses and heavy baggage, in a 
large vessel. 

The latter was brought to by a Turkish frigate, 
and carried, with its valuable cargo, into Patras, 
where the commander of the Turkish fleet was sta- 
tioned. Count Gamba had an interview with the 
Pacha, and was so fortunate as to obtain the release 
of his vessel and freight ; and sailing, reached Mis- 
solonghi on the 4th of January. He was surprised 
to learn that Lord Byron had not arrived. 

On his Lordship's departure from Dragomestri, a 
violent gale came on, and the vessel was twice 
driven into imminent danger on the rocks ; and it 
was owing to Lord Byron's firmness and nautical 
skill, that the vessel, several lives, and twenty-five 
thousand dollars, were saved. 

It was while at Dragomestri, that an imprudent 
bath brought on a cold, which was the foundation 
of that sickness which resulted in his death. 

He reached Missolonghi on the 5th of January, 
and was received with enthusiastic demonstrations 
of joy. No mark of welcome or honor that the 
Greeks could devise, was omitted. 

One of the first acts of Lord Byron, was an at- 
tempt to mitigate the ferocity of war. He rescued 
a Turk from the hands of some sailors, kept him at 
his. house a few days, until an opportunity occurred 
to send him to Patras. He sent four Turkish pris- 
oners to the Turkish Chief of Patras, and requested 
that prisoners, on both sides, be henceforward 
treated with humanity. 

Forming a corps of Suliotes, he equipped them 
at his own expense. They numbered about six 



hundred, brave and hardy mountaineers, but wholly 
undisciplined and unmanageable. Of these, having 
obtained a commission, he, on the first of Febru- 
ary, took the command. 

An expedition against Lepanto was proposed ; 
but, owing to. some difficulty with the rude and riot- 
ous soldiery, it was suspended. 

Disease now began to prey upon him, and he 
was attacked with a fit of epilepsy on the 15th of 
February, which deprived him, for a short time, of 
his senses. On the following morning, he appeared 
to be much better, but still quite ill. 

On the 9th of April, after returning from a ride 
with Count Gamba, during which they had met a 
violent shower, he was again prostrated with dis- 
ease. He was seized with shuddering, and com- 
plained of rheumatic pains. The following day he 
arose at his accustomed hour, transacted business, 
and rode into the olive woods, accompanied by his 
long train of Suliotes. 

On the 11th his fever increased ; and on the 12th 
he kept his bed all day, complaining that he could 
not sleep, and taking no nourishment whatever. 
The two following days, he suffered much from 
pains in the head, though his fever had subsided. 
On the 14th, Dr. Bruno, finding sudorifics unavail- 
ing, urged the necessity of his being bled. But of 
this Lord Byron would not hear. At length, how- 
ever, after repeated entreaties, he promised that, 
should his fever increase, he would allow it to be 
done. He was bled ; but the relief did not answer 
the expectations of any one. The restlessness Snd 
agitation increased, and he spoke several times in 
an incoherent manner. On the 17th, it was repeated. 

His disease continued to increase; he had not, 
till now, thought himself dangerously ill ; but now, 
the fearful truth was apparent, not only in his own 
feelings, bxtt in the countenances and actions of his 
friends and attendants. 

A consultation of physicians was had. Soon 
after, a fit of delirium ensued, and he began to talk 
wildly, calling out, half in English, half in Italian, 
" Forwards ! — forwards ! — courage ! — follow my ^ex- 
ample ! " &c, &c. 

On Fletcher's asking him whether he should 
bring pen and paper to take down his words, he 
replied : — " Oh, no, there is no time — it is now nearly 
over. Go to my sister — tell her — go to Lady Byron 
— you will see her — and say — " Here his voice fal- 
tered, and became gradually indistinct. He con- 
tinued speaking in a low, whispering tone. "My 
Lord," replied Fletcher, "I have not understood 
a -fvord your Lordship has been saying." " Not 
understood me ! " exclaimed Byron, with a look of 
distress, " what a pity ! — then it is too late ; — all is 
over." " I hope not," answered Fletcher; but the 
Lord's will be done ! " " Yes, not mine," said 
Byron. He then attempted to say something; but 
nothing was intelligible, except "my sister — my 
child." 

About six o'clock in the evening of the 19th, he 
said, "Now I shall go to sleep;" and, turning 
round, fell into that slumber from which he never 
awoke. 

The sad intelligence was received by the people 
of Missolonghi with feelings of sorrow, which we 
are unable to describe ; and all Europe was in 
mourning over the lamentable event, as its tidings 
spread through its cities, towns, and villages. 

It was but a short time previous, that the Greeks 
were inspired by his presence, and inspirited by the 
touch of his ever-powerful genius. Now, all was 
over. The future triumphs which they had pictured 
forth for their country's freedom, vanished. Their 
bright hopes departed, and lamentation filled hearts 
lately buoyant with rejoicing. 

In various parts of Greece, honors were paid to 
his memory. 

The funeral ceremony took place in the church of 
St. Nicholas. His remains were carried on the 
shoulders of the officers of his corps. On his coffin 



X.1V 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



were placed a helmet, a sword, and a crown of laurel. 
The church was crowded to its utmost extent, dur- 
ing the service. 

On the 2d of May the body was conveyed to Zante, 
under a salute from the guns of the fortress. From 
thence, it was sent in the English brig Florida, in 
charge of Col. Stanhope ; and, being landed under 
the direction of his Lordship's executors, Mr. Hob- 
house and Mr. Hanson, it was removed to the house 
of Sir Edward ELnatchbull, where it lay in state dur- 
ing the 9th and 10th of July. On the 16th of July, 
the last duties were paid to the remains of the great 
poet, by depositing them close to those of his mother, 
in the family vault in the small village church of 
Hucknall, near Newstead. It is a somewhat singu- 
lar fact, that on the same day of the same month 
in the preceding year, he said to Count Gamba, 
•' Where shall we be in another year ? " 

On a tablet of white marble, in the chancel of the 
church of Hucknall, is the following inscription : — 

IX THE VAULT BENEATH, 

WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER 

ARE BURIED, 

LIE THE REMAINS OF 

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 

LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, 

IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER; 

THE AUTHOR OF 

" CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE." 

HE WAS BORN IN LONDON, ON THE 

22D OF JANUARY, 1788. 

EE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, 

ON THE 19TH OF APRIL, 1824, 

ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO . 

RESTORE THAT COUNTRY TO HER 

ANCIENT FREEDOM AND 

RENOW r N. 



HIS SISTER, THE HONORABLE 

AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, 

PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMORY. 

Thus lived and died the poet Byron. With a 
mind, blest with an active genius, which but few are 
privileged to possess, he passed through this world, 
like a comet, on its bright but erratic course, leaving 
a luminous trace behind to mark his passage, and 
to keep his memory fresh in the hearts of many fu- 
ture generations. It is not our purpose, in this 
place, to speak of the general tone of his writings 
or of their influence. That he had faults, we are 
ready to admit ; and that he had an inward good- 
ness of heart, we are as ready to assert. But few 
men, with like temperament and associations with 
his, would have pursued a different course. 

In height he was five feet eight inches and a half. 
His hands were very white and small. Of his face, 
the beauty may be pronounced to have been of the 
highest order, as combining at once regularity of 
features with the most varied and interesting ex- 
pression. His eyes were of a light gray, and capa- 



ble of all extremes of expression, from the most 
joyous hilarity to the deepest sadness, from the very 
sunshine of benevolence to the most concentrated 
scorn or rage. 

But it was in the mouth and chin that the great 
beauty of his countenance lay. Says a fair critic of 
his features, " Many pictures have been jjainted of 
him, with various success ; but the excessive beauty 
of his lips escaped every painter and sculptor. In 
their ceaseless play they represented every emotion, 
whether pale with anger, or curled in disdain, smil- 
ing in triumph, or dimpled with archness and love. 
This extreme facility of expression was sometimes 
painful, for I have seen him look absolutely ugly — ] 
have seen him look so hard and cold that you must 
hate him, and then, in a moment, brighter than the 
sun, with such playful softness in his look, such 
affectionate eagerness kindling in his eyes, and 
dimpling his lips into something more sweet than a 
smile, that you forgot the man, the Lord Byron, in 
the picture of beauty presented to you, and gazed 
with intense curiosity — I had almost said — as if to 
satisfy yourself, that thus looked the god of poetry, 
the god of the Vatican, when he conversed with the 
sons and daughters of man." 

His head was small ; the forehead high, on which 
glossy, dark-brown curls clustered. His teeth 
were white and regular, and his countenance color- 
less. 

He believed in the immortality of the soul. In 
one of his letters, he said that he once doubted it. 
but that reflection had taught him better. The 
publication of " Cain, a Mystery," brought down 
upon him the severest denunciations of main 
of the clergy, whose zeal took rapid flight and bore 
away their reason and judgment. They called it 
blasphemous. This, Lord Byron denied in the 
most positive terms. The misunderstanding was 
owing to the fact that Byron caused each of the 
characters to speak as it was supposed they would 
speak, judging from their actions, and that these 
fault-finders, who raised such an outcry, understood 
the language to be the belief of the author, than 
which nothing could be more unreasonable. 

At the time of Byron's death many tributes to his 
memory were paid by the most celebrated authors. 
Among them was one from Rogers, from which we 
take the following as best fitted, in closing this 
sketch, to leave on the mind of our readers a just 
view of the strange and eventful life of the poet, 
and at the same time to call forth that charity in 
judgment which it is our duty to bestow : — 

11 Thou art gone; 
And he who would assail thee in thy grave, 
Oh, let him pause ! lor who among us all, 
Tried as thou wert — even from thy earliest years, 
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a Highland boy — 
Tried as thou wert, and with thy love of fame ; 
Pleasure, wliile yet the down was on thy cheek, 
Uplilting, pressing, and to lips like thine, 
Her charmed cup — ah, who amongst us all 
Could say he had not erred as much and mafi," 



THE 



WORKS OF LORD BYRON 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



A ROMAUJJT. 



L'univers est une espece de livrc, tlont on n'a lu que la premiere pa?e quanii 



vu que son pays. J'e 



— — — — ,.„ — „„ ..., k| uw ... .... 1. u i ■ ijuc m jjicnucrc 

ai feuillele un BSMZgraad nomtoe, que j'ai trouve egalemem mauvaises. " f.-t examen ne m'a po'im He LiTroctiieux! 

mi lesquels j'ai recu, m'ont reconcUie' avec 



„„ ^_. ...... umiiMi^ .jui. j MJ umihl CStUCllHJlll IllilU VaiSL'8. 1_ ■ I f ' V , I 1 1 

Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impeninences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels jaj Tecu, i 

elle. auand je n'aumis tire d'amre benefice de mes voyages que celui-la, je n'en re°retterais ni les frais ni Irs 

faU S ue3 - LE COSMOPOLITE. 



PREFACE. 

The following poem was written, for the most 
part, amid the scenes which it attempts to describe. 
It was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to 
Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's 
observations in those countries. Thus much it may 
be necessary to state for the correctness of the de- 
scriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched 
are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Aearnania, and 
Greece. There for the present the poem stops : its 
reception will determine whether the author may 
venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the 
East, through Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos 
are merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connexion to the piece ; which, how- 
ever, makes no pretension to regularity. It has 
been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions 
I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, 
"Childe Harold," I may incur the suspicion of 
having intended some real personage: this I beg 
leave, once for all, to disclaim— Harold is the child 
of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In 
some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, 
there might be grounds for such a notion ; but in 
the main points, I should hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the ap- 
pellation "Childe," as " Childe Waters," "Childe 
Childers," &c, is used as more consonant with the 
old, structure of the versification which I have 
adopted. The " Good Night," in the beginning of 
the first canto, was suggested by "Lord Maxwell's 
Good Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by 
Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been pub- 
lished on Spanish subjects, there may be found some 
slight coincidence in the first part, which treats of 
the Peninsula, but it can only be casual ; as, with 
3 



the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole 
of this poem was WTitten in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our 
most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. 
Beattie makes the following observation: "Not 
long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of 
Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my 
inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descrip- 
tive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humor 
strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the measure 
which I have adopted admits equally of all these 
kinds of composition." *— Strengthened in my opin- 
ion by such high authority, and by the example of 
some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall 
make no apology for attempts at similar variations 
in the following composition ; satisfied that, if they 
are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execu- 
tion, rather than in the design sanctioned by the 
practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 



ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I have now waited till almost all our periodica] 
journals have distributed their usual portion of 
criticism. To the justice of the generality of their 
criticisms I have ^nothing to object ; it would ill be- 
come me to quarrel with their very slight degree of 
censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind 
they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, 
to ,all and each my best thanks for their liberality, 
on one point alone shall I venture an observation. 
Among the many objections justly urged to the very 
indifferent character of the "vagrant Childe," 
(whom, notwithstanding many hints to the con- 



1 Beattie's Lettcn. 



II 



BYRON'S WORKS 



trary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage,) 
it has been stated, that, besides the anachronism, 
he is very unknig fitly, as the times of the Knights 
were times of love, honor, and so forth. Now it so 
happens that the good old times, when "l'amour 
du bon vieux tems l'amour antique" flourished, 
were the most profligate of all possible centuries. 
Those who have any doubts on this subject may 
consiilt St. Palaye, passim, and more particularly 
vol. ii., page 69. The vows of chivalry were no 
better kept than any other vows whatsoever ; and 
the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, 
and certainly were much less refined, than those of 
Ovid. The " Cours d'amour, parlemens d' amour on 
de courtesie et de gentilesse" had much more of 
love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Rolland 
on the same subject with St. Palaye. Whatever 
other objection may be urged to that most unamia- 
ble personage, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly 
knightly in his attributes — "No waiter, but a 
knight templar." * By the by, I fear that Sir 
Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they 
should be, although very poetical personages and 
true knights "sans peur," though not "sans re- 
proche." If the story of the institution of the 
" Garter " be not a fable, the knights of that order 
have for several centuries borne the badge of a 
Countess of Salisbury of indifferent memory. So 
much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted 
that its days are over, though Maria Antoinette was 
quite as chaste as most of those in whose honors 
lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of 
Sir Joseph Banks, (the most chaste and celebrated 
of ancient and modern times,) few exceptions will 
be found to this statement, and I fear a little inves- 
tigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous 
mummeries of the middle ages. 

I now leave " Childe Harold," to live his day, 
such as he is ; it had been more agreeable, and cer- 
tainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable charac- 
ter. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to 
make him do more and express less, but he never 
was intended as an example, further than to show 
that early perversion of mind and morals leads to 
satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in 
new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, and 
the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most 
powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so 
constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I pro- 
ceeded with the poem, this character would have 
deepened as he drew to the close ; for the outline 
which I once meant to fill up for him was, with 
some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, 
perhaps a poetical Zeluco. 



TO IANTHE. 



* The Rorera. Antijacobin. 



Not in those climes where I have late been 

straying, 
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless 

deem'd ; 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as theybeam'd: 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could 

they speak ? 

Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou ait, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri of the West ! — 'tis well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye umoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours 
decreed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as ti.3 Gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord: nor question why 
To one so young my strain I would commend, 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
My days once number'd, should this homage past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, Gould Friend- 
ship less require 3 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO I. 



Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine, 1 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 

II. 

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favor in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie, 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 

III. 

Childe Harold was he hight, — but whence his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad loscl soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time : 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, 
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

IV. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
Disporting there like any other fly; 
Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
He felt the fulness of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad 
cell. 



V. 

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 
Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one, 
And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste 

VI. 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But Pride congeal' d the drop within his ee : 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolv'd to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for wo, 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades 
below. 

VII. 

The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
Where Superstition once had made her den, 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 
And monks might deem their time was come agen, 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 

VIII. 

Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's 
As if the memory of some deadly feud [brow, 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er his grief mote be, which he could not 
control. 



20 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near, 
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
And where these are light Eros finds a fere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might 
despair. 

X. ■ 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to ryine. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; 
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to 
heal. 

XI. 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
"Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, 
And all that mote to luxury invite, 
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's cen- 
tral line. 

XII. 

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, 
As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sat and wept, 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 

XIII. 

But when the sun was sinking in the sea 

He seized his harp, which he at times could string, 

■ And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening : 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 
And tuned his farewell in the deep twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 

Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good 
Night." 

» 1. 

" Adieu, adieu-! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native Land — Good Night ! 



" A few short hours, and He will rise 

To give the Morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother Earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 

My dog howls at the gate. 



" Come hither, hither, my little page ! 

Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 

Our ship is swift and strong : 
Our fleetest falcon scarce could fly 

More merrily along." 



' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind ; 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and one above. 



' My father bless'd me fervently, 

Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again.' — 
"Enough, enough, my little lad! 

Such tears become thine eye ; 
If I thy guileless besom had, 

Mine own would not be dry. 



" Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman 

Why dost thou look so pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 

Or shiver at the gale ? " 
' Deem'st thou I ti'emble for my life ? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful check. 



' My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake ; 
And when they on their father call, 

What answer shall she make ? ' — 
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, who am of lighter mood, 

Will lau"'h to flee awav. 



" For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramoTir ? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near ; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



21 



"And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea : 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain 

Till fed by stranger hands ; 
But long ere I come back again, 

He'd tear me where he stands. 

10. 

"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me too, 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves ! 

And when you fail my sight, 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 

My native Land — Good Night ! " 

XIV. 

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
A.nd steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics 
reap. 

XV. 

Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! 
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high 

command, 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen 

purge. 

XVI. 

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing 
lord. 

XVII. 

But whoso entereth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
For hut and palace show like filthily : 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, 
unwash'd, unhurt. 



XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes, 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To- follow half on which the eye dilates, 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's 
gates ? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 

XX. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
And rest yet at our " Lady's house of wo ; " 2 
Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo ! 
Deep in yon cave Honorious long did dwell, 
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a Hell. 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout this purple land where law secures not 
life. 3 

XXII. 

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe ; 
Yet ruin'd splendor still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair ; 
There thou too,Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware [done, 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to sun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure 

plan, 
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow : 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide; 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide 



22 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXIV. 



Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! * 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his 
soul. 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume, 
And Policy regained what arms had lost ; 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
Wo to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast. 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name; 
And folks in office at the mention fret, 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for 
How will posterity the deed ploclaim ! [shame. 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their fame, 
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
Where Scorn her finger points through many a com- 
ing year ? 

XXVII. 

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
Did take his way in solitary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, 
More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here a while he learned to moralize, 
For meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth misspent in maddest whim ; 
But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 

XXVIII. 

To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul ; 
Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience 
sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 3 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen ; 
And church and court did mingle then array, 
And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
Lordlings and freres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
But here the Babylonian whore hath built 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, 
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish 
guilt. 



XXX. 



O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race !) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyance fills, [place, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader 

knows — 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend ■ 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
And all must shield then all, or share Subjection's 

woes. 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from 
Gaul. 

XXXIII. 

But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low B 

XXXIV. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendor drcst : 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest [strong ; 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts op- 
press'd. 

XXXV. 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd romantic land ! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the In ml 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic 

gore ? 7 
Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? [pale, 
Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' 

wail. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



23 



XXXVI. 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine 
See how the mighty shrink into a song ! [estate, 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve the great ? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does 
thee wrong ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ; 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
ISJow on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar: 
In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise ! " 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's 
shore ? 

XXXVIII. 

Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Saw ye not whom the recking sabre smote ; 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death 
The bale-fires flash on high : — ■from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe, 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the 
shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
"With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most 
sweet. 

XL. 

By heaven, it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the ah - ! [lair 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their 
And gnash then - fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! 
All join the phase, but few the triumph share ; 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 



XLII. 



There shall they rot — Ambition's honor 'd fools ! 
Yes, honor decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass ought that hails their sway ? 
Or call with truth one span of earth then - own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by 
bone ? 

XLIII. 

Oh, Albuera ! glorious field of grief! 
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, [bleed . 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and 
Peace to the pcrish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph then - reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient 
song ! 

XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim [good, 
Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's 
And die, that living might have proved her shame ; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. 

XLV. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Whore proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wished-for prey ! 
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour ! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. 

XLVI. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's 

wounds : 
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds ; 
Here Folly still his votaries inthralls ; 
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight 
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, [rounds: 
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 

XLVII. 

Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : 
Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be 
happy yet ! 



24 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLVIII. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 
Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jinging on the Tray ? 
No ! as he speeds, he chants " Viva el Rey ! " 8 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day [hoy, 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed 
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate 

j°y- 

XLIX. 
On yon long level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded 
ground ; [vest 

And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken' d 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and 
lost. 

L. 

And whomsoe'er along the path you meet, 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet ; !; 
Wo to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; 
And sorely would the Gallic focman rue, 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 
smoke. 

LI. 

At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
The bristling pallisadc, the fosse o'erflow'd, 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
The bolster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, 10 

LII. 
Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
A little moment dcigneth to delay : [way ; 

Soon will his legions sweep through these their 
The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings 
unfurl'd, 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades 
hurl'd. 

LIII. 
And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the 

brave, 
To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign ? 
No step between submission and a grave ? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 
Is all that desperate Valor acts in vain ? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's 
heart of steel ? 



LIV. 



Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlacc hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, an owlet's 'larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quaky 
to tread. 

LV. 

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, [veil, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful 
chase. 

LVI. 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base career ; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host ; 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
AVho can avenge_so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, [lost ? 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ? n 

LVII. 

Yet arc Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love : 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er'her mate: 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as 
great. 

LVIII. 

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath imprcss'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch : " 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phccbus woo'd in vain to spoil her check, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous 

clutch ! 
Who round the North for paler dames would seek ? 
How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, 
and weak ! 

LIX. 

Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud ; 
Match me, ye harams of the land ! where now 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow; 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters— deign to 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, [know 
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



25 



LX. 



Oh, thou F-irnassus ! I3 whom I now survey, 
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will 
wave her wing. 

LXI. 

Oft Have I dream'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divincst lore : 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee ! 

LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
Which others rave of, though they know it not ? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear ; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 

LXIV. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece was 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, [young, 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung, 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her 
glades. 

LXV. 

Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient 
t But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, [days ; 14 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantling who can 'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 



LXV I. 



When Paphos fell by time — accursed Time ! 
The queen who conquers all must yield to thee — 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime : 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To naught else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white ; 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 

LXVII. 

From morn till night, from night till startled Morn 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn, 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by 
turns. ' 

LXVIII. 

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? 
Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast ; 
Hark ! heard you not the forest monarch's roar ? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn, 
The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more ; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to 
mourn. 

LXIX. 

The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer : 
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, 
And smug apprentice gulp then; weekly air : 
Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair ; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 

LXX. 

Some o'er thy Thames row the ribbon'd fair, 
Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Bcetian shades ! the reason why ? Vo 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, [sworn. 
In whose dread name both men and maids are 
And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance 
till morn. 

LXXI. 

All have their fooleries' — not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversioa 
share. 



26 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXII. 



The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round ; 
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
None through their cold disdain arc doom'd to die, 
As moonstruck bards complain, by Love's sad 
archery. 

LXXIII. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds, 
With milk-white crest, gold-spur, and light-poised 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, [lance, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
And all that kimrs or chiefs e'er gain their toils 



repay. 



LXXIV. 



In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadorc 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed — 
Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe ; 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

• LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away, 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear - : 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellowings 
speak his woes. 

LXXVII. 

Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man, and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears, 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears, 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he 
bears. 



LXXVIII. 



Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray ; 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thund'ring way: 
Yain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the 
sand ! 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline : 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle, dies. 
The decorated car appears — on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 

LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the 
Enough, alas !' in humble homes remain, [foe, 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm 
stream must flow. 

LXXXI. 

But Jealousy has fled : his bars, his bolts, 
His wither'd sentinel, Duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage. 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving 
Queen ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, 
Or drcam'd he loved, since Rapture is a dream ; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings ; 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom 
flings. 16 

LXXXIII. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind • 

E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes : 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



27 



LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate ? 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet oncevhe struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay 
l'o charms as fair as those that soothed his happier 
day. 

TO INEZ. 
1. 
Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 

Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain 



And dost thou ask, what secret wo 
I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 

And wilt thou vainly seek t o know 
A pang, ev'n thou must fail to sooth ? 



It is not love, it is not hate, 
Nor low Ambition's honors lost, 

That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly from all I prized the most : 



It is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see : 

To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 



It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 

That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 

6. 
What Exile from himself can flee ? 

To Zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 

The blight of life — the demon Thought. 



Yet others rapt m pleasure seem, 
And taste of all that I forsake ; 

Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 
And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 



Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 
With many a retrospection curst ; 

And all my solace is to know, 
Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 



What is that worst ? Nay do not ask- 
In pity from the search forbear : 

Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 



LXXXV. 



Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 
AVho may forget how well thy walls have stood ? 
When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
First to be free and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye ; 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud : > 7 
Here all were noble, save Nobility ; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen 
Chivalry ! 

LXXXYI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 
They fight for freedom who were never free ; 
A Kingless people for a nerveless state, 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, 
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery : 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty ; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
War, war is still the cry, " War even to the 
knife! "is 

LXXXYII. 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate'er keen Yengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, 
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed' 

LXXXVIII. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburicd slain, 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, [stain, 
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done ; 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyreneen : 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : 
Strange retribution ! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, 
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder un- 
restrain'd. 

XC. 

Not all the blood at Talavera shed, 
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 
Not Albuera lavish of the dead, 
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight ? 
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil ? 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil 



28 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCI. 



And thou, my friend ! l9 — since unavailing wo 
Burst from my heart, and mingles with the strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
Pride might forbid ev'n Friendship to complain ; 
But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 
Wiiat Ladst thou done to sink so peacefully to 
rest ? s 

XCII. 

Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most ! 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear ! 
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear 
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. 

XCIII. 

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know, 
Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much ? stern Critic ! say not so : 
Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands we 
qucll'd. 



CANTO II. 
I. 

Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas ! 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire, 1 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire ; 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
bestow. 2 

II. 

Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, 
Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal [were : 
They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophists stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering 

tower. 
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of 

Power. 



III. 



Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ; 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn : 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their turn ; 
'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built 
on reeds. 

IV. 

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
Is't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know 
Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou would'st be again, and go 
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and wo ? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies ; 
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 

V. 

Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound ; \ 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : 3 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around ; 
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
Nor war-like worshipper bis vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove yon scull from out the scatter'd heaps : 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell ? 
Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd 
cell! 

VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul ; 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul ; 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit 
And Passion's host, that never brook'd control ; 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ; 

VII. 

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
" All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ? 
Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 

VIII. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labors light ! 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the 
right. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



29 



IX. 



There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled, 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee d^ ad 
When busy Memory flashes on my brain ? 
Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast ; 
If aught of young Remembrance then remain, 
Be as it may Futurity's behest, 
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest. 

X. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne. 4 
Mightiest of many such ! hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be ; nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
Restore what Time hath labored to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh ; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols 

by. 

XI. 

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loath to flee 
The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? 
Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be ! 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine : [free ; 
Thy free-born men should spare what once was 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. 5 

XII. 

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, [spared; 6 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains. 
Her sons too weak the .sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, 7 
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's 
chains. 

XIII. 



XV. 



"What ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung. 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; 
The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land ; 
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, 
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, 
Which envious Elb forbore, and tyrants left to stand. 

XIV. 

Where was thine iEgis, Pallas, that appall'd 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ? 8 
Where Peleus' son ? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd, 
His shades from Hades upon that dread day 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield 
before. 



Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see [moved 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines re- 
By British hands, which it had best behooved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes 
abhorr'd ! 

XVI. 

But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 
Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; 
No loved one now in fcign'd lament could rave ; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes : 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 

XVII. 

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight ; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 

XVIII. 

And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy," 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din. 
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high ; 
Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides; 
Or schoolboy Midshipman, that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 

XIX. 



White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
From law, however stern, which tends their strength 
to nerve. 

XX. 

Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale ! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 
The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like 
these ! 



30 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXL 



The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe. 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantime, some rude Arion's restless hand 
"Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 
A circle there of merry listeners stand, 
Or to some well-known measure featly move, 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to 
rove. 

XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the sleepy shore ; 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze ; 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase ; 
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, 
From mountain cliff to coast descending sombre 
down. 

XXIII. 

'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at end. 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend 
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy ? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be a 
boy? 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave reflected sphere, 
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride. 
And flics unconscious o'er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; 
A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 

XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her store 
unroll'd. 

XXVI. 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless. 
Minions of splendor, shrinking from distress ! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued ; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 



XXVII. 



More blest the life of godly Eremite, 
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, 
Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, 
That he who there at^such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, 
And each well known caprice of wave and wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
Till on some jocund morn — lo, land! and all is well. 

XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, 10 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, 
And o'er her cliffs a fuitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-qiieen doubly 
sigh'd. 

XXX. 

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought ; 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was- 
o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
Which others hail'dwith real or mimic awe, [law; 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their 
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims ; 
And much she marvelled that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely 
anger dames. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



31 



XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
Now inask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
i'et never would he join the lover's whining crew. 

XXXIY. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
What careth she for hearts when once possess'd r 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes : 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk confidence still best with woman copes ; 
Pique her and sooth in turn, soon Passion crowns 
thy hopes. 

XXXV. 

"lis an old lesson ; Time approves it true, 
And those who know it best, deplore it most ; 
When all is won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost ; 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion ! these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 

XXXVI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were read, 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
Though alway changing, in her aspect mild ; 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
Her never-wean'd, though not her favor'd child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, 
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path ; 
To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 
A.nd sought her more and more, and loved her best 
in wrath. 

XXXVIII. 

Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffied foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize : 
Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The Cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each city's 
ken. 



XXXIX. 



Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot 12 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lovers refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only Heaven to which Earth's children may 
aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar ; 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave • 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar ; 13 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at mar- 
tial wight. 

XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of wo, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 14 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow ; 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch' d the billows' melancholy flow, 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seem'd his eye, and "smooth his pallid 
front. 

XIII. 

Morn dawns ; and with it stern Albania's hills, 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills, 
Arrayed in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise ; and, -as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
And gathering storms around convulse the closing 
year. 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to view ; [few , 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet ; 
The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 
Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed sum- 
mer's heat. 

XLIV. 

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Though sadly scoffd at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear ; 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul Superstition ! howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate thjr 
dross ? 



32 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLV. 



LI. 



Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king 1S 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! 1C 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering : 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
God ! was thy globe ordain' d for such to win and 
lose ? 

XLYI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground, and consecrated most, 
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering 
coast. 

XLYII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, 17 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief, 13 whose dread command 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold ; 
Yet here and there some daring mountain band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 19 

XLYIII. 

Monastic Zitza ! 20 from thy shady brow, 
Though small, but favor'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, belcAv, 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole: 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumcd cataract cloth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please 
the soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, 
The convents's white walls glisten fair on high : 
Here dwells the caloyer, 21 nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by 
Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to 
sec. 



Ilore in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease ; 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve 
.. away. 



Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 22 
Chima^ra's alps extend from left to right ; 
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; [fii 

Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain 
Nodding above : behold black Acheron ! "* 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon, 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek 
for none ! 

LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills ; here men arc few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
But peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote M 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 

LIII. 

Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 

Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 

What valley echo'd the response of Jove ? 

What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's 
shrine ? 

All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 

That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke r 

Cease, fool ! the fate of Gods may well be thine . 

Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink be- 
neath the stroke ! 

LIV. 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale, 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy die ; 
Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn 
trance. 

LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 25 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; 2e 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tcpalcn, [ m gh, 

Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing 
He heard the busy hum of warrior men 
Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthen- 
ing glen. 

LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
Survev'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no commen pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait ; 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



33 



LVII. 



Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide extending court below; 
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridor ; 
And ofttimes through the area's echoing door * 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away: 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep wax-drum's sound announced the 
close of day. 

LYIII. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see ; 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
And crooked glaive : the lively, supple Greek ; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are 

found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, 
The Mxiezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
'* There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo ! God is 

great! " 

LX. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fast' 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the -rule again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

LXI. 

Here woman's voice is never heard: apart, 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove ; 
For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion 
shares. 

LXII. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Alt. reclined, a man of war and woes ; 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with 
disgrace. 



LXIII. 



It is not that yon hoary lengthening heard 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mort&i 

span, 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood 

began. 

LXIV. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 
destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful times of troublous need : 
Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship surt. 
When Gratitude or Valor bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead 

LXVI. • 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's towei 
Thronging to war in splendor and success ; 
And after viewed them when, within their power 
Himself, awhile the victim of distress ; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press . 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 
" When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, 

And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof — v 
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the 
proof ! 

LXVI1. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
When all around was desolate and dark : 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 
Yet for a while the mariners forbore, 
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : [sore 
At length they ventured forth, though doubting 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work 

LXVIII. 

Vain fear ! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand, 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
Kinder than polish'd slaves, though not so bland, 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments 

damp, 
And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp, 
And spread their fare ; though homely, all they had : 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp — 
To rest the weary and to sooth the sad, 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the 

bad. 



34 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXIX. 

It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
In war well season'd, and with labors tann'd, 
Till he did greet white Achelous tide, 
And from his further bank .Etolia's wolds espied. 

LXX. 

Where lone "Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
As winds come lightly whispering from the west 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene : — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest ; 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 
For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence 
glean. 

LXXI. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, 2 s 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each Palikar 29 his sabre from him cast, 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
Yelling then- uncouth dirge, long daunced the kirtled 
clan. 

LXXII. 

Chikle Hamld at a little distance stood 
And viewed; but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude ; 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee; 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd, 

While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
scream'd : 30 

1. 

=> Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! * thy 'larum afar 

Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; 

All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 

Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote ! 

2. 
Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 
And descends to the plain like the stream from the 
rock. 

3. 

Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego ? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 

4. 
Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 



Then the pirates of Parga that rwell by the waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 



I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 

7- 
I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth ; 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 



Remember the moment when Previsa fell, 32 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell, 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, 
The wealthy we slaughtcr'd, the lovely we spared. 



I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier : 
Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

10. 

« 

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let theycllow-hair'd* Giaoursf view his horse-tail;}; 
with dread; [banks, 

When his Delhis§ come dashing in blood o'er the 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 

11. 

Selictar ! || unsheathe then our chief's scimitar : 
Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ' 

LXXHI. 

Fair Greece !' sad relic of departed worth ! 33 
Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopyla?'s sepulchral strait — 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurota's banks, and call thee from the 
tomb ? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 34 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, 
unmann'd. 



• Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. 
J Horse-tails are the insigna of a Pacha. 
$ Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 



t Infidel. 

[ Sword-bearer. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
LXXV. LXXXI. 



35 



In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Or teai- their name denied from Slavery's mournful 
page. 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not [blow ? 

"Who would be free themselves must strike the 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
"Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 

LXXYII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest ; 35 
Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest 
The 36 prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blood along the "West ; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless 
toil. 

LXXVIII. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share ; 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 
Oh Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song, 
As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 



LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they 
lave. 



Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
"While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still : 
Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band, 
Let sage or cynic prattle a* he will, 
These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years o: 
ill! 

LXXXIL 

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even through the closest searment half betray'd? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to reecho all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud ! 

LXXXIIL 

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe thee 

most L 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde 

LXXXIY. 

"When riseth Lacedajmcn's hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
WTien Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
"When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
An hour may lay it in the dust : and when 
Can man in shatter'd splendor renovate, 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate ? 

LXXXY. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of wo, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art thou ! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, 37 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now ; 
Thy fame, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded "Worth ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; & 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave; 
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, 
"Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
"While strangers only not regardless pass, 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh 
"Alas!" 



36 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXVII. 



Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honied wealth Hymcttus yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fail-. 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Mara- 
thon. 

, LXXXIX. 

-» The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic word ; 39 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 

The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's ca- 
reer. 

XC. 

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; 
Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below, 
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear ! 
Such was the scene — what now reuiaineth here ? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
Recording freedom's smile, and Asia's tear ? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns 
around. 

XCI. 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate, and bards adore, 
£.3 Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 

XCII. 

The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; 
He that is lonely, hither let him roam, 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth. 
But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
When wardering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian 
died. 



XCIII. 



Let such approach this consecrated land, 
And pass in peace along the magic waste ; 
But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced! 
Not for such purpose were these altars placed ; 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd! 

XCIV. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days ; 
To such resign the strife for fading bays, — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise ; 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are left to please, when none are left to 
love. 

xcv. 

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me*, 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see: 
Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
Would he had ne'er returned, to find fresh cause to 
roam. 

XCVI. 

Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 
And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. [hast. 
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! thou 
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend ; 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
Hath snatch' d the little joy that life had yet to lend. 

XCVII. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek. 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ; 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page. 
And be alone- on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Chas+ener hnmbly let me bow 
O'er hearts divided, and o'er hopes destroy'd; 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow, 
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, 
And Willi the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



37 



CANTO III. 



" Afin que cette application vous foreit de penser a autre chose ; il n 1 
7erite de remede que celui-la et le temps." — Lettre du lioi de Pr 
n'Alemberl, Sept. 7, 1776. 



Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me ; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
"Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye. 

II. 

Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed. 
That knows his rider. Welcome, to then- roar ! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

III. 

In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a steril track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower 
appears. 

IV. 

Since my young days of passion — joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
And both may jar ; it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, 
So that it ween me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 



He, who grown aged in this world of wo, 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Slill unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted 
cell. 



VI. 



'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form or fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I ? Nothing : but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' 
dearth. 

VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly : — I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame ; 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late ! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. ■ 

VIII. 

Something too much of this ; — but now 'tis past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long absent Harold reappears at last ; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him [heal; 
In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 

IX. 

His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd, for ever fettering though \mseen, 
And heavy though it clank'd not ; worn with pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
Entering with every step he took through many a 
scene. 



Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
And he, as one, might midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's 
hand. 

XL 

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 
To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond 
prime. 



38 



BYRON'S WORKS 



XII. 



But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with Man ; with whom he held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit [quell'd 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was 
In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompell'd, 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
A. life within itself, to breath without mankind. 

XIII. 

"Where rose the mountains, th^re to him were 

friends ; 
"Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home; 
"Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 

XIV. 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beines bright 
As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-born 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite: [jars, 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
brink. 

XV. 

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 

XVI. 

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
That all was over on this side the tomb, 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume, [wreck 
Which, though 'twere wild, — as on the plunder'd 
When mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 

XVII. 

Stop ! — For thy tread is on an Empire's dust ! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show ? 
None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory ? 



XVIII. 



And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ; 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In " pride of place " ' here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
Ambition's life and labors all were vain ; 
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken 
chain. 

XIX. 

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more free ? 
Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days ? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion dovrti, shall we 
Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones ? No : %>rove before ye 
praise ! 

XX. 

If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain, years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Harmodius- drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 3 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising 
knell ! I 

XXII. 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined : 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm! Arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

XXIII. 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; ho did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic car ; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
"Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting fell. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



39 



XXIV. 



Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
rise ? 

XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of War ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier .ere the'morning star; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! They 
come ! they come ! " 

XXVI. 

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering " 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills [rose! 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instills 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And 4 Evan's, ^Donald's fame rings in each clans- 
man's ears ! 

XXVII. 

And Ardennes 6 waves above them her green leaves 
Dewy .with nature's tear-drops, as they pass 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold 
and low. 

XXVIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial 
blent! 

XXIX. 

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, 
gallant Howard ! 



XXX. 



There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not 
bring. 7 

XXXI. 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 
Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of 
May for a moment sooth, it cannot slake [Fame 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honor'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, 
The tree will wither long before it fall ; [mourn : 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; 
The roof-tree siaks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoarincss ; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral ; [sun ; 
The day drags through tho' storms keep out the 
And thus the heart will break, jet brokenly live on. 

XXXIII. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was, 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
Yet withers on till all without is old, 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 

XXXIV. 

There is a very life in our despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 
As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
Like to the apples on the s Dead Sea's shore, 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would he name 
threescore ? 

XXXV. 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man : 
They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say — 
" Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
Our countrymen were warring on that day ! " 
And this is much, and all which will not pass away 



40 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXVI. 



There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness fixt, 
- Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
Even now to reassume the imperial mien, 
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the 
scene ! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst 
assert. 

XXXVIII. 

Oh, more or less than man — in high or low. 
Battling with nations, flying from the field ; 
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield ; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest 
star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide, 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — [smiled 
When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favorite child, 
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use, 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow: 
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who 
choose. 

XLI. 

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
But men's thoughts were trie steps which paved thy 
Their admiration thy best weapon shone; [throne. 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den ! 9 



XLIL 



But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
And there hath been thy banc ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can the 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
By their contagion ; Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or 
rule ; 

XLIV. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
Willi sorrow aud supineness, and so die; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 

XLV. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Bound him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits 
led. 

XLVI. 

Away with these ! true Wisdom's world will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine, 
Maternal Nature ! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells, 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, 

vine, 
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly 

dwells. 

XLV II. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



41 



XLVIII. 

Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Thau mightier heroes of a longer date. [have ? 
What want these outlaws 10 conquerors should 
But History's purchased page to call them great ? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full 
as brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discolor'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 



But Thou, exulting and unbounding river ! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to me, 
Even now what wants thy stream ? — that it should 
Lethe be. 

LI. 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks ; 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray ; 
But o'er the Llacken'd memory's blighting dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they 
seem. 

LII. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear ; 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en^the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient 
trace. 

LIII. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 



LIV. 



And he had learned to love, — I know not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 
In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to 
glow. 

LV. 

And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings 
pour. 

1. 
The castled crag of Drachenfels 11 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine. 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine. 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, 
And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
Whose far white walls along them shine, 
Have strew'd a scene which I should see 
With double joy wcrt thou with me. 



And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, 

And hands which offer early flowers, 

Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 

Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 

And many a rock which steeply lowers, 

And noble arch in proud decay, 

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 

But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — 

Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

3. 
I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they toucn, 
I know that they must wither'd be, 
But yet reject them not as such ; 
For I have cherish'd them as dear, 
Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 



The river nobly foams and flows, 

The charm of this enchanted ground, 

And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round : 

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here ; 

Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To nature and to me so dear, 

Could thy dear eyes in following mine 

Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 



42 



BYRON'S WORKS 



LVI. 



By Cobleutz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
Our enemy's — but let not that forbid 
Honor to Mareeau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 

LTII. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was freedom's champion, one of those, 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him 
wept. 12 

LYIII. 

Here Ehrenbreitstein, 13 with her shatter'd wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light: 
A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain ; 
But Peace destroy'd what war could never blight. 
And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in 
vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
And.could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning hosoms, it were here, 
"Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
[s to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
There can be no farewell to scene like thine; 
The mind is color'd by thy every hue ; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise ; 
More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine, 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days. 

LXI. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been, 
In mockery of man's art ; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene, 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near 
them fall. 



LXII. 



But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather around these summits, as to show- 
How eartn may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain 
man below. 

LXIII. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain,— 
Marat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain , 
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument ; the Stygian coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each 
wandering ghost. 14 

LXIV. 

While Waterloo with Cannre's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; 
They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entail'd Corruption ; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic 
clause. 

LXY. 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd 15 Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject 
lands. 

LXYI. 

And there — oh! sweet and sacred be the name! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
The life she lived in, but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 
dust. 16 

LXYII. 

But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, [birth ; 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and 
The high, the mountain -majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its wo, 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the stin's face, like yonder Alpine snow,'? 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



43 



LXVIII. 

Lake Ljnian woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth }-ields of their fair height and hue : 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their 
fold. 

LXIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind : 
All arc not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of- wrong for wrong 
Midst a contentious world, striving where none are 
strong. 

LXX. 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to, tears, 
And color things to come with hues of Night ; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight • 
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
The boldest steer but. where then- ports invite, 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er 
shall be. 

LXXI. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 18 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict 01 
bear ? 

LXXII. 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me : and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshy chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

LXXIII. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life ; 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being 
cling. 



LXXIV. 



And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? 
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal 
lot; 

LXXY. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare 
not glow ? 

LXXVI. 

But this is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest, 
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 

LXXVII. 

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from wo 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched ; yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and 
fast. 

LXXVIII. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the same 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper' d though it seems. 

LXXIX. 

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his would meet ; 
But to that gentle touch, through brain 'and breast 
Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek 
possest. 19 



44 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXX. 



His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
Or friends by him self-banished ; for his mind 
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
But he was frensicd, — wherefore, who may know? 
Since cause might be which skill could never find; 
But he was frensied by disease or wo, 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning 
show. 

LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows 
o'ergrown fears ? 

LXXXII. 

They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which grew 
Breathed from the birth of time ; the veil they 
And what behind it lay all earth shall view, [rent, 
But good with ill they also overthrow, 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew [fill'd, 

Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re- 
As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But this will nor endure, nor bp endured ! [felt. 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it 
They might have used it better, but allured 
By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt 
On one another : pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish 'd with the day ; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their 
prey ? 

LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it ; and they who war [bear 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
Fix'd passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years ; none need despair : 
It came, it comcth, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so 
moved. 



LXXXV r I. 



It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol mora 

LXXXVII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into a voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men amd empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great, 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, hath named them- 
selves a star. 

LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
• But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep ; — 
All heaven and earth are still : From the high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concenter'd in a life intense, - 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

XC. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
A truth, which through our being then doth melt 
And purifies from self: it is a tone 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
Binding all things with beauty ; — 'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 

XCI. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, 20 and thus take 
A fit, and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pra/'r ! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



45 



XCII. 
The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh 

night, 21 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as it the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 

XCIII. 
And this is in the night : — Most glorious night ! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth, 
A.s if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 
birth. 

XCIV. 
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way 

between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken- 

" hearted ! 
Tho' in their souls, which thus each other thwarted 
Love was the very root of the fond rage [parted: 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de- 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 

xcv. 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around: of all the band, [fork'd 
The brightest through these parted hills hath 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
rhere the hot shaft should blast whatever therein 
lurk'd. 

XCVI. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if* I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high 
nest ? 

XCVII. 

Could I embody and unbosom now, 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or 

weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
And that one word were lightning, I would speak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard, [sword. 

With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a 



XCVIII. 



The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day ; we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep Love, 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; 
Thy trees take root in Love : the snows above 
The very Glaciers have his colors caught, 
And sunset into rose hues sees them wrought 22 
By rays which sleep there lovingly ; the rocks 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who 

sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, 

then mocks. 

C. 

Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate 
hour. 

CI. i 

All things are here of Mm ; from the black pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it 
stood, 
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 

CII. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form'd and many-color'd things, [words, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of life ; the gush 6f springs, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, 
And make his heart a spirit : he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more, 
For this is love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
And the world's waste, have driven him far from 
For 'tis his nature to advance or die ; [those, 

He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity I 



46 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CIV. 



'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the miud's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
And hallow' d it with loveliness : 'tis lone, 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 
And sense, and sight of sweetness : here the Rhone 
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd 
a throne. 

CV. 

Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes'- 3 
Of names which unto you bequeathed a name ; 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous 
A path to perpetuity of fame ; [roads, 

They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile [flame 
Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the 
Of heaven, again assail'd, if heaven the while 
On man and man's research coidd deign do more 
than smile. 

CVI. 

The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 
He multiplied himself among mankind, 
The Proteus of their talents ; But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
Blew where it listeth, laying all things prone, — 
Now- to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 

CVII. 

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; 
The lord of irony, — that master-spell, [fear, 

Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell,* 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

CVIII. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; [made 
The hour must come when such things shall be 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust, 
AVhich, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd ; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 

CIX. 

But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
Uutil it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds abeve me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. 



CX. 



Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee, | 

Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages : 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; still 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial 
hill. 

CXI. 

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices ; to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be, — 'and to steel 
The heart against itself ; and to conceal 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,— 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, — 
' Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 
Is a stern task of soul: — No matter, — it is taught. 

CXII. 

And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The coloring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
I stood and stand alone, — reniember'd or forgot. 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
I have not ftatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coined my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such : I stood 
Among them, but not of them : in a shroud [could 
Of thoughts which were not their, thoughts, and still 
Had I not filed'-' my mind, which thus itself sub- 
dued. 

CXIY. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe, 
Though I have found them not, that there may be 
Words which are things, — hopes which will not 

deceive, 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve : 2a 
That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 
That goodness is no name, arid happiness no dream. 

CXV. 

My daughter ! with thy name this song begun — 
My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none [end — 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend : 
Albeit my brow thou never should'st "behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold, — 
A token and a tone even from thy father's mould. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



47 



CXVI. 



To aid thy mind's development — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth,— to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not what is there, yet something like to this. 

CXVII. 

Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim ; [same — 
Though the grave closed between us, 'twere the 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 
Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life 
retain. 

CXVIII. 

The child of love, — though born in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall bo more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
And from the mountains where I now respire, 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to 
me ! 



CANTO IV. 



VTsto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romania, 

Quel Monte che divide, e quel che sernt 

Italia, e uu mare e 1' altro, che la ba^na. 

AriostOj Satira 



Venice, January 2, 1818. 

TO 

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., A.M. F.R.S. 

&c, &c, &c. 

MY DEAR HOBHOUSE, 

After an interval of eight years between the 
composition of the first and last cantos of Childe 
Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be 
submitted to the public. In parting with so old a 
friend, it is not extraordinary that I should recur to 
one still older and better, — to one who has beheld 
the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am 
far more indebted for the social advantages of an 
enlightened friendship/, than — though not ungrate- 
ful— I can or could be, to Childe Harold for any 
public favor reflected through the poem on the poet, 
— to one, whom I have known long, and accompa- 
nied far ; whom I have found wakeful over my sick- 
ness, and kind in my sorrow ; glad in my prosperity, 
and firm in my adversity; true in counsel, and trusty 
in peril, — to a friend often tried and never found 
wanting ; — to yourself. 



In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in 
dedicating to you in its complete, or at. least con- 
cluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, 
the most thoughtful and comprehensive of my com- 
positions, I wish to do honor to myself by the record 
of many years' intimacy with a man of learning, of 
talent, of steadiness, and of honor. It is not for 
minds like ours to give or to receive flattery ; yet 
the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to 
the voice of friendship ; and it is not for you, nor 
even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not 
elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to 
the encounter of good-will as to withstand the 
shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate 
your good qualities, or rather the advantages which 
I have derived from their exertion. Even the recur- 
rence of the date of this letter, the anniversary of 
the most .unfortunate day of my past existence, but 
which cannot poison my future, while I retain the 
resource of your friendship, and of my own facul- 
ties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recollec- 
tion for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this 
my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable re- 
gard, such as few men have experienced, and no one 
could experience, without thinking better of his 
species and of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at 
various periods, the countries of chivalry, history, 
and fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy : 
and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a 
few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more 
recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, 
have accompanied me from first to last ; and per 
haps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces 
me to reflect with complacency on a composition 
which i:i sonie degree connects me with the spot 
where it was produced, and the object, it would fain 
describe ; and however unworthy it may be deemed 
of those magical and memorable abodes, however 
short it may fall of our distant conceptions and im- 
mediate impressions, yet, as a mark of respect foi 
what is venerable, and of feeling for what is glori- 
ous, it has been to me a source of pleasure in the 
production, and I part with it with a kind of regret, 
which I hardly suspected that events could have left 
me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, 
there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any 
of the preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, 
separated from the author speaking in his own per- 
son. The fact is, that I had become weary of draw- 
ing a line which every one seemed determined not 
to perceive: like the Chinese in Goldsmith's "Cit- 
izen of the World," whom nobody would believe to 
be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, and im- 
agined that I had drawn, a distinction between the 
author and the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to 
preserve this difference, and disappointment at find- 
iug it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the 
composition, that I determined to abandon it alto- 
gether — and have done so. The opinions which 
have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are 
new a matter of indifference ; the work is to depend 
on itself, and not on the writer ; and the author, 
who has no resources in his own mind beyond the 
reputation, transient or permanent, which is to 
arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate of 
authors. 
In the course of the following canto, it was my 



48 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



intention, either in the text or in the notes, to have 
touched upon the present state of Italian literature, 
and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the 
limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for 
the labyrinth of external objects and the conse- 
quent reflections ; and for the whole of the notes, 
excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to 
yourself, and these were necessarily limited to the 
elucidation of the text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to 
dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation 
so dissimilar ; and requires an attention and impar- 
tiality which would induce us, — though perhaps no 
inattentive observers, nor ignorant of the language 
or customs of the people amongst whom we have 
recently abode, — to distrust, or at least defer our 
judgment, and more narrowly examine our informa- 
tion. The state of literary, as well as political 
party, appears to run, or to have run, so high, that 
for a stranger to steer impartially between them is 
next to impossible. It may be enough then, at 
least for my purpose, to quote from their own beau- 
tiful language — " Mi pare che in un paese tutto 
poetico, che vanta la lingua la pin nobile ed insieme 
la piii dolce, tutte tutte le vie diversi si possono 
tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti 
non ha perduto l'antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe 
essere la prima." Italy has groat names still — 
Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, 
Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mczzophanti, Mai, 
Mustoxidi, Agiletti, and Vacca, will secure to the 
present generation an honorable place in most of 
the departments of Art, Science, and Belles Let- 
tres ; and in some of the very highest ; — Europe — 
the World — has but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La 
pianta uomo nasce piu robusta in Italia che in qua- 
lunque altra terra — e che gli stessi"atroci delitti che 
vi si commettono ne sono una prova." Without 
subscribing to the latter part of his proposition, a 
dangerous doctrine, the truth of which may be dis- 
puted on better grounds, namely, that the Italians 
are in no respect more ferocious than their neigh- 
bors, that man must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly 
heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary 
capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admis- 
sible, their capabilities, the facility of their acquisi- 
tions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of 
their genius, their sense of beauty, and amidst all 
the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the des- 
olation of battles, and the despair of ages, their 
still unquenched "longing after immortality," — 
the immortality of independence. And when we 
ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard 
the simple lament of the laborers' chorus, " Roma ! 
Roma! Roma! Roma non e piu come era prima," 
it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge 
with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation 
still yelled from the London taverns, over the car- 
nage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, 
of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men 
whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work 
worthy of the better days of our history. For me, 

" Non movcro m:u eorda 

O e la tnrba di sue ciance assorda." 

What Italy has gained by the late transfer of 
nations, it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till 
it becomes ascertained that England has acquired 



something more than a permanent army and a sus- 
pended Habeas Corpus ; it is enough for them to 
look at home. For what they have done abroad, 
and especially in the South, " Verily they will have 
their reward," and at no very distant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and 
agreeable return to that country whose real welfare 
can be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to 
you this poem in its completed state ; and repeat 
once more how truly I am ever 

Your obliged and affectionate friend, 

BYRON. 



I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; ' 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
isles ! 

IT. 

She looks a sea-Cybele fresh from ocean 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 2 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers, 
And such she was ; her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and. the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity in- 
creased. 

III. 

In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, 3 
And silentn-ows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone — but beauty still is here — 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die : 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy. 

IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierra, cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 

V. 

The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 
First exiles, then replaces what we x hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



49 



VI. 



Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And,' may be, that which grows beneath mine eye ; 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 

VII. 

I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go — 
They came like truth, and disappear'dlike dreams ; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would ; still .teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound, 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

VIII. 

I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well ; and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspiaations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 



My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honor'd by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
" Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." * 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
I should have known what fruit would spring from 
such a seed. 

XL 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
St. Mark yet sees his Lion where he stood 5 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, 
Over the proud place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 



XII. 



The Saubian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — « 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains. 
Clank over sceptered cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt ; 
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 7 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark .still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass ?s 
Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun. 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

XIV. 

In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The " Planter of the Lion," 9 which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger ; empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 10 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely 
walls. 

XVI. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 11 
Her voice their only ransom from afar ; 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his 
strains. 

XVII. 

Thus, Veniee, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy waterv walL 



50 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XVIIL 



I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, 1 ' 2 
Hid stamp'd her image in me, arid even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of wo, 
Than when she wafe a boast, a marvel, and a show. 

XIX. 

I 'can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chastened down, enough ; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 
And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught: 
There are some feelings Time can not benumb, 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and 
dumb. 

XX. 

But from their nature will the tannen grow 13 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
» Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and 

mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite into life it came, 
And grew a giant tree ( — the mind may grow the 
same. 

XXI. 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolate bosoms : mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load, 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
In vain should such example be ; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 4 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
Even by the sufferer ; and in each event, 
Ends : — Some with hope replenish'd and rehuoy'd, 
Return to whence they came — with like intent, 
And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent, 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb : 

XXIII. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
And slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside for ever : it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall 

wound, 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly 

bound ; 



XXIV. 



And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew' d, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, [anew, 
The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — 
The mourn 'd, the loved, the lost — too many ! — yet 
how few ! 

XXV. 

But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
FalPn states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, 

XXVI. 

The commomvealth of kings, the men of Rome ! 

And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 

Thou art the garden of the world, the home 

Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree : 

Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
s Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 

More rich than other climes' fertility ; 

Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which can not be defaced. 

XXVII. 

The Moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Ditrh's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest ! 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 14 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rha?tian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order : — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within 
it glows, 

XXIX. 

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new color as it gasps away, 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is 
gray. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



51 



XXX. 



There is a tomb in Arqua, — rear'd in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
TSie bones of Laura's lover ; here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 15 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; ls 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride— 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain, 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 

XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
"For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, — 

XXXIII. 

Developing the mountains, leaves and flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive : 

XXXIV. 

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 17 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn 
before. 



XXXVI. 



And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 

- Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 

Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 

XXXVII. 

The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born, 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou niad'st to 
mourn : 

XXXVIII. 

> 

Thou ! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 

Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 

Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : 

lie with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 

Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 

In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 

And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 18 [lyre, 

No strain which shamed his country's creaking 

That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire ! 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim'd with her poison'd arrows, but to miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song ! 
Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on, 
And not the whole combined and countless throng 
Compose a mind like thine ? though all in one 
Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form 
a sun. 

XL. 

Great as tho-u art, yet paralell'd by those, 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, 
The bards of Hell and Chivalry : first rose 
The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 
Then not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
A new creation with his magic line, 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly 
worth. 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 19 
The iron crown of laurel's mimie'd leaves ; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 80 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; 
Yet still if fondly Superstition grieves, 
Know, that the lighning sanctifies below 21 
Whate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacred now 



52 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLII. 



Italia! oh Italia ! thou who hast 22 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh God ! that thou wcrt in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress : 

XLIII. 

Then might'st thou more appal; or, less desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
"Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. 

XLIV. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 23 
The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind, 
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
iEgina lay, Piiscus on the right, 
And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 

• 

XLV. 

For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd 
The few last rays of their far-scattei'd light, 
And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 

XLVI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form, 24 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 

XLYII. 

Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side ; 
Mother of arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide; 
Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 



XLYIII. 



But Arno wins us to the fair white walls. 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills K 
The ah around with beauty ; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What mind can make, when Nature's self would 
And to the fond idolaters of old [fail ; 

Envy the innate flesh which such a soul could mould: 

L. 

We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there — ' 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 
Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep- 
herd's prize. 

LI. 

Appear'dst thou not in Paris in this guise ? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War ? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet check ! 26 while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
Showcr'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from 
an urn ! 

LII. 

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us : — let it go ! 
We can recall such visions, and create, [grow 

From what has been, or might be, things which 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

LIII. 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend and the voluptuous swell ; 
Let these describe the undescribable : [stream 

I would not their vile breath should crisp the 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



53 



LIV. 



In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 27 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality. 
Though there were nothing save*he past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
"Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 23 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose. 29 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the elements 
Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! [rents 

Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country's marbles nought to say ? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust ? 

LVII. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 30 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 31 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
"With the remorse of ages ; and the crown 32 
"Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled— not thine 
own. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 33 
His dust, — and lies it now her Great among, 
"With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust, 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Cassar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more : 
Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire ! honor'd sleeps 
The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence Yainly begs her banish'd dead and 
weeps. 



LX. 



What is her pyramid of precious stones ? M 
Of phorphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are the mausoleums of the muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely 
head. 

LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mind; 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, 
Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 

LXII. 

Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home, 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore. 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd 
o'er 

LXIII. 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel'd unheedingly away ! 3b 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations 
meet ! 

LXIV. 

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe [birds 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw 
From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing 

herds 
Stumbling o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hatli 

no words. 

LXV. 

Far other scene is Thrasimeife now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'en - 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain " 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and tnrn'd the unwilling waterg 
red. 



54 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXVI. 



But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 36 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — 
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daugh- 
ters ! 

LXVII. 

And on thy happy shore a temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bub- 
bling tales. 

LXVIII. 

Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
If through the ah a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters ! from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That girds the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 
Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf ! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful 
vent 

LXXI. 

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, [back ! 
With many windings, through the vale : — Look 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cata- 
ract. 37 



LXXII. 



Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 3;j 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn ; 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thundering lauwine — might be worshipp'd 

more : 39 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mount-Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 
For still they soar'd unutterably high; 
I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; 
Athos, Olympus, .Etna, Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of ilesser dignity, 
All, save the lone Soracte's heights display'd 
Not ?ioio in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 

LXXV. 

For ou T remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on \he curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
May he, who will, nis recollections rake 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word 40 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI. 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath 
My mind to meditate what then it learn' d, [taught 
Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, with the freshness wearing cut before 
My mind could relish what it might Save sought. 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, stiL 1 aMvu- 

Lxxyii. 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so, 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
Awakeninp without wounding the touch'd heart, 
Yet fare^thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 



■ / 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



55 



LXXVIII. 

Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye ! 
"Whose agonies are evils of jx day — 
A. world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX. 

The Niobe of nations ! there she stands 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo, 
An empty urn, within her wither'd hands, 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now ; 41 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and 

Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride ; 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
"Where the car climb' d the capitol ; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly 

night ? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her, 
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap 
All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry " Eureka ! " it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
The trebly hundred triumphs ! 42 and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, 
And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be 
Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was 
free ! 

LXXXIII. 

Oh, thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel, 43 
Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 



LXXXIV. 



The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? 
She who was named Eternal, and array'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'ercanopied horizon fail'd, 
Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almighty 
hail'd ! 

LXXXY. 

Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield nil 
breath. 

LXXXVI. 

The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day- 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 44 
And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were his 
doom. 

LXXXVII. 

And thou, dread statue ! yet exist in 45 
The austerest form of naked majesty, ' 
Thou who beheld'st 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 

LXXXVIII. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! 4 * 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art, 
Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial dart, 
And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge 
forget ? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost ; — but all thy foster babes are dead— 
The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres,: men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd, [steer'd 
And fought and conquer'd, and the same course 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have, 
Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves ? 
slave — 



56 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XC. 



The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Ccesax, following him of old 
With steps unequal : for the Roman's mind 
"Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 47 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
And an immortal instinct which radeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beam'd. 

XCI. 

And came — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train 'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
"Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity, 
Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
At what ? can he avouch — or answer what he 
claim'd ? 

XCII. 

And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate 
On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
An universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God ! 

XCIII. 

What from this barren being do we reap ? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, is 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale : 
Opinion and Omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
And then - free thoughts be crimes, and earth have 
too much light. 

XCIV. 

And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena whe»e they see 
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 

xcv. 

I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between. 
Man and his Maker, — but of things allow'd, 
Aver'd and known, — and daily, hourly seen — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 



XCVI. 



Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such 
shore ? 

XCVII. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms, man's worst — his 
second fall. 

XCVIII. 

Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
Screams like the thunder-storm against the wind ; 
The trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 

XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days, 43 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; — 
What was this tower of strength ? within its cave 
"What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's 
grave. 

C. 

But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace ? was she chaste and fair ? 
"Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? 
"What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir ? 
How lived — how loved — how died she ? Was she 
So honor'd — and conspicusly there, [not 

Where meaner relics mnst not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 

CI. 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others ? such have been 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
"Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
Or the light ah of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue ? did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affec- 
tions are. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



57 



CII. 



Perchance she died in youth : it may he, bow'd 
"With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites — early death ; yet shed 50 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 

CHI. 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
It may be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 

By Rome But whither would Conjecture stray 

Thus much alone we know — Metella died, 
The wealthiest Roman's wife; behold his love or 
pride ! > 

CIV. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee, 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms from the flowing wreck which Ruin leaves 
behind ; 

CV. 

And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once Aore 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear : 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what 
is here. 

CVI. 

Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
Answering each other on the Palatine, [bright, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number 
mine. 

CVII. 

Cypre'ss and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column 
strown [steep'd 

In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescoes 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, 
Deeming it midnight: — Temples, baths, or halls? 
Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thus the mighty 
fells." 



CVIII. 



There is the moral of all human tales ; 52 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
And History, with all her volumes vast, 
Hath but one page, — 'tis better written here, 
Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away with 
words ! draw near, 

CIX. 

Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — for here 
There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
Of Glory's gewgags shining in the van 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd ! 
Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared 
to build ? 

CX. 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
What are the laurels of the Ccesar's hrow ? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's ? No — 'tis that of Time : 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sub- 
lime, 53 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, 
But yielded back his conquests : — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd, 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name 
adore. 54 

CXII. 

"Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the 
Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, [steep 
The promontory whence the Traitor's leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns witlt 
Cicero ! 

CXIII. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
But long before had freedom's face been veil'd, 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 



58 



"BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXIV. 



Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her tun thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi ! last of Romans ! While the tree 55 
Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf, 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief — 
Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas ! too 
brief. 

cxv. 

Egeira ! sweet creation of some heart 56 
Which found no mortal-resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
The nympholcpsy of some fond despair ; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied 
forth. 

CXYI. 

The mosses of thy fountain still arc sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and 
ivy creep 

CXVII. 

Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustics, and the bills 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in then- class 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems color'd by its 
skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 

CXIX. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, 
Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed which 
cloys ? 



cxx. 



Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plan-* 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies" 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 

CXXI. 

Oh Love ? no habitant of earth thou art — 
* An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch.' d — wearied— 
wrung — and riven. 
t 

CXXII. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
And fevers into false creation : — where, 
Where arc the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized 1 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men. 
The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom 
again ? 

CXXIII. 

Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the cure 
Is bitterer*still ; as charm by charm unwind 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most 
undone. 

CXXIV. 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslak'd the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avaVice — 'tis the same, 
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, 
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the 
flame. 

cxxv. 

Few — none — find what they love or could have 

loved, 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all 

have trod. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



59 



CXXVI. 

Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 

The harmony of things, — this hard decree., 

This ur*radicable taint of sin, 

This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 

Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 

The skies which rain their plagues on men like 

dew — 
Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb 
through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 

CXXVII. 

Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base 57 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought — our last and only place 
Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : 
Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,. 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the 
blind. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
"Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of the earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 

exxx. 

Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a 
gift: 

CXXXI. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate, 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate : — 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn ? 



CXXXII. 



And thou, who never yet <of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! 33 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long— 
Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss, 
For that unnatural retribution — just, 
Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake ! thou shalt. 
and must. 

CXXXIIL 

It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
I bleed withal, and, had it-been conferr'd 
With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound ; 
But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; 
To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take [found, 
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and 

Which if / have not taken for the sajie 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is suffer'd : let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse ! 

exxxv. 

That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven ! — 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied away ? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 

CXXXVII. 

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 



60 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXXVIII. 



The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power ! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we hecoine a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow-man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus* genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle--plains or listed spot ? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie : 59 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the 
wretch who won. 

CXLI. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away. 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire, 
Butcher' d to make a Roman holiday — 60 
All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire 
And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your 
ire! 

CXLII. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam, 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 61 
My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities have been rear'd; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
Alas ! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd; 
It >vill not bear the brightness of the day, 
Which streams too much on all years, man, have 
reft away. 



CXLIV. 



But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; G2 
When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye 
tread. 

CXLV. 

" While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; 6 
"When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; 
"And when Rome falls — the World." From our 

own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we arc wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what 

ye will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; M 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and tyrant's 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home [rods 

Of art and Piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 

CXLVII. 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
Dcspoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts around 
them close. 63 

CXLVIII. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 8 * 
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar : — but what does she there, 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and 
bare? 

CXLIX- 

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart, and from the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
What may the fruit be yet ? — I know not — Cain wai 
Eve's. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



61 



CL. 



But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift : — it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide [higher 
Greq.t Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rise's 
Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side ' 
Prink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm 
holds no such tide. 

CLI. 

The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter lay, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII. 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high, 67 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 
Colossal copyist of deformity, 
Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 
To view the huge design which sprung from such a 
birth! 

CLIII. 

But lo ! — the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 68 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyena and the jackall in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 

CLIV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true, 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, in his honor piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 

CLV. 

Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 



CLVI. 



Thou movest — but increasing with the advance, 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonize- 
All musical in its immensities ; [flame 
Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where 
The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
In air with Earth's chief structure, though their 

frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds 

must claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must breaK, 
To seperate contemplation, the great whole ; 
And as the ocean many bays will make, 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part, 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

CLVIII. 

Not by its fault — but thine : Our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature's littleness, 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of what they contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then pause, and be enlightened ; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could 
The fountain of sublimity displays [plan : 

Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions 
can. 

CLX. 

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
LaoecoOn's torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience blending : — Vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, 
The old man's clench ; the long envenomed chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 

CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
With an immortal's vengeance; in. his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might, 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 



62 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXII. 



But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden'd in that vision — are cxprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood, 
Starlike, around, until they gathcr'd to a god ! 

CLXIII. 

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself hatli hallow'd it, nor hud 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 
'twas wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past ? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last, 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
Arid he himself as nothing : — if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which live arid suffer — let that pass — 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 

CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud, 
And spreads the dim and universal pall [cloud 
Through which all tilings grow phantoms ; and the 
Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
To hoveV on the verge of darkness ; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame, 
And to wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same : 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat 
was gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound; [ground, 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrow'd, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe to whom her breast yields no relief. 



CLXVIII. 



Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang for ever ; with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead \ 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions ! How we did intrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
Like stars to shepherd's eyes : — 'twas but a meteor 
, beam'd. 

CLXXI. 

Wo unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 89 
Which stumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath 
Against thair blind omnipotence a weight [flung 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon oi 
late,— 

CLXXII. 

These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 
The land which loved thee so that none could love 
thee best. 

CLXXIII. 

70 Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake 



OHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



63 



CLXXIV. 

And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprang the Epic war, 
"Arms and the Man," whose reascending star 
Rose o'er an empire : — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, 
The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bards delight. 71 

CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine 
roll'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — < 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our moral race hath run, 
We have had our reward — and it is here : 
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if tin re were no man to trouble what is clear. 



CLXXVII. 

Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Ye Elements ' — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 



CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the- pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet canno-t all conceal. 



CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 



The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and un- 
known. 


CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise • [wields 
And shake him from thee : the vile strength he 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 



CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war : 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 



CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 



CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests : in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime— 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless 
alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



64 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXXXV. 



My task is done— my song hath ceased— my theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — 
"Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 



CLXXXVI. 



Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — 
A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell : 
Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO I. 



Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine. 
Stanza i. line 6. 

The little village of Castri stands partly on the 
site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, 
from Chrysso, arc the remains of sepulchres hewn 
in and from the rock. " One," said the guide, " of 
a king who broke his neck hunting." His majesty 
had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an 
achievement. 

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the 
Pythian, of immense depth ; the upper part of it is 
paved, and now a cow-house. 

On the other side of Castri stands a Greek 
monastery ; some way above which is the cleft in 
the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, 
and apparently leading to the interior of the moun- 
tain; probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned 
by Pausahias From this part descend the fountain 
and the " Dews of Castalie." 



And rest ye at our "Lady's house of tco." 

Stanza xx. line 4. 

The Convent of "Our Lady of Punishment," 
Nossa Senora de-Pena,* on the summit of the rock. 
Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, 
where St. Honorius dug his den, over which is his 
epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty 
of the view. 



* Since the publication of this poem, I have been informed of the misappre- 
hension of the term Nossa Senora de Pena. It was owing to the want of 
the Hide, or mark over the n, which alters the signification of the word : with 
it, Pena signifies a rock ; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do not 
think it necessary to alter the passage, as, though the common acceptati 
afluted to it is " Our Lady of the Rock," 1 may well assume the other sense 
from the severities practised there. 



3. 

Throughout this purple land, where law secures not 
life. Stanza xxi. line last. 

It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the 
assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its 
vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to 
their countrymen ; but that Englishmen were daily 
butchered : and so far from redress being obtained, 
we were requested not to interfere if we perceived 
any compatriot defending himself against his allies. 
I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at 
eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were 
not more empty than they generally are at that 
hour, opposite to an open shop and in a carriage 
with a friend ; had we not fortunately been armed, 
I have not the least doubt that we should have 
adorned a tale instead of telling one. The crime 
of assassination is not confined to Portugal; in 
Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a 
handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or 
Maltese is ever punished ! 

- 4. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late co?ivened! 
Stanza xxiv. line 1. 

The Convention of Cintra was signed in the 
palace of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits 
of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies ol 
Cintra. He has, indeed, done wonders ; he has 
perhaps changed the character of a nation, recon 
ciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy who 
never retreated before his predecessors. 

5. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 

Stanza xxix. line 1. 

The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contains a 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



6* 



palace, convent, and most superb church. The six 
organs are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in 
point of decorations ; we did not hear them, but 
were told that their tones were correspondent to 
their splendor. Mafra is termed the Escurial of 
Portugal. 

6. 
Well doth, the Spanish hind the difference know 
'Twi.ct him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. 
Stanza xxxiii. lines 8 and 9. 

As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized 
them. That they are since improved, at least in 
courage, is evident. 

7. 
When Cava's traitor sire first calVd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic yore. 
Stanza xxxv. lines 3 and 4. 
Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. 
Pelagius preserved his independence in the fast- 
nesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his 
followers, after some centuries, completed their 
struggle by the conquest of Grenada. 



No ! as he sjieeds, he chants, " Viva el Rey !" 
Stanza xlviii. line 5. 
"Viva el Rey Fernando !" Long live King Fer- 
dinand ! is the chorus of most of the Spanish 
patriotic songs : they are chiefly in dispraise of the 
eld king Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of 
Peace. I have heard many of them ; some of the 
airs are beautiful. Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, 
was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, 
and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish 
Guards, till his person attracted the queen's eyes, 
and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, &c. &c. 
It is to this man that the Spaniards universally 
impute the ruin of their country. 



Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. 

Stanza 1. lines 2 and 3. 
The red cockade, with " Fernando Septimo" in 
the centre. 

10. 

The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match. 
Stanza li. line last. 

All who have seen a battery will recollect the 
pyramidal form in which shot and shells are piled 
The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile 
through which I passed in my way to Seville. 

11. 

Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wail. 
Stanza lvi. line last. 

Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. 
When the author was at Seville she walked daily 
on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by 
command of the Junta. 

12. 

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin tvhich bears his touch. 
Stanza lviii. lines 1 and 2. 
" Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo 
Vestigio demonstrant mollitudinem." Aul. Gel. 

13. 
Oh, thou Parnassus ! 

Stanza lx. line 1. 
These stanzas were written in Castri, (Delphos,) 
at the foot of Parnassus, now called Aianvpa — 
Liakura. 



11. 



Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 

Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days. 

Stanza lxv. lines 1 and 2. 
Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 

15. 
Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason ivhy ? 

Stanza lxx. line 5. 
This was written at Thebes, and consequently in 
the best situation for asking and answering such a 
question : not as the birthplace of Pindar, but aa 
the capital of Bo-otia, where the first riddle was 
propounded and solved. 

1G. 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. 
Stanza lxxxii. line last. 
"Medio de fonte leporum 
Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat." 

Luc. 
17. 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud. 

Stanza lxxxv. line 7. 
Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, 
the Governor of Cadiz. 

18. 
"War even to the knife I" 

Stanza lxxxvi. line last. 
"War to the knife." Palafox's answer to the 
French general at the siege of Saragoza. 

19. 
And thou, my friend ! §e. 

Stanza xci. line 1. 
The Honorable I*. W**. of the Guards, who 
died of a fever at Coinbra. I had known him ten 
years, the better half of his life, and the happiest 
part of mine. 

In the short space of one month I had lost her 
who gave me being, and most of those who had 
made that being tolerable. To me the lines of 
Young are no fiction : 

" Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? 
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, 
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had rilled her horn." 

I should have ventured a verse to the memory of 
the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of 
Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too 
much above all praise of mine. His powers of 
mind, shown in the attainment of greater honors, 
against the ablest candidates, than those of any 
graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently 
established his fame on the spot where it was 
acquired: while his softer qualities live in the 
recollection of friends who loved him too well tc 
envy his superiority. 



CANTO II. 



l. 



despite of tear and wasting fire-^ 

Stanza i. line 4. 

Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by th^ 
explosion of a magazine during the Venetian siege. 



66 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



.But worse than steel and flame, and ages sloio, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on po/ish'd breasts 
bestow* Stanza i. line 6. 

We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with 
which the ruins of cities, once the capital-; of 
empires, are beheld ; the reflections suggested by 
such objects are too trite to require recapitulation. 
But never did the littleness of man, and the vanity 
of his very best virtues of patriotism to exalt, and 
of valor to defend his country, appear more con- 
spicuous than in the record of what Athens was, 
and the certainty of what she now is. This theatre 
of contention between mighty factions, of the 
struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition 
of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of gen- 
erals, is now become a scene of petty intrigue and 
perpetual disturbance, between the bickering agents 
of certain British nobility and gentry. " The wild 
foxes, the owls and serpents in l;he ruins of Baby- 
lon," were surely less degrading than such inhab- 
itants. The Turks have the plea of conquest for 
their tyranny, and the Greeks have only suffered 
the fortune of war, incidental to the bravest ; but 
how are the mighty fallen, when two painters 
contest the privilege of plundering the Parthenon, 
and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of each 
succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punish, Philip 
subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens ; but it remained 
for the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable 
agents, to render her contemptible as himself and 
his pursuits. 

The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by 
fire, during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, 
a church, and a mosque. In each point of view it 
is an object of regard: it changed its worshippers; 
but still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to 
devotion ; its violation is a triple sacrilege. But 

" Man, vain man, 
Drest in a little brief authority, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep." 

3. 

Far on the solitary shore he slap*. 

Stanza v. line 2. 

It was not always the custom of the Greeks to 
burn their dead ; the greater Ajax, in particular, 
was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became 
gods after their decease ; and he was indeed neg- 
lected, who had not annual games near his tomb, or 
festivals in honor of his memory by his countrymen, 
as Achilles, Brasidas, &c., and at last even Anti- 
nous, whose death was as heroic as his life was in- 
famous. 

4. 

Here, soti of Saturn.' teas thy favorite throne. 
Stanza x. line 3. 

The temple of Jupitur Olympius, of which six- 
teen columns, entirely of marble, yet survive ; orig- 
inally there were one hundred and fifty. These 
nolumns, however, are by many supposed to belong 
to the Pantheon. 

5.~ 

And bear these altars o'er the long reluctant brine. 

Stanza xi. line last 
The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 

6. 

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hare spared. 
Stanza xii. line 2. 

At this moment, (January 3, 1809,) besides what 
has been already deposited in London, an Hydriot 
vessel is in the Pyraeus to receive every portable 
relic. Thus, as I heard a young Greek observe, in 



common with many of his countrymen — for, lost as 
they are, they yet feel on this occasion — thus may 
Lord Elgin boast of having ruined Athens. An 
Italian painter of the first eminence, named Lusieri, 
is the agent of devastation ; and like the Greek 
finder of Verres in Sicily, who followed the same 
profession, he has proved the able instrument of 
plunder. Between this artist and the French Con- 
sul Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the remains for 
his own government, there is now a violent dispute 
concerning a car employed in their conveyance, the 
wheel of which — I wish they were both broken upon 
it — has been locked up by the Consul, and Lusieri 
has laid his complaint before the Waywode. Lord 
Elgin has been extremely happy in his choice of 
Signor Lusieri. During' a residence of ten years in 
Athens, he never had the curiosity to proceed as far 
as Sunium,* till he accompanied us in our second 
excursion. However, his works, as far as they go, 
are most beautiful ; but they are almost all unfin- 
ished. While he and his patrons oonfine them- 
selves to tasting medals, appreciating cameos, 
sketching columns, and cheapening gems, their 
little absurdities are as harmless as insect, or fox- 
hunting, maiden speechifying, barouche-driving, or 
any such pastime ; but when they carry away three 
or four shiploads of the most valuable and massy 
relics that time and barbarism have left to the most 
injured and most celebrated of cities ; when they 
destroy, in a vain attempt to tear down, those works 
which have been the admiration of ages, I know no 
motive which can excuse, no name which can desig- 
nate, the perpetrators of this dastardly devastation. 
It was not the least of the crimes laid to the charge 
of Verres, that he had plundered Sicily, in the 
manner since imitated at Athens. The most un- 
blushing impudence could hardly go farther than to 
affix the name of its plunderer to the walls of the 
Acropolis ; while the wanton and useless deface- 
ment of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in 
one compartment of the temple, will never permit 
that name to be pronounced by an observer without 
execration. 

On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a 
collector or admirer of collections, consequently no 
rival ; but I have some early prepossession in favor 
of Greece, and do not think the honor of England 
advanced by plunder, whether of India or Attica. 

Another noble Lord has done better, because he 
has done less ; but some others, more or less noble, 
yet " all honorable men," have done best, because, 
after a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to 



* Now Cape Colonna. In all Allica, if we except Athens itself, an'i 
Marathon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna. To tl*» 
antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of observa- 
tion and design ; to the philosopher, the supposed scene of some of Plato's 
conversations will not be unwelcome ; and the traveller will be struck with 
the beauty of the prospect over " Isles that crown Oie jEgean deep;" but fcr 
an Englishman, Colonna has yet an additional Interest, as the actual spot 
of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten, in the recol- 
lection of Falcone/ and Campbell : 

"Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 

This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great distance. In two 
journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape Cotonna, the view from 
either side, by land, was less striking than the approach from the isles. In 
our second land excursion, we had a narrow escape from a party of Minotes, 
concealed in the caverns beneath. We were told afterwards, by one of their 
prisoners subsequently ransomed, that they were deterred from attacking us 
by the appearance of my two Albanians : conjecturing very sagaciously, but 
falsely, that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, thej 
remained stationary, and thus saved our party, which was too small to liare 
opposed any effectual resistance. 
Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates : there 

,( The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
And makes degraded nature picturesque." 

(See Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, &c.) 

But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for herself. 1 woj 
fortunate enough to engage a very superior German artist; and hope to 
renew my acquaintance with this and many other Levantine scenes, by the 
arrival of his performances. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



67 



the Waywode, mining and countermining, they have 
done nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, and wine- 
shed, which almost ended in bloodshed ! Lord E.'s 
"prig" — see Jonathan Wild for the definition of 
" pri°"gism " — quarrelled with another, Gropius* by 
name, (a very good name too for his business,) and 
muttered something about satisfaction, in a verbal 
answer to a note of the poor Prussian : this was 
stated at table to Gropius, who laughed, but could 
eat no dinner afterwards. The rivals were not 
reconciled when I left Greece. I have reason to re- 
member their squabble, for they wanted to make me 
their arbitrator. 

7. 
Her sons too toeak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mot iter's pains. 
Stanza xii. lines 7 and 8. 

I cannot resist availing myself of the permission 
of my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no 
comment with the public, but whose sanction will 
add tenfold weight to my testimony, to insert the 
following extract from a very obliging letter of his 
to me, as a note to the above lines. 

" When the last of the Metopes was taken from 
the Parthenon, and in moving of it, great part of 
the superstructure with one of the triglyphs was 
thrown down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin 
employed, the Disdar, who beheld the mischief 
done to the building, took his pipe from his mouth, 
dropped a tear, and, in a supplicating tone of voice, 
said to Lusieri, TeAoj ! — I w'as present." 

The Disdar alluded to was the father of the pres- 
ent Disdar. 

8. 
Where was thine -'Egis, Pallas ! that appall' d 
Stem Alaric and Ha roc on their way? 

Stanza xiv. lines 1 and 2. 

According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles 
frightened Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others 
relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischiev- 
ous as the Scottish peer. — See Chandler. 

9. 

the netted canopy. 

Stanza xviii. line 2. 
The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from 
falling on deck during action. 

10. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles 

Stanza xxix. line 1. 
Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 

11. 

Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage -men .' 

Stanza xxxviii. lines 5 and 6. 
Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illyria, 
Chaonia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish 
word for Alexander ; and the celebrated Scander- 
berg (Lord Alexander) is alluded to in the third and 
fourth lines of the thirty-eighth stanza. I do not 
know whether I am correct in making Scanderberg 
the countryman of Alexander, who was born at 
Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gibbon terms him so, 



• This Sir Cropius was employed by a noble Lord for ttie sole purpose of 
iketching, in which he excels ; but 1 am sorry to say, that he has, through 
the abused sanction of that most respectable name, been treading at humble 
distance in the steps of Sr. Lusieri. A shipl'ull of his trophies was detained, 
and 1 Iwlieve confiscated, at Constantinople, in 1810. I am most happy to 
be now enabled to state, that " this was not in his bond ; " that he wa6 
employed solely as a painter, and that his noble patron disavows all connex- 
ion with him, except as an artist. If the error in the first and second edition 
of this poem has given the noble lord a moment's pain I am very sorry for it ; 
Br. Gropius has assumed for years the name of his agent : and though I can- 
not much condemn myself for sharing in the mistake of so many, 1 am 
happy in being one of the first to be undeceived. Indeed, I have aa much 
pleasure in contradicting this as 1 fell regret is stating it. 



and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in speaking of his ex- 
ploits. 

Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country 
" within sight of Italy is less known than the inte- 
rior of America." Circumstances, of little conse- 
quence to mention, led Mr. Hobhouse and myself 
into that country before we visited any other part 
of the Ottoman dominions ; and, with the exception 
of Major Leake, then officially resident at Joannina, 
no other Englishmen have ever advanced beyond 
the capital into the interior, as that gentleman very 
lately assured me. Ali Pacha was at that time (Oc- 
tober, 1809), carrying on war against Ibraham 
Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, a strong for- 
tress which he was then besieging: on our arrival 
at Joannina we were invited to-Tepoleni, his high- 
ness's birthplace, and favorite Serai, only one day's 
distance from Berat ; at this juncture the Vizier 
had made it his head-quarters. 

After some stay in the capital, we accordingly 
followed ; but though furnished with every accom- 
modation, and escorted by one of the vizier's secre 
tarics, we were nine days (on account of the rains) 
in accomplishing a journey which, on our return, 
barely occupied four. 

On our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastro 
and Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina 
in size ; and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to 
the scenery in the vicinity of Zitza and Delvinachi, 
the frontier village of Epirus and Albania Proper. 

On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling 
to descant, because this will be done so much better 
by my fellow-traveller, in a work which may proba- 
bly precede this in publication, that I as little wish 
to follow as I would to anticipate him. But some 
few observations are necessary to the text. 

The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by 
their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, 
in dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very 
mountains seemed Caledonian, with a kinder cli- 
mate. The kilt, though white ; the spare, active 
form ; their dialect, Celtic in its sound, and their 
hardy habits, all carried me back to Morven. No 
nation are so detested and dreaded by their neigh- 
bors as the Albanese ; the Greeks hardly regard 
them as Christians, or the Turks as Moslems ; and 
in fact they are a mixture of both, and sometimes 
neither. Their habits are predatory — all are armed ; 
and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montenegrins, 
Chimariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous ; the others 
differ somewhat in garb, and essentially in charac- 
ter. As far as my own experience goes, I can speak 
favorably. I was attended by two, an Infidel and a 
Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other part 
of Turkey which came within my observation ; and 
more faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, 
are rarely to be found. The Infidel was named Ba- 
silius, the Moslem, Dervish Tahiri ; the former a 
man of middle age, and the latter about my own. 
Basili was strictly charged by Ali Pacha in person 
to attend us ; and Dervish was one of fifty who ac- 
companied us through the forests of Acarnania to 
the banks of Achelous, and onward to Messalonghi 
in iEtolia. There I took him into my own service, 
and never had occasion to repent it till the moment 
of my departure. 

When, in 1810, after the departure of my friend 
Mr. H. for England, I was seized with a severe fever 
in the Morea, these men saved my life by frighten- 
ing away my physician, whose throat they threat- 
ened' to cut if I was not cured within a given time. 
To this consolatory assurance of posthumous retri- 
bution, and a resolute refusal of Dr. Romanelli's 
prescriptions, I attributed my recovery. I had left 
my last remaining English servant at Atherts ; my 
dragoman was as ill as myself, and my poor Ar- 
naouts nursed me with an attention that would 
have done honor to civilization. 

They had a variety of adventures ; for the Moa- 
lem, Dervish, being a remarkably handsome man, 
was always squabbling with the husbands of Athens ; 



68 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



insomuch that four of the principal Turks paid me 
a visit of remonstrance at the Convent, on the sub- 
ject of his having taken a woman from the bath — 
•whom he had lawfully bought, however — a thing 
quite contrary to etiquette. 

Basili, also, was extremely gallant among his own 
persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the 
church, mixed with the highest contempt of church- 
men, whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most het- 
erodox manner. Yet he never passed a church 
without crossing himself ; and I remember the risk 
he ran in entering St. Sophia, in Stambol, because 
it had once been a place of his worship. On remon- 
strating with him on his inconsistent proceedings, 
he invariably answered, "our church is holy, our 
priests are thieves ; " and then he crossed himself 
as usual, and boxed the ears of the first " papas " 
who refused to assist in any required operation, as 
was always found to be necessary where a priest had 
any influence with the Cogia Bashi of his village. 
Indeed, a more abandoned race of miscreants can- 
not exist than the lower order of the Greek clergy. 

When preparations were made for my return, my 
Albanians were summoned to receive their pay. 
Basili took his with an awkward show of regret at 
my intended departure, and marched away to his 
quarters, with his bag of piastres. I sent for Der- 
vish, but for some time he was not to be found ; at 
last he entered, just as Signor Logotheti, father to 
the ci-devant Anglo-consul of Athens, and some 
other of my Greek acquaintances, paid me a visit. 
Dervish took the money, but on a sudden dashed it 
to the ground; and clasping his hands, which he 
raised to his forehead, rushed out of the room, 
weeping bitterly. From that moment to the hour 
of my*embarkation, he continued his lamentations, 
and all our efforts to console him only produced this 
answer, " Md tj>eivei," " He leaves me." Signor Lo- 
theti, who never wept before for anything less than 
the loss of a para,* melted ; the padre of the con- 
vent, my attendants, my -usitors — and I verily be- 
lieve that even Sterne's "foolish fat scullion" 
would have left her "fish-kettle," to sympathize 
with the unaffected and unexpected sorrow of this 
barbarian. 

For my own part, when I remembered that, a 
short time before my departure from England, a 
noble and most intimate associate had excused him- 
self from taking leave of me because he had to attend 
a relation "to a milliners," I felt no less surprised 
than humiliated by the prt sent occurrence and the 
past recollection. 

That Dervish would leave me with some regret 
was to be expected ; when master and man have 
been scrambling over the mountains of a dozen 
provinces together, they are unwilling to separate ; 
but his present feelings, contrasted with his native 
ferocity, improved my opinion of the human heart. 
I believe this almost feudal fidelity is frequent 
among them. One day, on our journey over Par- 
nassus, an Englishman in my service gave him a 
push in some dispute about the baggage, which 
he unluckily mistook for a blow ; he spoke not, 
but sat down, leaning his head upon his hands. 
Foreseeing the consequences, we endeavored to ex- 
plain away the affront, which produced the follow- 
ing answer : — I have been a robber ; I am a soldier ; 
no captain ever struck me ; you are my master, I 
have eaten your bread, but by that bread ! (an usual 
oath) had it been otherwise, I would have stabbed 
the dog your servant, and gone to the mountajps." 
So the affair ended, but from that day forward he 
never thoroughly forgave the thoughtless fellow 
who insulted him. 

Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, con- 
jectured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic : be 
that as it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful 
agility. It is very distinct from the stupid Ro- 



maika, the dull round-about of the Greeks, of which 
our Athenian party had so many specimens. 
_ The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cul- 
tivators of the earth in the provinces, who have 
also that appellation, but the mountaineers), have 
a fine cast of countenance ; and the most beautiful 
women I ever beheld, in stature and in features, we 
saw levelling the road broken down by the torrents 
between Delvinachi and Libochabo. Their manner 
of walking is truly theatrical ; but this strut is 
probably the effect of the capote, or cloak, depend- 
ing from one shoulder. Their long hair reminds 
you of the Spartans, and their courage in desultory 
warfare is unquestionable. Though they have some 
cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw a good 
Arnaout horseman ; my own preferred the English 
saddles, which, however, they could never keep. 
But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue. 

12. 
-and pass'd the barren spot, 



Para, about the fourth »f a farthing 



Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave. 

Stanza xxxix. lines 1 and 2. 
Ithica. 

13. 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. 

Stanza xl. line 5. 
Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. 
The battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and consid- 
erable, but less known, was fought in the Gulf of 
Patras. Here the author of Don Quixote lost his 
left hand. 

14. 

And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. 

Stanza xli. line 3. 
Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promon- 
tory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have 
tin-own herself. 

15. 
many a Roman chief and Asian king. 

Stanza xlv. line 4. 
« 
It is said, that on the day previous to the battle 
of Actium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. 

16. 

Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose! 
Stanza xlv. line 6. 
Nicopolis, whose ruins arc most extensive, is at 
some distance from Actium, where the wall of the 
Hippodrome survives in a few fragments. 

17. 



Archcrusia's lake. 

Stanza xlvii. line 1. 

According to Pouqueville the lake of Yanina ; 
but Pouqueville is always out. 

18. 

To greet Albania's chief 

Stanza xlvii. line 4. 

The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary 
man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's 
Travels. 

. 19. 
Yet here and there some daring mountain band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 
Stanza xlvii. lines 7, 8 and 9. 
Five thousand Suliotcs, among the rocks and in 
the castle of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Alba- 
nians for eighteen years ; the castle at last was 
taken by bribery. In this contest there were several 
acts performed not unworthy of the better days of 
Greece. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



69 



20. 
Monastic Zitza, <$-e. 

Stanza xlviii. line 1. 
The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' 
journey from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of 
the Pachalick. In the valley of the river Kalamas 
(once the Acheron) flows, and not far from Zitza 
forms a fine cataract. The situation is perhaps the 
finest in Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi 
and parts of Acarnania and iEtolia may contest the 
palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even 
Cape Colonna and Port Raphti, are very inferior ; 
as also every scene in Ionia, or the Troad ; I am 
almost inclined to add the approach to Constanti- 
nople ; but from the different features of the last, 
a comparison can hardly be made. 

21. 
Here dwells the caloyer. 

Stanza xlix. line 6. 
The Greek monks are so called. 

22. 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre. 

Stanza li. line 2. 

The Chimariot mountains appear to have been 
volcanic. 

23. 

' behold black Acheron! 

Stanza li. line 6. 
Now called Kalamas. 

24. 



Albanese cloak. 



-in his white capote. 

Stanza lii. line 7. 

25. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit. 

Stanza lv. line 1. 
Anciently Tomarus. 

26. 
And Loot wide andjierce came roaring by. 

Stanza lv. line 2. 

The river Laos was full at the time the author 
passed it ; and immediately above Tepalen, was to 
the eye as wide as the Thames at Westminster ; at 
least in the opinion of the author and his fellow- 
traveller, Mr. Hobhouse. In the summer it must 
be much narrower. It certainly is the finest river 
in the Levant ; neither Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, 
Schamander, nor Cayster, approached it in breadth 
or beauty. 

27. 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof. 

Stanza lxvi tine 8. 
Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall 



28. 

-the red wine circling fast. 

Stanza lxxi. line 2. 



The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from 
wine, and indeed very few of the others. 

29. 
Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. 

Stanza lxxi. line 1. 
Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single 
person from IlaXixapt, a general name for a soldier 
amongst the Greeks and Albanese who speak 
Romaic — it means properly "a lad." 

30. 
While thus in concert, §c. 

Stanza lxxii. line last. 



As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect 
of the Illyric, I here insert, two of their most pop- 
ular choral songs, which are generally chanted in 
dancing by men or women indiscriminately. The 
first words are merely a kind of chorus without 
meaning, like some in our own and all other 
languages. 

1. 1. 

Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; 
Naciarura, popuso. be thou silent. 



Naciarura na civin 
Ha penderini ti hin. 



Ha pe uderi escrotini 
Ti vin ti mar servetini. 



Caliriote me surme 
Ea ha pe pse dua tive. 



Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 

Gi egem spirta csimiro. 



Caliriote vu le funde 
Ede vete tunde tunde. 



Caliriote me surme 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. 



I come, I ran ; open the 
door that I may enter. 

3. 

Open the door by halves, 
that I may take my tur- 
ban. 

4. 

Caliriotes* with the dark 
eyes, open the gate that 
I may enter. 

5. 

Lo, Lo, I hear thee, my 
soul. 



An ArnaoTit girl, in costly 
garb, walks with grace- 
ful pride. 

7. 

Caliriot maid of the dark 
eyes, give me a kiss. 



Se ti puta citi mora 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. 



Va la ni il che cadale 
Celo more, more celo. 

10. 
Plu hari ti tirete 
Plu huron cia pra seti. 



If I have kissed thee, what 
hast thou gained ! My 
soul is consumed with 
fire. 

9. 

Dance lightly, more gent- 
ly, and gently still. 

10. 

Make not so much dust 
to destroy your em- 
broidered hose. 

The last stanza would puzzle a commentator ; the 
men have certainly buskins of the most beautiful 
texture, but the ladies (to whom the above is sup- 
posed to be addressed) have nothing under their 
little yellow boots and slippers but a well-turned 
and sometimes very white ankle. The Arnaout girls 
are much handsomer than the Greeks, and their 
dress is far more picturesque. They preserve their 
shape much longer also, from being always in the 
open air. It is to be observed, that the Arnaout is 
not a written language ; the words of this song, 
therefore, as well as the one which follows, are 
spelt according to their pronunciation. They are 
copied by one who speaks and understands the 
dialect perfectly, and who is a native of Athens. 

1. 1. 

Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa I am wounded by thy love. 
Vettimi upri vi lofsa. and have loved but to 

scorch myself. 



Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse Thou hast consumed me " 
Si mi rini mi la vosse. Ah, maid ! thou hast 

struck me to the heart. 



The Albanese, particularly the women, are frequently termed " Caliri- 
otes ;" for what reason I inquired in vain. 



70 



Uti tasa roba stua 
Sitti eve tulati dua. 



Roba stinori ssidua 
Qu mi sini vetti dua. 



Qurmini dua eivileni 
Itoba ti siarmi tildi eni. 

G. 
Ultara pisa vaisisso me 

simi riu ti hapti 
Eti mi hire a piste si gui 

dendroi tiltati. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I have said I wish no 
dowry, but thine eyes 
and eye-lashes. 



The accursed dowry I 
want not, but thee 
only. 

5. 
Give me thy charms, and 
let the portion feed the 
flames. 

6. 

I have loved thee, maid, 
with a sincere soul, but 
thou hast left me like 
a withered tree. 



Udi vura udorini udiri ci- If I have placed my hand 
nova cilti mora on thy bosom, what 

Udorini talti hollna u ede have I gained ? my 
eaimoni mora. hand is withdrawn, but 

retains the flame. 

I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a 
different measure, ought to belong to another bal- 
lad. An idea something similar to the thought in 
the last lines was expressed by Socrates, whose arm 
having come in contact with one of his " i-o*.«A-i.»i," 
Crifobulus or Cleobodus, the philosopher com- 
plained of a shooting pain as far as the shoulder for 
some days after, and therefore very properly resolved 
to teach his disciples in future without touching 
them. 

31. 
Tambouryi! Tambourgi! thy In ruin afar, §c. 
Song, Stanza i. line 1. 
These Stanzas are partly taken from different 
Albanese songs, as far as I was able to make them 
out by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic 
and Italian. 

32. 

Remember the moment when Preoisafell. 

Song, Stanza viii. line 1. 

It was taken by storm from the French. 

33. 

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth, §c. 
Stanza lxxiii. line 1. 

Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the 
subjoined papers. 

34. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
Thou s'at'st with Thrasybulus and his train. 
Stanza lxxiv. lines 1 and 2. 
Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of 
Athens, has still considerable remains ; it was 
seized by Thrasybulus previous to the expidsion of 
the Thirty. 



Tler.eive the fiery Frank, her former gtiest. 

Stanza lxxvii. line 4. 

"When taken by the Latins, and retained for 
several years. — See Gibbon. 

36. 

The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. 

Stanza lxxvii. line 6. 

Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by 
the Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 



37. 



Thy rales of ever-green, thy hills of snow — 
Stanza lxxxv. line 3. 
On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, 
the snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding 
the intense heat of the summer ; but I never saw it 
lie on the plains, even in winter. 

38. 
Sure where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the care. 

Stanza lxxxvi. lines 1 and 2. 

Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble 
was dug that constructed the public edifices of 
\thens. The modem name is Mount Mendeli- 
An immense cave formed by the quarries still 
remains, and will till the end of time. 

39. 
When Marathon became a magic word. 

Stanza lxxxix. line 7. 

' Siste Viator — heroa calcas ! " was the epitaph 
on the famous count Merci; — what then must be 
our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the 
two hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The 
principal barrow has recently been opened by Fau- 
vel; few or no relics, as vases, &c., were found by 
the excavator. The plain of Marathon was offered 
to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand 
piastres, about nine hundred pounds ! Alas ! — 
" Expende, — qu'ot libras in duce summo — invc- 
nies ! " — was the dust of Miltiades worth no more ? 
It could scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight. 



PAPERS REFERRED TO BY NOTE 33. 
I. 

Before I say any thing about a city of which I 
body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to 
say something, I will request Miss Owenson, when 
she next borrows an Athenian heroine for her four 
volumes, to have the goodness to marry her to 
somebody more of a gentleman than a " Disdar 
Aga," (who by the by is not an Aga,) the most im- 
polite of petty officers, the greatest patron of lar- 
ceny Athens ever saw, (except Lord E.) and the 
unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a handsome 
annual stipend of 150 piastres, (eight pounds sterl- 
ing,) out of which he has only to pay bis garrison, 
the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regulated 
Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I 
was once the cause of the husband of " Ida of 
Athens" nearly suffering the bastinado; and be- 
cause the said "Disdar" is a turbulent husband and 
beats his wife; so that I exhort and beseech Miss 
Owenson to sue for a separate maintenance in behalf 
of " Ida." Having premised thus much, on a 
matter of such import to the readers of romances, 
I may now leave Ida, to mention her birthplace. . 

Setting aside the magic of the name, asid all 
those associations which it would be pedantic and 
superfluous to recapitulate, the very situation of 
Athens would render it the favorite of all who have 
eyes for art or nature. The climate, to me at 1 
appeared a perpetual spring ; during eight months 
I never passed a day without being as many hours 
on horseback ; rain' is extremely rare, snow never 
lies in the plains, and a cloudy day is an agreeable 
rarity. In Spain, Portugal, and everj part of the 
East which I visited, except Ionia and Attica, I 
perceived no such superiority of climate to our own ; 
and at Constantinople, where I passed May, June, 
and part of July, (1810,) you might "damn the 
climate, and complain of spleen," five days out of 
seven. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



71 



The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, 
But the moment you pass the Isthmus in the direc- 
tion of Megara the change is strikingly percepti- 
ble. But I fear Hesiod will still be found correct in 
his description of a Boeotian winter. 

We found at Livadia an " esprit fort " in a Greek 
bishop, of all free thinkers ! This worthy hypocrite 
rallied his own religion with great intrepidity, (but 
not before his flock,) and talked of a mass as a 
" coglioneria." It was impossible to think better of 
him for this ; but, for a Boeotian, he was brisk with 
all his absurdity. This phenomenon (with the ex- 
ception indeed 'of Thebes, the remains of Clucronea, 
the plain of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its 
nominal cave of Trophonius) was the only remarka- 
ble thing we saw before we passed Mount Citlncron. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least my 
companion (who resolving to be at once cleanly and 
classical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the foun- 
tain of Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth 
while may contradict him. At Castri we drank of 
half a dozen streamlets, some not of the purest, be- 
fore we decided to our satisfaction which was the 
true Castalian, and even that had a villanous twang, 
probably from the snow, though it did not throw us 
into an epic fever, like poor Dr. Chandler. 

From Fort Phyle of which large remains still ex- 
ist, the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymettus, the 
iEgean, and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at 
once ; in my opinion, a more glorious prospect than 
even Cintra or Istambol. Not the view from the 
Troad, with Ida. the Hellespont, and the more dis- 
tant Mount Athos, can equal it, though so superior 
in extent. 

I Heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but ex- 
cepting the view from the monastery of Megaspelion, 
(which is inferior to Zitza in a command of country,) 
and the descent from the mountains on the way from 
Tripolitza to Argos, Arcadia has little to recom- 
mend it beyond the name. 

" Sternitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos." 

Virgil could have put this intc the mouth of none 
but an Argive, and (with reverence be it spoken) it 
does not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices 
of Statins, " In mediis audit duo litora campis," 
did actually hear both shores in crossing the isth- 
mus of Corinth, he had better ears than have ever 
been worn in such a journey since. 

" Athens," says a celebrated topographer, " is 
still the most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it 
mav be of Greece, but not of the Greeks ; for Joannina 
in Epirus is universally allowed, among themselves, 
to be superior in the wealth, refinement, learning, 
and dialect of its inhabitants. The Athenians are 
remarkable for their cunning ; and the lower or- 
ders are not improperly characterized in that prov- 
erb, which classes them with " the Jews of Salonica, 
and the Turks of the Negropont." 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, &c, there 
was never a diti'erence of opinion in their estimate of 
the Greek character, though on all other topics 
they disputed with great acrimony. 

Mr FauveV the French consul, who has passed 
thirty years principally at Athens, and to whose 
talents as an artist and manners as a gentleman 
none who have known him can refuse their testimo- 
ny, has frequently declared in my hearing, that the 
Greeks do not deserve to be emancipated; reason- 
ing on the grounds of their "national and individual 
depravity ;" while he forgot that such depravity is 
to be attributed to causes whifch can only be remov- 
ed by the measure he reprobates. 

Mr. Roque, a French merchant of respectability 
long settled in Athens, asserted with the most 
amusing gravity, '• Sir they are the same canaille 
that existed in the days of Themistocles .'" an alarm- 
ing remark to the " Laudator temporis acti." The 
Micients banished Themistocles, the moderns cheat 



Monsieur Roque: thus great men have ever been 
treated ! 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and 
most of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, &c, of 
passage came over by degrees to their opinion, on 
much the same grounds that a Turk in England 
would condemn the nation by wholesale, because he 
was wronged by his lacquey, and overcharged by 
his washerwoman. 

Certainly it was not a little staggering when the 
Sieurs Fauvcl and Lusieri, the two greatest dema- 
gogues of the day, who divide between the($i the 
power of Pericles and the popularity of Cleon, and 
puzzle the poor Waywode with perpetual differences, 
agreed in the utter condemnation, " nulla virtute 
redemptum," of the Greeks in general, and of the 
Athenians in particular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to haz- 
ard it, knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. 
no less than five tours of the first magnitude and of 
the most threatening aspect, all in typographical 
array, by persons of wit, and honor, and regular 
common-place books ; but, if I may say this without 
offence, it seems to me rather hard to declare so posi- 
tively and pertinaciously, as almost every body has 
declared, that the Greeks, because they are very 
bad, will never be better. 

Eaton and Sonnini have led us astray by their 
panegyrics and projects ; but, on the other hand, De 
Pauw and Thornton have debased the Greeks be- 
yond their demerits. 

The Greeks will never be independent ; they will 
never be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid 
they ever should ! but they may be subjects with- 
out being slaves. Our colonies are not independent, 
but they are free and industrious, and such may 
Greece be hereafter. 

At present like the Catholics of Ireland and the 
Jews throughout the world, and such other cudgelled 
and heterodox people, they sutler all the moral and 
physical ills that can afilict humanity. Their life is 
a struggle against truth ; they are vicious in their 
own defence. They are so unused to kindness, that 
when they occasionally meet with it they look upon 
it with suspicion, as a dog often Deaten snaps at 
your fingers if you attempt to caress him. "They 
are ungrateful, notoriously, abominably ungrate- 
ful!" — this is a general cry. Now, in the name of 
Nemesis ! for what are they to be grateful ? Where 
is the human being that ever conferred a benefit on 
Greek or Greeks ? They are to be grateful to the 
Turks for their fetters, and to the Franks for their 
broken promises and lying counsels. They are to be 
grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, and 
to the antiquary who carries them away ; to the 
traveller whose janissary flogs them, and to the 
scribbler whose iournal abuses them ! This is the 
amount of their obligations to foreigners. 

II. 
Franciscan Concent, Athens, January '23, 1811. 

Among the remnants of the barbarous policy of 
the earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet 
exist in different countries; whose inhabitants 
however divided in religion and manners, almost all 
agree in oppression. 

The English have at last compassionated their 
Negroes, and under a less bigoted government, may 
probably one day release their Catholic brethren : 
but the interposition of foreigners alone can eman- 
cipate the Greeks, who otherwise, appear to have as 
small a chance of redemption from the Turks, as 
the Jews have from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; 
at least the younger men of Europe devoted much 
of their time to the study of the Greek writers and 
history, which would be more usefully spent in mas- 
tering their own. Of the modems, we are perhaps 
more neglectful than they deserve ; and while every 
man of any pretensions to learning is tiring out i* ; « 



72 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



youth, and often his age, in the study of the lan- 
guage and of the harangues of the Athenian dem- 
agogues in favor of freedom, the real or supposed 
descendants of these sturdy republicans are left to 
the actual tyranny of their masters, although a very 
slight effort is required to strike off their chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their 
rising again to then - pristine superiority, would be 
ridiculous ; as the rest of the world must resume its 
barbarism, after reasserting the sovereignty of 
Greece : but there seems to be no very great obsta- 
cle, except in the apathy of the Franks, to their 
becoming an useful dependency, or even a free state 
with a proper guarantee ; — under correction, howev- 
er, be it spoken, for many and well-informed men 
doubt the practicability even of this. 

The Greeks have never lost their hope, though 
they are now more divided in opinion on the subject 
of their probable deliverers. Religion recommends 
the Russians ; but they have twice been deceived 
and abandoned by that power, and the dreadful les- 
son they received after the Muscovite desertion in 
the Morea has never been forgotten. The French 
they dislike ; although the subjugation of the rest 
of Europe will, probably, be attended by the deliv- 
erance of continental Greece. The islanders look 
to the English for succor, as they have very late- 
ly possessed themselves of the Ionian republic, 
Corfu excepted. But whoever appear with arms in 
their hands will be welcome ; and when that day ar- 
rives, Heaven have mercy on the Ottomans, they 
cannot expect it from the Giaours. 

But instead of considering what they have been, 
and speculating on what they may be, let us look 
at them as they are. 

And here it is impossible to reconcile the con- 
trariety of opinions : some, particularly the mer- 
chants, decrying the Greeks in the strongest lan- 
guage ; others, generally travellers, turning periods 
in their eulogy, and publishing very curious specula- 
tions grafted on their former state, which can have 
no more effect on then- present lot, than the exist- 
ence of the Incas on the future fortunes of Peru. 

One very ingenious person terms them the "nat- 
ural allies of Englishmen ;" another, no less ingen- 
ious, will not alio v. them to be the allies of anybody, 
and denies their very descent from the ancients ; a 
third, more ingenious than either, builds a Greek 
empire on a Russian foundation, and realizes (on 
paper) all the chimeras of Catherine II. As to the 
question of their descent, what can it import whe- 
ther the Mamotes are the lineal Laconians or not ? 
or the present Athenians as indigenous as the bees 
of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to which they 
once likened themselves ? What Englishman cares 
if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Trojan 
blood ? or who, except a Welshman, is afflicted with 
a desire of being descended from Caractacus ? 

The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the 
good things of this world, as to render even then- 
claims to antiquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel, 
then, in Mr. Thornton to disturb them in the 
possession of all that time has left them : viz. their 
pedigree, of which they are the more tenacious, as 
it is all they can call their own. It would be worth 
while to publish together, and compare, the works 
of Messrs. Thornton and De Pauw. Eton and Son- 
nini : paradox on one side, and prejudice on the 
other. Mr. Thornton conceives himself to have 
claims to the public confidence from a fourteen.years' 
residence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the subject of 
the Turks, but this can give him no more insight 
into the real state of Greece and her inhabitants, 
than as many years spent in Wapping into that of 
the Western Highlands. 

The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal ; and 
if Mr. Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn 
than his brother merchants are accustomed to do. I 
should place no great reliance on his information. 
I actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of 
their little general intercourse with the city, and as 



sert of himself, with an air of triumph, that he had 
been but four times at Constantinople in as many 
years. 

As to Mr. Thornton's voyage in the Black Sea with 
Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece 
as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of 
Johnny Grot's house. Upon what grounds, then, does 
he arrogate the right of condemning by wholesale a 
body of men, of whom he can know little ? It is 
rather a curious circumstance that Mr. Thornton, 
who so lavishly dispraises Pouqueville, on every oc- 
casion of mentioning the Turks, has yet resource 
to him as authority on the Greeks, and terms him an 
impartial observer. Now Dr. Pouqueville is as little 
entitled to that appellation, as Mr. Thornton to con- 
fer it on him. 

The fact is, we are deplorably in want of informa- 
tion on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular 
their literature, nor is there any probability of our 
being better acquainted, till our intercourse becomes 
more intimate, or their independence confirmed : the 
relations of passing travellers are as little to be de- 
pended on as the invectives of angry factors ; but 
till something more can be attained, we must be 
content with the little to be acquired from similar 
sources.* 

However defective these may be, they are prefera 
ble to the paradoxes of men who have read super- 
ficially of the ancients, and seen nothing of the 
moderns, such as De Pauw; who when he asserts 
the British breed of horses is ruined by Newmarket, 
and that the Spartans were cowards in the field, be- 
tray-, an equal knowledge of English horses and 
Spartan men. His "philosophical observations " 
have a much better claim to the title of "poeti- 
cal." It could not be expected that he who liber- 
ally condemns some of the most celebrated institu- 
tions of the ancient, should have mercy on the 
modern Greeks : and it fortunately happens, that 
the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers 
refutes his sentence on themselves. 

Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies 
of De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there 
is a reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of 
men, who, whatever may be the errors of their re- 
ligion and policy, have been amply punished by three 
centuries and a half of captivity. 

III. 
Athens, Franciscan Convent, Mar. 17, 1811. 

" 1 must have some talk with this learned Theban." 

Some time after my return from Constantinople to 
this city, I received the thirty-first number of the 
Edinburgh Review as a great favor, and certainly 
at this distance an acceptable one, from the captain 
of an English frigate off Salamis. In that number, 



* A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pouqueville, who 
have been guilt; between them of sadly clipping the Sultan's Turkish. 

Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swallowed corrosive 
sublimate in such quantities that he acquired the name of " Suleyman 
Yeyen," i. e. quoth the Doctor " Suleyman, tlte eater of corrosive subli- 
mate." "Aha," thinks Mr. Thornton, (angry with the Doctor for the 
fiftieth time,) " have I caught you? "—Then, in a note twice the thickness ol 
the Doctor's anecdote, he questions the Doctor's profiefency in the Turkish 
tongue, and his veracity in his own.—" For," observes Mr. Thornton, (after 
inflicting on us the tough participle of a Turkish verb,) "it means nothing 
more than Suleyman Vie eater," and quite cashiers the supplementary 
" sublimate." Now both are light, and both are wrong. If Mr. Thornton, 
when he next resides "fourteen years in the factory," will consult his 
Turkish dictionary, or ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he will 
discover that " Suleyman yeyen," put together discreetly, mean the " Sinai- 
lower of sublimate," without any " Suleyman" in the case : " Suleyma " 
signifying "corrosive sublimdle," and not being a proper name on thii 
occasion "although it beau orthodox name enough with the addition of n. 
Alter Mr. Thornton's frequent lunts of profound Orientalism, he might have 
lound this out before he sang such psans over Dr. Pouqueville. 

After this 1 think " Travellers versus Factors " shall be our motto, thougl 
the above Mr. Thornton has condemned " hoc genus omne," for mistake and 
misrepresentation. " Ne Sutor ultra crepidam," " No merchant beyond hk 
bales.'' N. B. For the benefit of Mr. Thornton; "Sutor" is not a proper 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



73 



Art. 3. containing the review of a French transla- 
lation of Strabo, there are introduced some remarks 
on the modern Greeks and their literature, with a 
, short account of Cora)', a co-translator in the French 
version. On those remarks I mean to ground a few 
observations, and the spot where I now write will I 
hop be sufficient excuse for introducing them in a 
work in some degree connected with the subject. 
Coray, the most celebrated of living Greeks, at least 
among the Franks, was born at Scio, (in the Review 
Smyrna is stated, I have reason to think, incorrect- 
ly,) and, besides the translation of Beccaria and oth- 
er works mentioned by the Reviewer, has published 
a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may trust the 
assurance of some Danish travellers lately arrived 
from Paris ; but the latest we have seen here in 
French and Greek is that of Gregory Zolihogloou.* 
Coray has recently been involved in an unpleasant 
controversy with M. Gail,f a Parisian commentator 
and editor of some translations from the Greek 
poets, in consequence of the Institute having 
awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates 
" Tlr ,1 uA'iTiov," &c., to the disparagement, and con- 
sequently displeasure of the said Gail. To his ex- 
ertions literary and patriotic great praise is un- 
doubtedly due, but a part of that praise ought not 
to be withheld from the two brothers Zosimado, 
(merchants settled in Leghorn,) who sent him to 
Paris, and maintained him for the express'purpose 
of elucidating the ancient, and adding to the mod- 
ern, researches of his countrymen. Coray, how- 
ever, is not considered by his countrymen equal to 
some who lived in the two last centimes ; more par- 
ticularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic 
writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks that 
Meletius terms him, " Meru tov OovKvSiStiv ical Hti'o- 
tpojvra upioroc 'EAXrji/wv." (P. 224 Ecclesiastical His- 
tory, vol. 4.) 

Panagiotes, Kodrikas, the translator of Fonte- 
nelle, and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lu- 
canus on the Universe into French, Christodoulus, 
and more particularly Psalida, whom I have con- 
versed with in Joannina, are also in high repute 
among their literati. The last-mentioned has pub- 
lished in Romaic and Latin a work on " True Hap- 
piness," dedicated to Catherine II. But Polyzois, 
who is stated by the Reviewer to be the only mod- 
ern except Coray who has distinguished himself by 
a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Polyzois Lam- 
panitziotes of Yanina, who has published a number 
of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less 
than an itinerant vender of books ; with the con- 
tents of which he had no concern beyond his name 
on the title-page, placed there to secure his prop- 
erty in the publication ; and he was, moreover, a 
man utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements. 
As the name, however, is not uncommon, some 
other Polyzois may have edited the Epistles of Aris- 
tsenetus. 

It is be regretted that the system of continental 
blockade has closed the few channels through which 
the Greeks received their publications, particularly 
Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars 
for children are become too dear for the lower orders. 
Amongst their original works the Geography of 
Meletius, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude 
of theological quartos and poetical pamphlets, are 
to be met with ; their grammars and lexicons of 
two, three, and four languages, are numerous and 
excellent. Their poetry is in rhyme. The most 
singular piece I have lately seen is a satire in dia- 



• I have in my possession an excellent Lexicon ' TptyXwacOf ' which 1 

received in exchange from S. G , Esq., for a small gem ; my antiquarian 

friends have never forgotten it, or forgiven me. 

t In Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of " throwing the insolent 
Helleniste out of the windows." On this a French critic exclaims, " Ah, my 
God ! throw an Helleniste out of the window 1 what sacrilege ! " It certainly 
would be a serious business for those authors who dwell in the attics : but 1 
have quoted the passage merely to prove the similarity of style among the 
controversialists of all polished countries; London or Edinburgh could hardly 
parallel this Parisii) ebullition. 

10 



logue between a Riissian, English, and French 
traveller, and the Waywode of Wallachia, (or 
Blackbey, as they term him,) an archbishop, a mer- 
chant, and Cogia Bachi, (or primate,) in succes- 
sion ; to all of whom under the Turks, the writer 
attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs 
are sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes 
generally unpleasing to the ear of a Frank : the 
best is the famous " AeCrc muSts rtiv 'EWfiixov," bv 
the unfortunate Riga. But from a catalogue o"f 
more than sixty authors, now before me, only fif- 
teen can be found who have touched on any theme 
except theology. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek of 
Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrange- 
ments, if possible, for printing in London a trans- 
lation of Barthelemi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he 
has no other opportunity, unless he despatches the 
MS. to Vienna by the Black Sea and Danube. 

The Reviewer mentions a school established at 
Hecatonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of 
Sebastiani : he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, 
Haivali ; a town on the continent, where that insti- 
tution for a hundred students and three professors 
still exists. It is true that this establishment was 
disturbed by the Porte, under the ridiculous pretext 
that the Greeks were constructing a fortress instead 
of a college ; but, on investigation, and the pay- 
ment of some purses to the Divan, it has been per- 
mitted to continue. The principal professor, named 
Ueniamin, (i. e. Benjamin,) is stated to be a man 
of talent, but a free thinker. He was born in Les- 
bos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, 
Latin, and some Frank languages ; besides a smat- 
tering of the sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter farther on 
this topic than may allude to the article in question, 
I cannot but observe that the Reviewer's lamenta- 
tion over the fall of the Greeks appears singular, 
when he closes it with these words : "The change is 
to be attributed to their misfortunes rather than to 
any 'physical degredation.' " It may be true that 
the Greeks are not physically degenerated, andtha, 
Constantinople contained, on the day it changed 
masters, as many men of six feet and upwards as in 
the hour of prosperity ; but ancient history and 
modern politics instruct us that something more 
than physical perfection is necessary to preserve a 
state in vigor and independence ; and the Greeks, 
in particular, are a melancholy example of the near 
connection between moral degredation and national 
decay. 

The Reviewer mentions a plan " we believe" by 
Potemkin for the purification of the Romaic, and I 
have endeavored in vain to procure any tidings or 
traces of its existence. There was an academy in 
St. Petersburgh for the Greeks ; but it was sup- 
pressed by Paul, and has not been revived by his 
successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can only he a 
slip of the pen, in p. 58, No. 31, of the Edinburgh 
Review, where these words occur: — "We are told 
that when the capital of the East yielded to Soly- 
man " — it may be presumed that this last word will, 
in a future edition, be altered to Mahomet II.* — 



* In a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 1808, it is observed : 
" Lord Byron passed some of his early years in Scotland, where he might 
have learned that pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, any more than duet 
means a fiddle." Query, — Was it in Scotland that the young gentlemen of 
the Edinburgh Review Learned that Solyman means Mahomet II. any more 
than criticism means infallibility >— but thus it is, 

" Caxlimus inque vicein prabemus crura sagittis." 
The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen (from the great simi- 
larity of the two words, and the total absence of error from the former 
pages of the literary leviathan) that I should have passed it over as m the 
text, had 1 not perceived in the Edinburgh Review much facetious exultation 
on all such detections, particularly a recent one, where words and syllables 
are subjects of disquisition and transposition ; and the above-mentioned 
parallel passage in my own case irresistibly propelled me to hint how much 
easier it is to be critical than correct. The gentlemen, having enjoyed many 
a triumph on such victories, will hardly begrudge me a sjght ovation for tb» 
present. 



74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the "ladies of Constantinople," it seems, at that 
period spoke a dialect, " which would not have dis- 
graced the lips of an Athenian " I do not know 
how that might be, but am sorry to say the ladies 
in general, and the Athenians in particular, are 
much altered ; being far from choice either in their 
dialect or expressions, as the whole Attic race are 
barbarous to a proverb : 

" £1 A'Jriva xporri %(Joa 
Ti yaccsaouvs rpc^cis Tcopa." 

In Gibbon, vol. x. page 161, is the following sen- 
tence : — "The vulgar dialect of the city w - as gross 
and barbarous, though the compositions of the 
church and palace sometimes affected to copy the 
purity of the Attic models." Whatever may be as- 
serted on the subject, it is difficult to conceive that 
the " ladies of Constantinople," in the reign of the 
last Cresar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna Com- 
nena wrote three centuries before : and those royal 
pages are not esteemed the best models of composi- 
tion, although the princess yXwrTav ciy^v AKPIBX1S 
Attiki^ovcuv. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the 
best Greek is spoken : in the latter there is a flour- 
ishing school under the direction of Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who 
is making a tour of observation through Greece : he 
is intelligent, and better educated than a fellow- 
commoner of most colleges. I mention this as a 
proof that the spirit of inquiry is not dormant 
among the Greeks. 

The Reviewer mentions Mr. AVright, the author 
of the beautiful poem " Hone Ionicac," as qualified 
so give details of these nominal Romans and de- 
generate Greeks, and also of their language; but 
Mr. Wright, though a good poet and an able man, 
has made a mistake where he states the Albanian 
dialect of the Romaic to approximate nearest to the 
Hellenic : for the Albanians speak a Romaic as no- 
toriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aberdeenshire, or 
the Italian of Naples. Yanina, (where, next to 
the Fanal, the Greek is purest,) although the capi- 
tal of Ali Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania but 
Epirus ; and beyond Delvinachi in Albania proper, 
up to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen, (beyond which I 
did not advance,) they speak worse Greek than even 
the Athenians, I was attended for a year and a 
half by two of these singular mountaineers, whose 
mother tongue is Illyric, and I never heard them or 
their countrymen (whom I have seen not only at 
home, but to the amount of twenty thousand in the 
army of Vely Pacha), praised for their Greek, but 
often laughed at for their provincial barbarisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, 
among which some from the Bey of Corinth, writ- 
ten to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others 
by the dragoman of the Caimacam of the Morea, 
(which last governs in Vely Pacha's absence,) are 
said to be favorable specimens of their epistolary 
style. I also received some at Constantinople from 
private persons, written in a most hyperbolical 
style, but in the true antique character. 

The Reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on 
the tongue in its past and present state, to a para- 
dox (page .59) on the great mischief of the knowl- 
edge of his own language has done to Coray, who, 
it seems, is less likely to understand the ancient 
Greek, because he is perfeot master of the modern ! 
This observation follows a paragraph, recommend- 
ing, in explicit terms, the study of the Romaic, as 
" a powerful auxiliary," not only to the traveller 
and foreign merchant, but also to the classical 
scholar ; in short, to every body except the only 
person who can be thoroughly acquainted with its 
uses ; and by a parity of reasoning, our old language 
is conjectured to Le probably more attainable by 
"foreigners," than by ourselves !» Now I am in- 
clined to think, that a Dutch Tyro in our tongue 
(albeit himself cf Saxon blood) would be sadly 
perplexed with " Sir Tristrem," or any other given 



" Auchinleck MS." with or without a grammar or 
glossary ; and to most apprehensions it seems 
evident that none but a native can acquire a com- 
petent, far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete 
idioms. We may give the critic credit for his 
ingenuity, but no more believe him than we do 
Smollet's Lismahago, who maintains that the 
purest English is spoken in Edinburgh. That 
Coray may err is very possible ; but if he does, the 
fault is in the man rather than in his mother 
tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest 
aid to the native student. — Here the Reviewer pro- 
ceeds to business on Strabo's translators, and here 
I close my remarks. 

Sir W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aber- 
deen, Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. 
Walpole, and many others now in England, have 
all the requisites to furnish details of this fallen 
people. The few observations I have offered I 
should have left where I made them, had not the 
article in question, and above all the spot where I 
read it, induced me to advert to those pages, which 
the advantage of my present situation enabled me 
to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 

I have endeavored to waive the personal feelings, 
which rise in despite of me in touching upon any 
part of the Edinburgh Review ; not from a wish 
to conciliate the favor of its writers, or to cancel 
the remembrance of a syllable I have formerly pub- 
lished, but simply from a sense of the impropriety 
of mixing up private resentments with a disqusition 
of the present kind, and more particularly at this 
distance of time and place. 



ADDITIONAL NOTE, ON THE TURKS. 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been 
much exaggerated, or rather have considerably 
diminished of late years. The Mussulmans have 
been beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very 
comfortable to voyagers. 

It is hazardous to say much on the subject of 
Turks and Turkey ; since it is possible to live 
among them twenty years without acquiring infor- 
mation, at least from themselves. As far as my 
own slight experience carried me I have no com- 
plaint to make ; but am indebted for many civilities, 
(I might almost say for friendship,) and much 
hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son Veli Pacha of the 
Morea, and several others of high rank in the 
provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor of Athens, 
and now of Thebes, was a bon vivant, and as social 
a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a table. 
During the carnival, when our English party were 
masquerading, both himself and his successor were 
more happy to "receive masks" than any dowager 
in Grosvenor square. 

On one occasion of his .supping at the convent, 
his friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was 
carried from table perfectly qualified for any club in 
Christendom ; while the worthy Waywode himself 
triumphed in his fall. 

In all money transactions with the Moslems, I 
ever found the strictest honor, the highest disinter- 
estedness. In transacting business with them, 
there are none of those dirty peculations, under 
the name of interest, difference of exchange, com- 
mission, &c, &c, uniformly found in applying to a 
Greek consul to cash bills, even of the first houses 
in Pera. 

With regard to presents, an established custom 
in the East, you will rarely find yourself a loser ; 
as one worth acceptance is generally returned by 
another of similar value — a horse, or a shawl. 

In the capital and at court the citizens and 
courtiers are formed in the same school with those 
of Christianity; but there does not exist a more 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



75 



honorable, friendly, and high spirited character 
than the true Turkish provincial Aga, or Moslem 
country gentleman. It is not meant here to desig- 
nate the governors of towns, but those Agas who, 
by a kind of feudal tenure, possess lands and houses, 
of more or less extent in Greece and Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as 
the rabble in countries with greater pretensions to 
civilization. A Moslem, in walking the streets of 
our country-towns, would be more incommoded in 
England than a Frank in a similar situation in 
Turkey. Regimentals are the best travelling dress. 

The best accounts of the religion, and different 
sects of Lslamism, may be found in D'Ollison's 
French; of their manners, &c, perhaps in Thorn- 
ton's English. The Ottomans, with all their 
defects, are not a people to be despised. Equal, at 
least, to the Spaniards, they are superior to the 
Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce what 
they are, we can at least say what they are not : 
they are not treacherous, they are not cowardly, 
they do not bum heretics, they are not assassins, 
nor has an enemy advanced to their capital. They 
are faithful to their sultan till he becomes unfit to 
govern, and devout to their God without an inquisi- 
tion. Were they driven from St. Sophia to-morrow, 
and the French or Russians enthroned in their 
stead, it would become a question, whether Europe 
would gain by the exchange ? England would cer- 
tainly be the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance of which they are 
so generally, and sometimes justly accused, it may 
be doubted, always excepting France and England, 
in what useful points of knowledge they are 
excelled by other nations. Is it ill the common 
arts of life ? In their manufactures ? Is a Turkish 
sabre inferior to a Toledo ? or is a Turk worse 
clothed or lodged, or fed and taught, than a Span- 
iard ? Are their Pachas worse educated than, a 
Grandee ? or an Effendi than a Knight of St. Jago. 
I think not. 

I remember Mahmout, the grandson of AH Pacha, 
asking whether my fellow-traveller and myself were 
in the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now 
this question from a boy of ten years old proved that 
his education had not been neglected. It may be 
doubted if an English boy at that age knows the 
difference of the Divan from a College of Dervises ; 
but I am very sure a Spaniard does not. How little 
Mahmcut, surrounded, as he had been entirely by 
his Turkish tutors, has learned that there was such 
a thing as a Parliament it were useless to conjecture, 
unless we suppose that his instructors did not con- 
fine his studies to the Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established, 
which are very regularly attended ; and the poor are 
taught without the church of Turkey being put into 
peril. I believe the system is not yet printed ; 
(though there is such a thing as a Turkish press, 
and books printed on the late military institution of 
the Nizam Gedidd ;) nor have I heard whether the 
Mufti and the Mollas have subscribed, or the Caima- 
cam and the Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the 
ingenious youth of the turban should be taught not 
to " pray to God their way." The Greeks also — a 
kind of Eastern Irish papists — have a college of 
their own at Maynooth — no, at Haivali ; where the 
heterodox receive much the same kind of counte- 
i: nice from the Ottoman as the Catholic college from 
the English legislature. Who shall then affirm that 
the Turks are ignorant bigots, when they thus 
cvince_ the exact proportion of Christian charity 
which is tolerated in the most prosperous and ortho- 
dox of all possible kingdoms ? But, though they 
allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to 
participate in their privileges ; no, let them fight 
their battles, and pay then- haratch, (taxes,) be 
drubbed in this world, and damned in the next. 
And shall we then emancipate our Irish Helots ? 
Mahomet forbid ! We should then be bad Mussul- 



mans, and worse Christians ; at present we unite the 
best of both— Jesuitical faith, and something not 
much inferior to Turkish toleration. 



APPENDIX. 

Among an enslaved people, obliged to have re- 
course to foreign presses even for their books of re- 
ligion, it is less to be wondered at that we find so 
few publications on general subjects than that we 
find any at all. The whole number of the Greeks, 
scattered up and down the Turkish empire and 
elsewhere, may amount, at most, to three millions ; 
and yet, for so scanty a number, it is impossible to dis- 
cover any nation with so great a proportion of books 
and their authors, as the Greeks of the present 
century. " Ay," but say the generous advocates of 
oppression, who, while they assert the ignorance of 
the Greeks, wish to prevent them from dispelling it, 
"ay, but these are mostly, if not all, eclesiastical 
tracts, and consequently good for nothing." Well, 
and pray what else can they write about ? It is 
pleasant enough to hear a Frank, particularly an 
Englishman, who may abuse the government of his 
own country ; or a Frenchman, who may abuse ev- 
ery government except his own, and who may range 
at will over every philosophical, religious, scientific, 
skeptical, or moral subject, sneering at the Greek 
legends. A Greek must not write on nolitics, and 
cannot touch on science for want of instruction ; if 
he doubts, he is excommunicated and damned ; 
therefore his countrymen are not poisoned with 
modern philosophy ; and as to morals, thanks to 
the Turks ! there are no such things. What then 
is left him, if he has a turn for scribbling ? Relig- 
ion, and holy biography : and it is natural enough 
that those who have so little in this life should look 
to the next. It is no great wonder then that in a 
catalogue now before me of fifty-five Greek writers, 
many of whom were lately living, not above fifteen 
should have touched on any thing but religion. 
The catalogue alluded to is contained in the twen- 
ty-sixth chapter of the fourth volume of Meletius's 
Ecclesiastical History. From this I subjoin an ex- 
tract of those who have written on general sub- 
jects ; which will be followed by some specimens of 
the Romaic. 



LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS.* 

Neophitus Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, 
has published an extensive grammer, and also some 
political regulations, which last were left unfinished 
at his death. 

Prokopius of Moscopolis, (a town in Epirus,)has 
written and published a catalogue of the learned 
Greeks. 

Scraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many 
works in the Turkish language, but Greek charac- 
ter ; for the Christians of Caramania, who do not 
speak Romaic, but read the character. 

Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, 
made the tour of England for the purpose of study 
'Xaptv ixadficreui) ; but though his name is enumer- 
ated, it is not stated that he has written any thing. 

Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantino- 
ple : many poems of his are extant, and also prose 
tracts, and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last 
taking of Constantinople. 

Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the 
royal academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. 



It is to be observed, that die names given tire not in chronological order 
but consist of some selected at a vent' ire from among those who flourished 
from the taking of Constantinople to the time of Meletius. 



76 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolite, has written 
many works, particularly " A Commentary on He- 
siod's Shield of Hercules," and two hundred tales, 
(of what is not specified,) and has published his 
correspondence with the celebrated George of Trebi- 
zoud, his contemporary. 

Meletius, a celebrated geographer ; and author of 
the book from whence these notices are taken. 

Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philoso- 

Eher : his Hellenic works are in great repute, and, 
e is esteemed by the moderns (I quote the words 

of Meletius) pcrd tov QovKviiiqv Kal Zcvnipoivra apt$-os 
'EXXi/v .>!'. I add further, on the authority of a well- 
informed Greek, that he was so famous among his 
countrymen, that they were accustomed to say, if 
Thucydides and Xcnophon were wanting, he was 
capable of repairing the loss. 

Marinus Count Thurboures, of Cephalonia, pro- 
fessor of chemistry in the academy of Padua, and 
member of that academy, and those of Stockholm 
and Upsal. He has published, at Venice an ac- 
count of some marine animal, and a treatise on the 
properties of iron. 

Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechan 
ics. He has removed to St. Petersburg the immense 
rock on which the statue of Peter the Great was 
fixed in 1769. See the dissertation which he pub- 
lished in Paris, 1777. 

George Constantine has published a four-tongued 
lexicon. 

George Ventote ; a lexicon in French, Italian, 
and Romaic. 

There ex^t several other dictionaries in Latin 
and Romaic, French, &c, besides grammars in 
every modern language, except English. 

Among the living authors the following are most 
celebrated : — * 

Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhet- 
oric in Hellenic. 

Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in 
Vienna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic 
translator of Fontcnelle's "Plurality of Worlds,' 
(a favorite work amongst the Greeks,) is stated to 
be a teacher of the Hellenic and Arabic languages 
in Paris; in both of which he is an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on 
rhetoric. 

Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written 
"eis to peaob'ApSapov," on logic and physics. 

John Kamarases, a Byzantine, has translated 
into French Ocellus on the Universe. He is said 
to be an excellent Hellenist, and Latin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a 

feographical work : he has also translated several 
talian authors, and printed his versions at Venice. 
Of Coray and Psalida some account has been 
already given. 



GREEK WAR SONG.f 

1. 

AEY TE, -iraXSes ruv 'EX\nv'jiv, 

b xaipos Ttjs 6'o^rjs TjAOcf, 
Ac (pavoipev uftui incivwv 

kov pas Sd)cruv rrjv apx^v 
"As Trarficoifiev dvSpeioiS 

~dv ^vyov T(JJ TVpaviiSos* 
'E/c<Jec>7<76df(£i/ rrarpidos 

Kade SveiSos aiaxp6v. 

Ta SrrXa us XaScopev 

iraTSes 'EXXi'iviov, ayuiuev. 

THoraptSov ix^j "" to aipa 
as Tpi^ri v~o rroSdtv. 



* These names are not taken from any publication. 
T A translation of this song will be found aiuuug the smaller Poems in 
page 539. 



2. 

OQcv eloOe r<3i/ 'E\Xr)vbiV 

K6xKaXa dvSpeiiopiva ; 
HvevpaTU ecrKuprricpeva, 

rojpa XdSere itvofiv ; 
X T>]v <po)i'i]v Tns oaXiriyy6s pov 

ovvaxdoTC bXa bpuv. 
Tr/v sirTaXo<f>ov ^rireXre, 

Kal vikotc irpo rravTov. s 
Ta brrXa is XdSojpev, etc. 



Xrrapra, "ZirdpTa, ri K'npiiaai 

vrrvov XfiOapyov, ffaOiv ; 
^VKvrjcrov, Kpd^e Adi)vas, 

cvppaxof TTai'TOTCtf)']n. 
'Evdvpfjaov AeovtSov 

tjpeoos tov ttikovs-ov, 
tov dvSpvs irraiveptivov, 

(poScpov (cut rpopepov, 
Tu oirXa is XuSmpev, etc. 



'Oirov sis Tas QepporriXas 

rrdXepov avros KporeX, 
Kal tovs Ilfpo-ac dfpnvi^et 

Kal aVTuiv KaraKpareX. 
Mi Tpianooiovs avipas, 

eis to Kevrpov rrpox'^peX, 
Kal, oj{ Xiiov Svpwpcvos, 

eis to alpd Toiv /3oVTeX. 
Tu oirXa tic XaScopev, etc. 



ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 

Pokto-os, "AyyXos, Kal TdXXos KapvovTCS Ttjv Trepuiyrjoit 
Tn; 'EAAu(5*c, kuI fiXenoi'TCS tt)v aOXiav Tt]v KaT&jTtwtv 
eipcoTrjaav Karapx a S eva TpaiKuv <J>iMXXriva Siavii pdOovv 
t>iv ahiav, per' airov iva prirp'i-oXiTqv, eiTa 'iva 0XaX' 
u-iriv, tVtira iva -npaypareVTiiv Kal iva TrpoearioTa. 

Eirre pas, to ftXiXXriva, Trios (pepeis t>)v OKXaSiav 
Kal Triii airapr\y6pr)Tov rojf TovpXuiv Tvpavviav, 
ttojc rais \vXaXs koX v6piop»vs Kal oi&qpo&eopiav 
iraiS'OV, rrapOivtov, yvvaiKbiv dvi]KOvOTov tj>QopeXav- 
Ate clXO' eatXs drtdyovot iKtivtov tCov 'J£XXi'ivu)v 
tuv ihcvdzpcov Kal ao<piov Kal tuv (piXorraTpiSoiv, 
Kal Trios ckcivoi drriQvrjoKOV yta. t>iv iXcvQcpiav. 
Kal Tiopa ecus vrrdKCioOe eis riroiav Tvpavviav, 
Kal TroXov yevos a)c icr£Tc iordOq ajojTiapenov 
eis Thv aoipiav, ivvapiv, eis k bXa t^aKovapivov 
Tiois vvn eKarao-TtiaaTe ttji> tf>(iiTii>riv EXXaSa. 
j3a6&! we iva OKeXtQp:>v, coc ckotiivtiv Xap-dSav 
OpiXet, diiXraTe FpaiKt, eirre pas tIjv air ! av 
p>l Kpiirrris tittotcs ijutoV, Xie ri)i/ arropiai, 



'O (J>IAE'AAIINOr 

"Vo>aa-ayyXo-\ aXXoi, 'EAAac, koX 5%i aXXot, 

TjTov, we AiVs, rrdrrov peyaXr). 

vvv Si aOXta, Kal dva^ia 

a<p ov apx l<r£l ' 'I dpaBia. 

So-' r\unopovoav va ri';v ^vrrvi'io-r) 

tovt' eii) to x c 'P<>v Tqv 'oSriyovai. 

avTt) areva^ei, to. reKva Kpa^et, 

cto va TtpoK6rrTovv bXa rrp;iord^ci t 

Kal tot' eAiri^Ei 6'rt KepSi^ei 

evpeXv CKeivo rrov rnv (pXoyit,et. 

Mo ooTic ToXpf\oei va tiiv ^vzvfjtrr) 

irdyei ctov aSrjv X U P'S Ttva Kpiaiv. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



11 



The above is the commencement of a long dra- 
matic satire on the Greek priesthood, princes, and 
gentry: it is contemptible as a composition, but 
perhaps curious as a specimen of their rhyme; I 
have the whole in MS. but this extract will be found 
sufficient. The Romaic in this composition is so 
easy as to render a version an insult to a scholar ; 
but those who do not understand the original will 
excuse the following bad translation of what is in 
itself indifferent. 

TRANSLATION. 

A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchman making 
the tour of Greece, and observing the miserable 
state of the country, interrogate, in turn, a Greek 
Patriot, to learn the cause ; afterwards an Arch- 
bishop, then a Vlackbey,* a Merchant, and Cogia 
Bachi or Primate. 

Thou friend of thy country ! to strangers record 

Why bear ye the yoke of the Ottoman Lord ? 

Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely display'd, 

The wrongs of the matron, the stripling, and maid ? 

The descendants of Hellas's race are not ye ! 

The patriot sons of the sage and the free, 

Thus sprung from the blood of the noble and brave, 

To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave ! 

Not such were the fathers your annals can boast, 

Who conquer'd and died for the freedom you lost ! 

Not such was your land in her earlier hour, 

The day-star of nations in wisdom and power ! 

And still will you thus unresisting increase, 

Oh shameful dishonor ! the dar.kness of Greece ? 

Then tell us, beloved Achaean ! reveal 

The cause of the woes which you cannot conceal. 

The reply of the Philellenist I have not trans- 
lated, as it is no better than the question of the 
travelling triumvirate ; and the above will suffi- 
ciently show with what kind of composition the 
Greeks are now satisfied. I trust I have not much 
injured the original in the few lines given as faith- 
fully, and as near the 

" Oh, Miss Bailey ! unfortunate Miss Bailey ! " 

measure of , the Romaic, as I could make them. 
Almost all their pieces, above a song, which aspire 
to the name of poetry, contain exactly the quantity 
of feet of 

" A captain bold of Halifax, who lived in country quarters," 

which is in fact the present heroic couplet of the 
Romaic. 



SCENE FROM "O KA<£>ENE'S 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOLDONI, 
BY SPEEIDION VLANTI. 

EKHNH KF. 

IIAATZIAA els r/je ndprav tov xavtoii, (cat ol dvoiOev. 

IIAA. T B Qci ! and to napativpi pov e<pdvrj vd dxovoco 
ryv (pwi/riv tov dvSpds pov av avrds elvai eiii, li^daaa ce 
Kaipdv va tov %evTpomdaio. [Evyaivet evas SovXos and 
to ipyaaTrtpi.'] XlaXiKO.pi, n'es pov, ol napaKaXoj, noids 
elvat Ikci els incivovs tov; dvrdSes ; 

AOYA. TpeTs xpf"oipni tivSpe;. Eva; b nip Eiyevtos, 
b aXXos b Kvp Mdpnios NsanoXirdvos, /cat b Tpiros b Kvp 
Kdvre Aiavdpos ApievTtis- 

IIAA. Avdpeoa els av-irv; Sev elva, b 'i'Xaplvtos, av 
Spots fiiv aXXa^cv ovopa. 

Al'JA. Na £j rj KaXl] Tvxi tov /cup Evycviov. [Hlvuv- 
ra$.| 



• Vlackbey, Prince of Wallacbia. 



"OAOI. Na ? >/, va t&. 

IIAA. Avrds civai 6 avSpas pov xcopif aAAo. Ka\{ 
avdpojne, K<ipe pov rjjv xapii/ vd pi ovvrpoftvaiis d-rrdvw 
eis avrovs rods dipcindSes, bnov SsAw va rovs nai^co piav 
[IIpoc tov SuvXov.] 

AOY. 'Opitjfios cue- {o-vvrjdiapivov difitpimov tuv Sov- 
XcVToiv.) [Tiiv epnaZ,ei and to epyaornpi tov KaiyvtSiov.] 

VIA. KapStd, napSid, Kdpere xaXnv KapSidv, 6lv rival 
tittotcs. [Tipos T>1V UlTTOpiav.] 

BIT. 'Ej u aloOavopai no~>s aneOaivoi. [Svi/epxsrat tt'c 
roc tavTov ri}c.] 

[And ra nap&Ovpa ro>v dvrddwv (Paivovrai dXot, bnov 
oriKdvwvrai and to rpaneZi svyx^opevui, Sid tov 
latpvicpdv tov AcdvSpov /SXencovras nrjv TlXar^iSa, 
Kal Siarl avrds Seixvsi ttgjc. Ss'Asi vd ri/v Aovevor].] 

EYr. "G X i, o-TaOnre. 

MAP. Mi> xdpvcTC 

AEA. S>'|/c(.i, (piys an' cSd. 

IIAA. Boi)9eia, 0ofiOcta. [$evyei and tijv oKanav, 
Kiavipos SsAst va tijv u/coAodO/jo-i; pi to onaodl, /cat Evy- 
rdv 6aoTa.~\ 

TPA. [Ms eva m'no pi (pnyl els piav ner^era nriia dno 
to napaOvpi, /cat (pevyct els tov Ka(bevi,~\ 

[IIAA. Euyaivet a'rrd to epyaoriipi tov natyviSioii rpe- 
Xojvtus, Kal (pevyei st*c to x«"'-] 

[EYT. Ms appara et's to x^P 1 "poj SiatpcvTev&tv rrj; 
IIAar^iJay, evavriov tov AcdvSpov, dnov t!]v /cararosxt'-] 

[MAP. Euyalvtt Kal airdc aiya 01yd and to ipyaavfjni, 
/cat Qevyei Xiyoivras' Rumores fujre.] [Povpdpes <ptvyz.]* 

[Ot AouAot and to ipyaoTt'ipi dntpvuvv els to xdv, Kal 
kXciuvv Tt\v ndpTav.] 

[BIT. Mcvet els tov Kaipevl lioriOrfpevrj and tov PtJcJA- 

001'.] 

AEA. Adaere rdnov 5sAaj vd epSio va tpSoi els IkcXvo 
to xdvt. [Ms to onadl els to x?P l cvovtIov tov Evyev\cv.\ 

EYT. 'O^t, pt) yevoiTO noTV eloai evas o-/cAr/p(/ca/3f5os 
evavriov tt\S yvvaixds aov, /cat eyw St'Ast Trjv iia^evTeiaw 
oiS sis to varepov a7pa. 

AEA. Sou Kapvco opxov nris -SsAst to peTavotworjs- 
[Kvvr/ya tov Eiyeviov pi to <x7ra0i.] 

EYT. Alv cl 0oSovuai. [KaTOTpixti tov AeavSpov, 
Kal ndv flid^ei va ovpflr, dnioco t6cov, bnov eipicrKojvras 
dvoiKTdv to onrJTi Ttjs x°psiTpias, epSatvtt els aird, Kal 
oojverai.] 

TRANSLATION. 

Platzidafrom the Door of the Hotel, and the Othene. 

Pla. Oh God ! from the window it seemed that I 
heard my husband's voice. If he is here, I have 
arrived in time to make him ashamed. [A Servant 
enters from the Shop.] Boy, tell me, pray, who are 
in those chambers. 

Serv. Three gentlemen: one, Signor Eugenio; 
the other, Signor Martio, the Neapolitan ; and the 
third, my Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. 

Pla. Flaminio is not among these, unless he has 
changed his name. 

Leander. [Within, drinking.'] Long live the good 
fortune of Signor Eugenio. 

[The tohole Company, Long live, &c] (Literally. 
Na $ji, vd (>), May he live.) 

Pla. Without doubt that is my husband. [To 
the Serv.] My good man, do me the favor to ac- 
company me above to those gentlemen; I have 
some business. 

Serv. At your commands. [Aside.] The old 
office of us waiters. [He goes out of the. Gaming- 
House.] 

Ridolpho. [To Victoria on another part of the 
stage.] Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is 
nothing. 

Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning on 
him as if fainting .] 

[From the windows above all within are seen 
rising from table in confusion : Leander starts 



* Adyos XaTtviKos, bnov ScXci vd einfi' (pevye TaTs ovy 



78 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



at the sight of Platzida, and appears by his 
gestures to threaten her life.] 

Eugenio. No, stop 

Martio. Don't attempt 

Leander. Away, fly from hence ! 

Pla. Help ! Help_! [Flies down the stairs, Lean- 
der attempting to follow with his sword, Eugenio 
hinders him.'] 

[Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over the bal- 
cony from the window, and runs into the Coffee- 
House.] 

[Platzida runs out of the Gaming-Hotise, and 
takes shelter in the Hotel.] 

[Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-House, 
and goes off, exclaiming " Rumores fuge." The 
Servants from the Gaming-IIouse enter the Hotel, 
and shut the door.] 

S Victoria remains in the Coffee-House assisted by 
olpho.J 

[Leander sioord in hand opposite Eugenio, ex- 
claims, Give way — I will enter that hotel.] 

Eugenio. No, that shall never We. You are a 
scoundrel to your wife, and I will defend her to the 
last drop of my blood. 

Leander. I will give you cause to repent this. 
[Menacing with his sword.] 

Eugenio. I fear you not. [He. attacks Leander, 
and makes hi 'm give hack so much, that finding the 
door of the dancing girl's house open, Leander es- 
capes through, and so finishes.] * 



AIA'AOrOI Ol'KIAKOI". FAMILIAR DIALOGUES. 

Aid va ^nrnarn Iva irpdypa. To ask for any thing. 

Zdc TTupaKaXd, SoacH pe av I pray you, give me if you 

bpi^sre. please. 

QtpcTe pt. Bring me. 

Aaveicreri. pt. Lend me. 

X\r\) aii'CTC va ^>iTt']acrc. Go to seek. 

Tdpa evdis. Now directly. 

SI iiKptSi, pov Kiptc, Kiipere My dear Sir, do me this 

pc airiiv ttjv x"i" v - favor. 

Ej u oag -apamiXut. I entreat you. 

B;-o> eras e{opW(«i>. I conjure you. 

K; to ads to i^roj Jta x'h>'>'- I ask it of you as a favor. 

Yvoxpcojo-tTc pc eif i6aov. Oblige me so much. 

Adj t a ipariKa, >) dyarrris- Affectionate expressions. 

Zojfj pOV. 

An'pifijj puv ipvxfl- 
AyairrfTt pov, dnpiSi pov. 
Kapr]iT\a pov. 

&tanaeixapiaT?isr,s,vaKip.r, s To thank, pay compli- 
nepmoirto-es, xal <p,\i K ais ments, and testify re- 
Se$iw<T£s. yard. 

Eyio cas cvxapio-TM. I thank you. 

Saj yvoipi r (a xapiv. I return you thanks. 

Xas upat VTr6xpt."S Kara ttoX- I am much obliged to you. 



My life. 
My dear soul. 
My dear. 
My heart. 
My love. 



* Stoverai—" finishes "—awkwardly enough, but it is the literal trans- 
lation of the Romaic. The original of this comedy of Goldoni's I never read, 
but it does not appear one of his best. " II Bugiardo " is one of the most 
lively ; but I do not think it h.is been translated into Romaic : it is much 
more amusing than our own "Liar," by Foote. The character of Lelio is 
better drawn than Young Wilding. Goldoni's comedies amount to fifty ; 
some perhaps the best in Europe, and others the worst. His life is also one 
of the best specimens of autobiography, and, as Gibbon has observed, " more 
dramatic than any of his plays." The above scene was selected as contain- 
ing some of the most familiar Romaic idioms, not for any wit which it displays, 
since there is more done than said, the greater part consisting of stage 
directions. The original is one of the few comedies by Goldoni which is 
Vithout the buffoonery of the speaking Harlequin. 



Eyco StXtj to KOLfici pcra xa- 
pas 

Me SXrjv pov rrjv nnpSiav. 
Mi Ka\f)v pov xapSiav. 
Ta; clpai vtioxptos. 
E?/tai 6'Aoj iJi/cdc crac. 
E?pa( SovX6s o-ac. 
Tciirni'uVaToc SovXo;. 

EiVrdcaTU jtoAAu cvycviicS;. 
IIoAAd nctpa^eo-de. 

Td £,y,oj Sia xapav poi) va go's 

SuvXsvao}. 
ETotc tvyeviKos ical evTrpoa- 

fjyopn;. 
Avto tlvai irp'nrov. 
Ti SiXere ; 
Tt bpi^je ; 
1'as TrapanaXoi va pi piTa- 

Xtipi^taQt iXcvdepa. 
Xojpic ntpiiruirjaes. 
Sac dya~oj if oX'is pov nap- 
Si a$. 
Kui iyco bp'tiios. 
TipfjcrCTe pi rati irpooTa) at; 

true. 
"E\;£r£ riwOTCS va pi vpoaTa- 

f£T£ ; 
ripo(7rd(£r£ tov 6ovX6v ca$. 
Upoopivro rue -npoaaya; aa;. 
Mi Kapvert ptyaXrjv Tipftv. 
'tdivuvvr] TTcptKoiricres trite, 

7T'/pakaAoj. 
YlpoaKWriaZTt ck ptpovs pov 

TOV upxovTa, 17 TOV KVptUV. 

Btf)atOJ<r£7£ TOV TOJJ TOV iv 

Ovpuvpai. 
BsSaioio-ETC tov 7rojc tov dya- 

TTtO. 

Aiv SiAoj A£tt//£t va tuv to 
£(Vc3. 

UpOGKVVj'lliaTli pov £t'j TIJV 

ipxfivTlaaav. 

TlriyaivCTE epirpozOa Kai ads 

dicoXov')<?. 
li(cvoto xaXaro XPt°S P°t>. 
Hffiipa) to civai pov. 
Me KapvtTC va ivrpiirajpai pi 

Tai; TOaaii <p'Xo'J>pooivai$ 

aai. 
QcXetc Xoiirov va K&pco piav 

dxptiOTrjTa. 

Xtrayo} ipwpoada 61a va aas 

VTTaKovaw. 
Aid vandpuy tijv TTpooTayfjv 

cue. 
Aev dyatrCb Tooat; wspnroi- 

no-£J. 
Aii/ eipai tskcio's irepiiroiriTi- 

k6$. 
Atird zivai to KaXfiTCpov. 
Tooov rd KaXfiTspov. 
E,x£r£ X6ynv, e°X£7-£ Hkoiov. 

Ata va pcSaaorrric, va dnvrt- 
Qyi, va av) KUTavtiaris, ktX. 

E?Vai dAr;9tvdi' ) tivai dXr- 

diaraTov. 
Aid va <rdc e'izio rijy dAi';- 

dctav. 
Ovrojc, £T\rf Eivai. 
Tl'Ho( dp<pi6aXXti ; 
Aev tlrai nooios dp$t6oXia. 
Td niaTcio), 6iv to TnaTciu. 



I will do it with pleasure. 

With all my heart. 

Most cordially. 

I am obliged to you. 

I am wholly yours. 

I am your servant. 

Your most humble serv- 
ant. 

You are too obliging. 

You take too much 
trouble. 

I have a pleasure in serv- 
ing you. 

You arc obliging and kind 

That is right. 

What is your pleasure ? 

What are your commands? 

I beg you will treat m£ 
freely. 

Without ceremony. 

I love you with all my 
heart. 

And I the same. 

Honor me with your com- 
mands. 

Have you any commands 
for me ? 

Command your servant. 

I wait your commands. 

You do me great honor. 

Not so much ceremony I 
beg. 

Present my respects to 
the gentleman, or his 
lordship. 

Assure him of my remem- 
brance. 

Assure him of my friend- 
ship. 

I will not fail to tell him 
of it. 

My compliments to her 
ladyship. 

Go before, and I will fol- 
low you. 

I well know my duty. 

I know my situation. 

You confound me with so 
much civility. 

Would you have me then 
be guilty of an incivil- 
ity? 

I go before to obey you. 

To comply with your com- 
mand. 

I do not like so much cer- 
emony. 

I am not at all ceremoni- 
ous. 

This is better. 

So much the better. 

You are in the right. 

To affirm, deny, consent, 

It is true, it is very true. 

To tell you the truth. 

Really it is so. 
Who doubts it ? 
There is no doubt. 
I believe it, I do not be- 
lieve it. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



79 



At jo) to vat 

At'j'io rd 8\i. 

B.iAAto otixiP" 0Tt rivat. 

BjAAio o-tix'II" 1 ° Tl to" rivat 

ErJ »/. 
Nai, //a rhv nioTiv pot). 
Ei? r/jy cvvciS'iaiv pov. 

Md 7)> ((Jl'll/ jlOV. 

Nai, ad? diiuvco. 

Xd? opvOio wady Ttprjpiuog 

livQpumug. 
2d; opvvio cirdVcd etj r^v rt- 

/jjjv jura. 
YliareicrcTi pe. 

HpTopio i/d o-.'If to ptfiaiojau. 
UOcXa l3a\r) o-n'xnpa 6, ti 

§e\er£ Sia tovto. 
Mi; tjj,V|J «at do-Tti^co-Qc (\o- 

O/iiAETre p£ rd 6A« caj; 

E; co ad? dpiAco p£ ra 6Aa 

pou, icat ad? Ae^oj ri;v iiAi;- 

Ociav. 
Ej-tb ad? tc< ficBatdivoi. 
To iirpixpriTiiaiTi. 
To iiTiTcvxerc 
2d? rriartiico. 

fl /J £ TTf 1 I'd <Xa? TTlCTTEtia&J. 

Aurd (Jtv civat dSvvarov. 

To Aoiirdi' d? rival pi KaXi]v 

Sopav. 
KaAd, KaXa. 
Aiv rival dXiiBiv6v. 
EiVai ipcvSig. 

Aiv Eivat TirzoTCs and aii-6. 
Etyai 'iva ij/svSos, jiia a7rarr/. 

E) ai duTci^opovv (t^opdrcuu) 

Ej'ij to riiraSia va jEA/icno. 

J'g uA/i&Via. 

Mi djiiaci Kara iroAAii. 

Suj-xarafEia) fi? tuvto. 

Aid'O ri/f \p~i<pov pov. 

kiv dvTioriK'tpai tig tovto. 

Bi/iai avi/ipoivosi ix cvpipoi- 

l»ut). 
Ej^o) Jiv 9tA(j. • 

Eya) evavTiojvopat d% tovto. 

Aid I'd avjiBovXcp&in, va oto- 
XaoU>]s, r) va. dirotpaoiaijs. 

Ti irpinct va Kapoipsv ; 

Ti 5d Kaptopev ; 

Ti p£ o-tifttjouArftrs I'd icapto ; 

'Ojroioi' rpo-rrov SiXopev ptra- 

XeiptaOfi i)p£ts I 
"A; xiiptopev trjij. 

EiWi Ka\fiT£pov iyo> va 

2ru9dr£ dAt}">i>. 

Asf i/SeAe!/ £?va( Ka\f]rcpov 

yd ; 

Ej cj d^uir^tiua KaX!)Ttpa. 
OiXerc «i[(i:i xaAijrepa dv — 

'A^>/|<7£r£ 1J£. 

Av Jjpovi' Elf rdv rdVov era?, 



EiVai 



I'Jioy. 



I say yes. 

I say no. 

I wager it is. 

I wager it is not so. 

Yes, by my faith. 

In conscience. 

By ray life. 

Yes, I swear it to you. 

I swear to you as an hon- 
est man. 

I swear to you on my 
honor. 

Believe me. 

I can assure you of it. 

I would lay what bet you 
please on this. 

You jest by chance ? 

Do you speak seriously ? 
I speajv seriously to you, 
and tell you the truth. 

I assure you of it. 
Yon have guessed it. 
You have hit upon it. 
I believe you. 4f 

I must believe you. 
This is not impossible. 
Then it is very well. 

Well, well." 
It is not true 
It is false. 

There is nothing of this. 
It is a falsehood, an im- 
posture. 
I was in joke. 
I said it to laugh. 
Indeed. 

It pleases me much. 
I agree with you. 
I give my assent. 
I do not oppose this. 
I agree. 

I will not. 

I object to this. 

To consult, consider, or 
resolve. 

What ought we to do ? 
What shall we do ? 
What do you advise me 

to do? 
What part shall we take ? 

Let us do this. 

It is better that I 

Wait a little. 

Would it not be better 

that 

I wish it were better. 

You will do better if 

Let me go. 

If I were in your place 

It is the same. 



rhc reader by the specimens below will be enabled to 
compare the modern with the ancient tongue. 

PARALLEL PASSAGES PROM ST. JOHN'S GOSPEL. 
Neov. AiBcvTtKdv. 

Kt<ba\. a. Kcc/niA. a. 

1. EI'S t!;v dpx'iv tjTov 6 1. 'EN dp\fi ijv o \6yof, 
\6yof KaX b \6yo$ tjtov /ictol Kai o Adyoj rtv irpoj tov 9£d)', 
Qtov- Kai Qedi tjtov b \6yos. Kai Beds >)v b Adj-oj. 



2. 'EroOros ijtdv cif t!]v 
dox'iv pCTa Oeov. 

3. "OAa [ra TTpdypara] Jid 
jiiaoo too [Xoyov] iyivqaav, 
Kai x ,J) pis ai)Tdv Siv lynz 
Kaviva £i'n tyivz. 

4. Eij ai>Ti>v >)tov £«ir Kai 
t) fioi; iJTov to 0a>s tcov dv- 
dpcoTTiov. 

5. Kai to <p£>s elg thv <nco- 
Tfiac <piy}£i, Mii >'i cKoreia 
Siv rd KUTaXaSc. 

6. Eyivcv cvag avOpotiros 
dircaraXfitvos axo tov Osov, 
to ovupd tov luiavvrjs. 



2. Ourof fjv iv dpx5 irpd , 
tov Qtov 

3. Havra Si ai-TOv iyivzTo' 
Kai x w P'S aiirou iyivzTO oiSi 
'iv, S yiyoviv* 

4. '~Ev avTiJt $oji) rjv, Kai 3 
Ccoi) i]v to ^>co£ rail' dvQpco- 
ncoi'. 

5. Kai to 0w{ iv t~i ckot'hi 
ipaivei, Kai ?y GKiTta aiiTO ov 
KariXaSev. 

6. 'Ej £v£ro livOporiros dn~ 
eGTaXpii'uf Trapa. 6£o0, bvop.a 
aiiTiZ 'looavvrft. 



THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENUS. 
FROM MELETIUS. 

'OPXOMENO'S, Kotvois 2ifpi7rou, rdAij ttotI irXovcioi- 
TaTr] Kai iaxvpuTaTr}, TToorzpov KaXovpivrj RouoriKal 'AGij- 
vai, £ij t!]V bvoiav rjruv 6 Nadj rail' 'S.apirojv, els tov ottoiov 
i-nXiipiovov riXri 01 O'iSaioi, oiirivog to iSuipo; dvto-KaipQr) 
ttotc vko tiov AoTTaXdyKwv. 'Eiravr/yvpi^ov £i'{ aoriiv Ti]v 
jtoXiv ra XapiTrjma, tov biroiov dycovog cvpov hnypaibai iv 
aTfjXnig i'vSov tov ktigBIvt'is vaov £7r' dvdpari ri)s Geotokou, 
viza tov n pioToaTraQ apiov Atoirnf, £tti Tcof (iaoiXioiV Bacrj- 
Aei'oh, Acovtos, Kai KoivaravTivov, Exoicraj otircof iv p£» 
djj pia Koivdi. 
" OicJe iviKwv tov dyiova tu>v Xapirr/a-iiov. 

SttAiritrn'/j. 
M<7i'i£ 'AtoAAwi'Iou 'Avtio\evs diro NaiiivSpov. 

Ki)pv%. 
Zwi'Aof Zwi'Aau n j^ioj. 

Paipyios. 
T\ovpr)vtos K'jvpriviov 'AOqvaTog. 

Tlotr/Tijg £7T<oi'. 
'Apr/via; ArijioKXiovi Br/6aTos. 

AvXtrftg. 
'AsoAAdcorof 'ArroAAoddTou Kpi;;. 

AiiAcoJdf. 
Po'Jiittoj PoiJiTirul) 'Apyrjos. 

KiQapiaTt'if. 
'vaviag 'AjtuXXoSotov too $>aviov AioXcvs diro Ki<(ii)\ 

KiQuowJdj. 
Ai7/njT/)iof nacpEuin/cou KaAx'J^dyioj. 

Tpaj (o<5df. 
IjriroKodri;? 'Apioropivovs Podiof. 

Kojpfo<5df. 
KaAAiaroaros 'Era<£<rrou QriSaio;. 

Uotr)T>is Sarripaji'. 
'Apr/i'iaj AnponXioVi QrjSaTo;. 

'YiroKpiTrjs. 
AoipoOcof Aojputiiov TapnvTivo;. 

TloiriT>)f TpayioSioiv. 
2i)0o)cAi)j S'^oxAeohs 'AOnvaioi. 

'YTTtlKplTllS. 

Ka6ipix°i QcoSiZpov Qr/SaTog. . 

Yi.olt)Tr)s KoiprcSldv. 
'AXi^avSpog 'Apforoivos ' AQiivalog 

'XiroKpiTip;. 
"ArraXog 'ArrdXov 'ABrjvaTos* 
Oi'Je iviKiov tov vfipiruv dyciva tiov bpoSdxdv 

TlatSa; aiXriOTas. 
AiokXijs KaXXtpfiSov BnSaTus. 

IlaiSai {jycpdva;. 
"ZTparTvos Eyvifou Br/SaTos. 

"AvSpag aiJAiJTTdf. 
AiokXij; KaXXipi'iS'V Bn&aTo;. 

"AvSpaq rjyepovag. 
P(5c5i7nroj PoJiTrrrou 'Ap^fToj. 

Toaj'tid"dj. 
'In-TTOKpdrris 'Apio-TOpivovs PdiJiof. 

Kcopcojdj. 



80 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



KaAAiorparof 'E^aKiarov OrfiaXo;. 
Td ipiviKta. 
KiopyStoiv IIo«!J7-JJS. 
AXt^avSpo; 'Apiarioivo; 'Adr/vaXo;. 

'Ev Si rfi iripa SuiptKoi;. 

Ttlvaaivto dpxovro; dyovoBtTiovro; to 

Xaoirtinov, tvapi6oroi navrajv oS tv'i St iviKOjo-av rd 

XapiTtiria. 

XaXntyKTd;. 
<fciXivo; QiXivo) 'AQdvtio;. 

Kdpouf. 
TZipcoSas Y'OKpartos QtiGtio;. 

II it irdf. 
Mijarwp Mi'joropuj 4>w(ca(£iif. 

Va\ptvS6;. 
Kpdra>i> KAi'.>i'oj BiiStio;. 

AvXttrd;. 
Titpiytvtl; UpaKXtiSao Kov^iKrivo;. 

AiiXatt'So;. 
Aapfivtro; rXavKOj"Apyio;. 

KiOapiGTa;. 
Taparpos 'ApaXojw AioXtv; and Movpivag. 

TpayatvSd;. 
'AoKXamSSupos II ivOtdo Tapavrivo;. 

KwpatvSo;. 
NtKotrrparo; QiXooTpdro) QtiStio;. 

Td imviiccia K<.<patvS6;. 
Evapxos KpoOOTiO Kopwviv;." 

'Ev aXX<o Xfflu. 

'Mtipi^oj JJoXvKpaTOVs 'lapojvvpo; SioyiTO)vo; livSptaai 
X'lpaytiaavTts viKaaavrt; Sioviaov dviOr)icav ripovo; ap- 
XOVTOi aiXiovro; KXio; qSovro; aXKioOiviu;." 

'Ev trtpro XiQn. 

'$vvapx<>> apxovro;, ptivd; StiXovOio), dpx' <°S Ev- 

6o)Xi dpxtSdpu ijxoKtTa S; dniSioKa and Taj aovy- 

ypatpH n'tSa twv noXtpdpxiov, kti t3v Karonrduv, dvtXd- 
ptvo; Tag aovyypa<p!h; rd; Kipiva; nap tvippdva, nil iptSiav 

K>1 natriKXtiv Kr) Tipdpttcov <j>a)Ktta;, Kij SaportXtTv 

XvciSdpw, Kr] Siowaov nafiaoSoJo) xipuvtia kAt to ipdtyia- 
pa to) Sdpo). 



t6kov iptpiria Spaxpas raj pva; tKaara; Kara ptXva 

, tov k'i ipnpaKTo; eotcj t&v tpxopiviov 



Kai ra £fi;j. 



'Ev aXXoi; XiOot;. 



3uvdpx (0 dpxovro;, ptivdg dXaXKoptvioi F dpvwv, noXv- 
KXtio; Tapiai d-niSioxc tiStoXv dpxtSdpo) rpuKtX'i and rag 
aovyypaipoi to KaraXinov kiit to ipd(jnopa r<3 Sdpio, dvt- 
\6pivcs tu; aovyyoarpdi; rd; Kiptva; nap troxptXov, Kr) 
tvtppova ipoiKtag. Kri nap Siuivvaiov KatptaoScopo) xiP^via, 
Kr) XvcriSapov SaporiXio; n'tSa wuv noXtpapx^v, K 'l T ^ v 
Kurorrrucor. 

" 'ApxovTos iv ipxoptvo Swapxo), ptvd; 'AXaXKOptviu 
iv il F iXariri Mcvotrao 'ApxtAd&j ptivn; npdrdi. 'Opo- 
Xoyd E'vSloXv F iXarir/, o xfi Trj n6Xi tpx'^ptviuv. 'EnttSri 
KtKOjiiaTTi EuS(oA'»j itap Tiis n6Xio$ to Sdvtiov anav kolt 
Tag bpoXoyia; rdj Ttdio-a; Stivdpx&j apxot'Tiig, peivos 
StiXovQiM, Kn ovt btptiXtTTi avTo) In oiiOtv nap tuv it6\iv, 
dAA' drtxi ndvra ntpi navrd;, k>] dnoitSoavOt Trj nnXi to 
tx n VTts rd; bpoXnyias, ti plv irorl StSojiivov %pdi/oi/ 
EvS'oXv inl vopias F in dntTTapa ffovtcrari cuvv iwirvi f5id 
fcan'r/f Fi Kan irpofiuruj aovv Ijyv; %£iX('r/f dpxl T<5 xpovco 
b ivtavrdg b ptrix Oivapxov HpxovTa tpxoptvto; dnoypa- 
<piedri 6i Ei'i/icoAw xar' ivtavrdv tKacrov nap tov Tapiav 
Ki\ tov vopiov av TaTt xavpara twv npwSaTwv, Kr) Toiv 
fiyixrv, k!] tuv /3uvoiv, xi) tcov "Trncov, xi] K&Tiva dcapaiwv 
S'lKt) to nXttdos ptt dnoypdtptao H>6t nXiova tojv ytypap- 

ftivMv iv rf, o-ovyxwptioi rj Stuart; ?j to ivvopiov 

EilioiXov 6(pti\ti Aif Toiv ipxoptvicov dpyovpiio 

TtrrapaKOVTa Ev6o)Xv naO' ixaoTOV htavrov, Kr) 



Avoi&pa cvvtynpov x^P^ " NOKYE2. " KaXXmirop 
dp<pdptx''$> "al aXXai." 'Ev obStpiq imypatpr) 'iSov t6vov, 
) nvtvpa, a Si fleets vnoypdipoptv, ol naXatol -npooiypa^ov. 
Kut rd i. £»7f- 



The following is the prospectus of a translation 
of Anacharsis into Romaic, by my Romaic master, 
Marmarotouri, who wished to publish it in England. 

EIAHSI2 TTnorPAMKB. 

Il.odf touc iv rpiXoytvtXi /cat (piXtXArivas. 

"OSOI £('; fii6Xia navroSana. ivrpvipwcnv, filtvpovv ndoov 
sivai to xfiV^tpov rrjs 'lornpiaj, Si' aurijj yap i^tvpio-xtrai 
i] nXiov ptpaxpvapivri naXat6rris, Kai Stiopovvrat (3; iv K-a- 
Tdnrpt.) r/dri, npa^tis Kal SioiKnatis naXXiov /cat Sia<popwv 
iQvoiv Kal ytvdtv ojv ti)v pvf,nriv Sitaa>o-aTo Kal Siaacoati f] 
'IcTopiKii Aifiyrimi ti; aioiva tov anavra. 

Mi'a tctoiu imo-rrjpri Tivai tvandKTrjTos, Kal iv tuvtu> 
ihdtLXipr], i] KptiTTOv tlntiv dvaynaia- Siari Xoindv i)ptiS 
nm>at va rt)v vaTtpovptda, pr) r/^tvpovreg ovti ray a'pX a S r <3* 
npoyovov pa;, nodtv n6rt ku\ na>( tvpidrjoav ti; t<x; narpi- 
Sa; pa;, ovTt tcl >']dr], to: Karopdupara Kal t<> SioiKrjoiv 
toiv ; Av ipwrficoptv tov; dXXoytvti;, filtvpovv va pa; Soo- 
rrovv bxi p6vov io-TopiKio; Tr)v dpx'iv Kal tijv npdoSov t<3v 
npoydvojv pa;, dXXd Kal TonoypdtpiKw; pa; Sttxvovv ra; 
Siati; t£>v narpiSwv pa;, Kal olovcl xsipaj-coyoi yivdptvoi 
pi tov; yto)ypa<jiiKnv; tcov nivaKa;, fid; Xiyovv, iSdr ilvat al 
'Adrjvat, £<3u> 7/ Xnaprrj, iatX al OrjSa'i, Tdaa CTaSia r\ piXta 
dnixti h pia inapxia and Tt)v aXXr/v. Tovto; o)KoS6prjot tijv 
piav n6Xiv,tKtXvo; Tr)v dXX.nv, Kal tX. Tipocrin av ipa>Ti)o-0i- 
jxtv avTOv; tov; pi] EXXrjva;xttpayoiyov; pa;, nddtv inanaKi- 
vffiriaav vd iZtptwr/o-uvv dpx a i t6uov naXaid;, dvvnooToXio; 
pa; dnoKpivovrai pi airov; tov; X6yov;. " Kado>; b tK 'Skv- 
Oia; 'Avdxapai;, av Siv intpiipxtro Ta navtvippoo-vva iKtXva 
KXipara ri); 'EXXdSo;, av Siv ipipoptXro Ta dficopara, rd 
i}di) Kal tov; vdpuv; t<2v 'EXXi)voiv, ndtXt ptivy Y.Kv9rj; ko.1 
to ovopa Kal to nnaypa' ovtoi Kal b hptTtpo; iarpd;, ov Siv 
ijidvtiavt rd tov 'lnnoKpdrov;, Siv iSvvaro va npoxo>pr\or) 
ti; Triv Ttxv'iv tov. Av b iv iipXv vo^Oirr,; Siv i^tra^t rd 
tov YdXiovo;, Avxovpyov, Kal XltTraKOV, Siv iSivaro va pv- 
Opr)rrrj Kal vd KaXupyfio-rj rd ridrj riov bpoytvav tov Av b 
Pijrcop Siv dnrjvdi^tTo Ta; citfipaStia; Kal tov; x a P ltVTla - 
pov; tov ArjpooQivov;, Siv ivtpyuvatv ei; Ta; l}/vxd; tojv 
UKpoardv tov Av b Nio; Avdxapci;, b Kvpto; 'A6ftd; 
BapBoXopaXo; Siv dvty'ivoiOKt pi ptydXr,v impovhv Kal GKt- 
ipiv tov; nXiov iyKpirov; avyypa^tX; twv 'EXXr\vwv, i\t- 
ptvvcov a&Tuv; Kard^ado; inl TpiaKovra Svco iri, Siv rjdtXtv 
££u0di'!/ TOVTrjv rnv ntpl 'EXXfjvojv lo-Topiav tov, rjri; Titpi 
f)yt(Ti; tov Niov 'Avaxdpota); nap' ovrov npoo-wvopdadn, tal 
ti; bXa; ra; tipoinaiKa; SiaXtKrov; ptTtyXojTTicOr].'''' Kal 
iv ivl Awj'f'', ol vtdjrtpoi, av Stv tntpvav Sta bSr/yov; tov; 
npoydvov; pa;, r)0tXav JVcos nepidtptovTai paTaioi; pixpi 
tov vvi'. Aird Siv elvai Xoyia ivtiovciaopivov Sid to qjiXo- 
ytvi; TpaiKov, tivai Si QiXaXfidovs Ytppavov, b;n; iutrd- 
<ppao-t tov Niov 'Avdxapciv and tov TaXXiKOV ti; to Ttp- 
uaviKOv. 

Av Xoindv Kal >iptX; StXuptv va pt9t%o>ptv rrj; yvwatw; 
tSiv Xapnpwv KaTopOwpdriov bnov txavav oi Savpaorol 
iKtivoi npopdropt; t'lpcov, dv inidvpiSvtv vd pddojptv Tr)v 
np6oSov Kal ai!Ji7crii/ twv ti; rd; Ttxva; kuI inicTfipa; Kal 
ti; KaOt dXXo tISo; pa6i)oeo};, dv tx^ptv ntpupytiav vd 
yvwpiaoiptv noQtv Karaydptda, Kal bnoiov; Savpao-rov; Kai 
ptydXov; avSpa;, ti Kal npoydvov; i)pu>v, <pcv, rjptX; Siv 
yvwpi\nfxtv, ti; Kaipdv bnov oi dXXoytvtX; §avpd$ovo-i» 
airov;, Kal io; naripa; navroiaaovv patifio-to); aiSovTai, a; 
o-vvSpdpwptv anavrt; npodvpoi; ti; Tt]v I'kSoitiv tov Savpa- 
oiov tovtov ovyypdpuaTo; tov Niov 'Avaxdpatio;. 



Hpti; ovv ol vnoytypappivoi SiXoptv tKTtXiatt npodvpco; 
ti)v perddpaaiv tov HiSXiov pi t>iv Kara to Svvotov vpXt 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



81 



KaXrp/ (bpaaiv riis vvv kh9' fipas butXias, KOI ckS6vtcs tovto 
els rvrrov, SeXopev to KaXXojiriati pt tovs ycoypaipiKovs 
it lianas pi airXas Pcdjtiai'*as Xctcis lyKCxapaypcvovs cis 
i&iKii pas ypappara, T-poaTtOivTCS 0, rt aXXo xP i i°~ t l' >' Ka l 
dpp6d"iov cis tt)V laropiav. 

"OXov t6 avyypappa ScXa yivci cis rSpovs iiTiScua Kara 
(tiprjaiv rns 'IraXiKiis CK&oacots. H Tipn bXov tov avyypap- 
fiari'S sli/at ipiapivia icKailn rfj; Biivves Std Tt}v irpoaOi')Kriv 
ruv j saypamiKcHv nivaKW. 'O tpiXoyr.viis ovv avvSpopr/Ti'is 
KpC~st vd irXilpoiar] £15 Kadc TOpov (piopivi iva Kal Kapavra- 
via c'ikoni rfjs Bicvvtjs, Kal tovto xojpij Kappiav vpocoaiv, 
aXX' cvOv; 'ottov OiXti irSi napafiuOrj b rouog Tvrrupcvos Kal 
dcpiivos. 

'"Eppciijjiivoi Kal cvSaipovcs StaSicooiTC, 'EXAiji/toi/ Traffics. 
Ti)s ij-iCTCpas dydirris £|>/prnp£i/a<, 

'lojavvtis MappapoTovpis. 
AriixfiTpios Ticnupris. 
X-vpiSojv TlpcScTOs. 

'Ey TpiEOTIW, TTj TTpCOTT] 'OkT OjlJpioV, 1799. 



THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 

Y il ITATE'PA pas bnov c7aai cis tovs ovpavovs, us dyiaa- 
8tj Tdfivopa aov. Aj cXOij i) flatriXcia gov. A; ycvt} TO^iXripd 
gov, Ka9o>s cis tov ovpavdv, cts t I Kai cis tt/v yfjv. To ipojpl 
pas to Kadripcpivdv, 66s /*flts to anpcpov. Kai avyxtoprjai 
p.as to. xpil pas , KaOo>s Kal cpcTs auyx w P»vpcv tovs Kpco- 
(paXcTas pas. Kal phi' p.is fpcpc cis Trcipaapidv, aXXa cXev- 
ticpojac pas aird tov -zoviipov. "Otl cSikti aov clvai rj 0aoi- 
Xcia Si, »') dvvapirj, Kal i; <5o£a, cis tovs aiSivas- 'Aui]V. 

IN GREEK. 

IIA'TEP fipibiv, b iv toTs ovpavots, dyiaaBfirw to b°vo pa 
aov. 'EXdsrca i, ffaaiXcia aov ycv>]tji'iTto to ScXrina aov, o)s 
cv ovpa-.'oi, Kal £7T4 ths yi\S- Toi/ apTov t'lpoiv tov cmovatov 
ids >)piv afipcpov. Kai lup'-S hpiv ru o0£i,\ijuur« !}p.(_ov, ws 
Kal ripcis dipicpcv toXs otpciXcTais npCiv. Kal pi] ciacviyKys 
ft pas C'S Trapaopdv, aXXa pvaai >'ipas and tov vovtipov. 
"On aov cgtIv t) (JaatXtia, Kal 17 dvvapis, Kal 17 &6\a, cis 
tovs aiojvas. 



CANTO III. 



Li "p)~ide of place " here last the eagle flew. 

Stanza xviii. line 5. 
Pride of place " is a terra of falconry, and 
means the highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth, &c 

" An Eagle towering in his pride of place 
Was by a mousing Owl hawked at and killed. 



Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 
Stanza xx. line 9. 

See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogi- 
ton. — The best English translation is in Bland's 
Anthology, by Mr. Denman. 

"With myrtle my sword will 1 wreathe," &c. 



And all xoent merry as a marriage-hell. 

Stanza xxi. line 8. 
On the night previous to the action, it is said 
that a ball was given at Brussels. 

4,5. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clans- 
man's ears. Stanza xxvi. line 9. 
Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, 
the " gentle Lochiel" of the "forty-five." 
11 



And Ardennes leaves above them her green leaves. 
Stanza xxvii. line 1. 
The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a rem- 
nant of the " forest of Ardennes," famous in 
Boiardo's Orlando, and immortal in Shakspeare's 
"As You Like It." It is also celebrated in Tacitus 
as being the spot of successful defence by the Ger- 
mans against the Roman encroachments. — I have 
ventured to adopt the name connected with nobler 
associations than those of mere slaughter. 

7. 
I tum'd from all she brought to those she could 
not bring. Stanza xxx. line 9. 

My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field 
seemed intelligent and accurate. The place where 
Major Howard fell was not far from two tall and 
solitary trees (there was a third cut down or shivered 
in the battle) which stand a few yards from each 
other at a pathway's side. — Beneath these he died 
and was buried. The body has since been removed 
to England. A small hollcjw for the present marks 
where it lay, but will probably soon be effaced ; the 
plough has been upon it, and the grain is. 

After pointing out the different spots where 
Picton and other gallant men had perished, the 
guide said, "here Major Howard lay; I was near 
him when wounded." I told him my relationship, 
and he seemed then still more anxious to point out 
the particular spot and circumstances. The place 
is one of the most marked in the field from the 
peculiarity of the two trees above mentioned. 

I went on horseback twice over the field, com- 
paring it with my recollection of similar scenes. 
As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the 
scene of some great action, though this may be 
mere imagination : I have viewed with attention 
those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Cha?ro- 
nea, and Marathon ; and the field around Mont St. 
Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but a 
better cause, and that indefinable but impressive 
halo which the lapse of ages throws around a cel- 
ebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or all ot 
these, except perhaps the last mentioned. 

S. 

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore. 

Stanza xxxiv. line 6. 
The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake 
Asphaltes were said to be fair without, and within 
ashes. — Vide Tacitus, Histor. 1, 5, 7. 

9. 

For sceptered cynics earth were far too wide a den. 
Stanza xli. line last. 

The great error of Napoleon, "if we have writ 
our annals true," was a continued obtrusion on 
mankind of his want of all community of feeling for 
or with them ; perhaps more offensive to human 
vanity than the active cruelty of more trembling 
and suspicious tyranny. 

Such were his speeches to public assemblies as 
well as individuals ; and the single expression which 
he is said to have used on returning to Paris after 
the Russian winter had destroyed his army, rubbing 
his hands over a fire, "This is pleasanter than 
Moscow," would probably alienate more favor from, 
his cause than the destruction and reverses which 
led to the remark. 

10. 

What want these outlaws conquerors should- have. 
Stanza xlviii. line 6. 

(t What wants that knave 
That a king should have I " 

was King James's qiiestion on meeting Johnny 
Armstrong and his followers in full accoutrements. 
—See the Ballad. 



82 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



11. 



The castled crag of Drachcnfels. 

Page 41, verse 1. 
The castle of Drachcnfels stands on the" highest 
summit of "the seven Mountains," over thejihine 
banks: it is in ruins, and connected with some 
singular traditions : it is the first in view on the 
road from Bonn, but on the opposite side of the 
river: on tliis bank, nearly facing it, are the remains 
of another, called the Jew's castle, and a large cross 
commemorative of the murder of a chief by his 
brother: the number of castles and cities along the 
course of the Rhine on both sides is very great, and 
their situations remarkably beautiful. 

12. 

The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. 
Stanza lvii. line last. 

The monument of the young and lamented Gen- 
eral Marceau (killed by a rifle ball at Alterkirchen 
on the last day of the fourth year of the French 
republic) still remains as described. 

The inscriptions on his monument are rather too 
long, and not required: his name was enough; 
France adored, and her enemies admired ; both 
wept over him. — His funeral was attended by the 
generals and detachments from both armies. In 
the same grave General Hoche is interred, a gallant 
man also in every sense of the word ; but though 
he distinguished himself greatly in battle, he had 
not the good fortune to die there: his death was 
attended by suspicions of poison. 

A seperate monument (not over his body, which 
is buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near 
Andernaeh, opposite to which one of his most 
memorable exploits was performed, in throwing a 
bridge to an island on the Rhine. The shape and 
style arc different from that of Marceau's, and the 
inscription more simple and pleasing. 

" The Army of the Sambre and Meuse 

to its Commander in Chief 

Hoche." 

This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was 
esteemed among the first of France's earlier gen- 
erals before Bonaparte monopolized her triumphs. 
He was the destined' commander of the invading 
army of Ireland. 

13. 

Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter' 'd wall. 

Stanza lviii. line 1. 

Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. "the broad stone of Honor," 
one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was 
dismantled and blown up by the French at the 
truce of Leoben. — It had been and could only be 
reduced by famine or treachery. It yielded to the 
former, aided by surprise. After having seen the 
fortifications of Gibraltar and Malta, it did not 
much strike by comparison, but' the situation is 
commanding. General Marceau besieged it in vain 
for some time, and I slept in a room where I was 
shown a window at which be was said to have been 
standing observing the progress of the siege by 
moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below it. 

14. 

Unsepuichred they roam'd, and shriek 1 d each wander- 
ing ghost. Stanza lxiii. line last. 
The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of 
bones diminished to a small number by the Bur- 
gundian legion in the service of France, who 
anxiously effaced this record of then ancestors' less 
successful invasions. A few still remain, notwith- 
standing the pains taken by the Burgundians for 
ages, (all who passed that way removing a bone to 
their own country,) and the less justifiable larcenies 
of the Swiss postillions, who carried them oft" to 
sell for knife-handles, a purpose for -which the 



whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years had 
rendered them in great request. Of these relics I 
ventured to bring away as much as may have made 
a quarter of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, 
that if I had not, the next passer by might have 
perverted them to worse uses than the careful 
preservation for which I intend for them. 

15. 
Levcll'il Aventicum hath strew'd her subject lands. 
Stanza lxv. line last. 

Aventicum (near Moral) was the Roman capital 
of Helvetia, where ^Pvenches now stands. 

1G. 

. 1//,/ held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 
dast. Stanza lxvi. line last. 

Julia Alpinula, a young Avcntian priestess) died 
soon after a vain endeavor to save her father, con- 
demned to death as a traitor by Aulius Ca?cina. 
Eer epitaph was discovered many years ago; — it is 
thus — 

Julia Alpinula 

Hie jaceo 

Infelicis patris, infelix proles 

Dea 1 Aventire Saccrdos ; 

Exorare patris neccm non potui 

Male mori in fatis ille erat. 

Yixi annos xxni. 

I know of no human composition so effecting as 

this, nor a history of deeper interest. These are 
the names and actions which ought not to perish, 
and to which we turn with a true and healthy 
tenderness, from the wretched and glittering detail 
of a confused mass of conquests and battles, with 
which the mind is roused for a time to a false and 
feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length 
with all the nausea consequent on such intoxication. 

17. 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow. 

Stanza lxvii. line 8. 

This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc, (June 
3, 1816,) which even at this distance dazzles mine. 

(July 20th.) I this day observed for some time 
the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont 
Argentierre in the calm of the lake, which I was 
crossing in my boat ; the distance of these moun- 
tains from their mirror is sixty miles. 

18. 

By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. 

Stanza lxxi. line 3. 

The color of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a 
depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in 
water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean 
and Archipelago. 

19. 

Than vulgar minds maybe with all they seek possest. 
Stanza Ixxix. line last. 

This refers to the account in his "Confessions" 
of his passion for the Countess d'Houdetot, (the 
mistress of St. Lambert,) and his long walk every 
morning for the sake of the single kiss which was 
the common salutation of French acquaintance. — 
Rousseau's description of his feelings on this occa- 
sion may be considered as the most passionate, yet 
not impure description and expression of love that 
ever kindled into words ; which after all must be 
felt, from then very force, to be inadequate to the 
delineation — a painting can give no sufficient idea 
of the ocean. 

20. 

Of earth-o' ergazing mountains. 

Stanza xci. line 3. 
It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



83 



and impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of 
Christianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but 
on the Mount. 

To waive the question of devotion, and turn to 
human eloquence, — the most effectual and splendid 
specimens were not pronounced within walls. 
Demosthenes addressed the public and popular 
assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this 
added to then - effect on the mind of both orator 
and hearers, may be conceived from the difference 
between what we read of the emotions then and 
there produced, and those we ourselves experience 
in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing to 
read the Iliad at Sigeeum and on the tumuli, or by 
the springs with Mount Ida above, and the plain 
and river and Archipelago around you ; and another 
to trim your taper over it in a snug library — this I 
know. 

Were the early and rapid progress of what is 
called Methodism to be attributed to any cause 
beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement 
faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I 
presume neither to canvass nor to question) I 
should venture to ascribe it to the practice of 
preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and 
extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. 

The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at 
least in the lower orders) is most sincere, and 
therefore impressive, arc accustomed to repeat then- 
prescribed orisons and prayers wherever they may 
be at the stated hours — of course frequently in the 
open air, kneeling upon a light mat, (which they 
carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as re- 
quired:) the ceremony lasts some minutes, during 
which they are totally absorbed, and only living in 
their supplication : nothing can disturb them. On 
me the simple and entire sincerity of these men, 
,and the spirit which appeared to be within and 
upon them, made a far greater impression than any 
general rite which was ever performed in places of 
worship, of which I have seen those of almost every 
persuasion under the sun ; including most of our 
own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the 
Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Ma- 
hometan. Many of the negroes, of whom there 
are numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, 
and have free exercise of their belief and its rites : 
some of these I had a distant view of at Patras, 
and from what I could make out of them, they 
appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and 
not very agreeable to a spectator. 

21. 
The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh night. 
Stanza xcii. line 1. 
The thunder-storm to which these lines refer 
occurred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. 
I have seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of 
Chimari several more terrible, but none more 
beautiful. 

22. 
And sunset into rose-hues .sees them wrought. 
Stanza xcix. line 5. 

Rousseau's Heloise, Lettre 17, part 4, note. 
" Cesmontagnes sont si hautes qu'une demi-heure 
apres lc soleil couche, leurs sommets sont encore 
eclaires de ses rayons ; dont le rouge forme sur ces 
cimes blanches une belle cduleur de rose qu'on 
appercoit de fori loin." 

This applies more particularly to the heights 
over Meillerie. 

" J'allai a Vevay loger a la Clef, et pendant deux 
jours que j'y restai sans voir personne, je pris pour 
cette ville un amour qui m'a suivi bans tous mes 
voyages, let qui m'y a fait etablir enfin les hi ros de 
mon roman. Je dirois volontiers a ceux qui out 
du gout et qui sont sensibles ; allez a Vevai — vicitez 
le pays, examinez les sites, promenez-vous surle lac, 
et dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour 
une Jelie, poui une Claire et pour un St. Preux ; 



mais ne les y cherchez pas." Les Confessions, livre 
iv. page 306, Lyons ed. 1796. 

In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the Lake 
of Geneva ; and as far as my own observations have 
led me, in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey 
of all the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in 
his " Heloise," I can safely say, that in this there 
is no exaggeration. It would be difficult to see 
Clarens, (with the scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon, 
Boveret, St. Gingo, Meillerie, Eivan, and the 
entrances of the Rhone,) without being forcibly 
struck with its peculiar adaptation to the persons 
and events with which it has been peopled. But 
this is not all : the feeling with which all around 
Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is 
invested, is of a still higher and more comprehen- 
sive order than the mere sympathy with individual 
pa ision ; it is a sense of the existence of love in its 
most extended and sublime capacity, and of our 
own participation of its good and of its glory : it is 
the great principle of the universe, which is there 
more condensed, but not less manifested; and of 
which; though knowing ourselves a part, we lose 
our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the 
whole. 

If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the 
same associations would not less have belonged to 
such scenes. He has added to the interest of his 
works by their adoption ; he has shown his sense 
of their beauty by the selection ; but they have 
done that for him which no human being could do 
for them. 

I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to 
sail from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) 
to St. Gingo during a lake storm, which added to 
the magnificence of all around, although occasion- 
ally accompanied by danger to the boat, which was 
small and overloaded. It was over this very part 
of the lake that Rousseau has driven the boat of 
St. Preux and Madame "VVolmar to Meillerie for 
shelter during a tempest. 

On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that 
the wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down 
some fine old chestnut trees on the lower part of 
the mountains. 

On the opposite height of Clarens is a chateau. 
The hills are covered with vineyards, and inter- 
spersed with some small but beautiful woods ; one 
of these was named the "Bosquet de Julie," and it 
is remarkable that, though long ago cut down by 
the brutal selfishness of the monks of St. Bernard, 
(to whom the land appertained,) that the ground 
might be enclosed into a vineyard for the miserable 
drones of an exiled superstition, the inhabitants of 
Clarens still point out the spot where its trees 
stood, calling it by the name which consecrated and 
survived them. 

Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in 
the preservation of the "local habitations" he has 
given to " airy nothings." The Prior of Great St. 
Bernard has cut down some of his woods for the sake 
of a few casks of wine, and Bonaparte has levelled 
a part of the rocks of Meillerie in improving the 
road to Simplon. The road is an excellent one, but 
I cannot quite agree with a remark which I heard 
made, that "La route vaut miseux que les sou- 
venirs." 

23. 

Lausanne ! and Fernet/ ! ye have been the abodes. 
Stanza cv. line 1. 

Voltaire and Gibbon. 

21. 

Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself stibdues. 
Stanza cxiii. line last. 



For Banqu 



"If it be thus, 

! have I filed my mind. 9 



O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve. 
Stanza cxiv. line 7 



84 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



It is said by Rochefoucault that " there is always 
something in the misfortunes of men's best friends 
not displeasing to them." 



CANTO IV. 
1. 

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs; 

A palace and a prison on each hand. 

Stanza i. lines 1 and 2. 
The communication between the ducal palace 
and the prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or 
covered gallery, high above the water, and divided 
by a stone wall into a passage and a cell. The 
state dungeons, called "pozzi," or wells, were sunk 
in the thick walls of the palace ; and the prisoner 
when taken out to die was conducted across the 
gallery to the other side, and being then led back 
into the other compartment, or cell, upon the bridge, 
was there strangled. The low portal through which 
the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled 
up ; but the passage is still open, and is still known 
by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi 
are under the flooring of the chamber at the foot of 
the bridge. They were formerly twelve, but on the 
first arrival of the French, the Venetians hastily 
blocked or broke up the deeper of these dungeons. 
You may still., however, descend by a trap-door, 
and crawl down through holes, half choked by 
rubbish, to the depth of two stories below the first 
range. If you are in want of consolation for the 
extinction of patrician power, perhaps you may 
find it there ; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into 
the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the 
places of confiement themselves are totally dark. 
A small hole in the wall admitted the damp air of 
the passages, and served for the introduction of the 
prisoner's food. A wooden pallet, raised a foot 
from the ground, was the only furniture. The 
conductors tell you that a light was not allowed. 
The cells are about five paces in length, two and a 
half in width, and seven feet in height. They are 
directly beneath one another, and respiration is 
somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only one 
prisoner was found when the republicans desci • di d 
into these hideous recesses, and he is said to have 
been confined sixteen years. .But the inmates of 
the dungeons beneath had left traces of their 
repentance, or of their despair, which are still 
visible, and may perhaps owe something to recent 
ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to have 
offended against, and others to have belonged to, 
the sacred body, not only from their signatures, 
but from the churches and belfries which they have 
scratched upon the walls. The reader may not 
object to see a specimen of the records prompted by 
so terrific a solitude. As nearly as they could be 
copied by more than one pencil, three of them are 
are as f jllows : 

1. 

KON TI FIDAR AD ALCUNO PENSA e TACI 
BE FUGIR VUOI DE SPIONI IXSIDIE e LACCI 
IL PEXTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 
MA BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA I'ROVA 

1607. ADI 2. GENARO. FULRE. 
TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 

IACOMO . GRITTI . SCRISSE. 



UN PARLAR pocno et 

NEGARE PRONTO et 

UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 

A NOI ALTRI MESCHINI 

1605 



EGO IOHN BAPTISTA AD 
ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 



DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIO 

DE CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDARO 10 

A 

TA H A NA 

V. LA S . C . K . R. 

The copyist has followed, not corrected the 
solecisms ; some of which are however not quite so 
decided, since the letters were evidently scratched 
in the dark. It only need be observed, bestemmia 
and mangiar may be read in the first inscription, 
which was probably written by a prisoner confined 
for some act of impiety committed at a funeral ; 
that Cortellarius is the name of a parish on terra 
firma, near the sea ; and that the last initials 
evidently are put for Viva la santa Chiesa Kattolica 
Romana. 

2. 

S7ie looJcs a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean. 

Rising with her tiara of proud towers. 

Stanza ii. lines 1 and 2. 

An old writer, describing the appearance of 
Venice, has made use of the above image, which 
would not be poetical were it not true. 

" (Jno jit ut qui superne urb m contempletur, tur- 
vitam telluris imaginem medio Occano jiguratam se 
putet inspicere." * 

3. 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 

Stanza iii. line 1. 

The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alter- 
nate stanzas from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with 
the independence of Venice. Editions of the poem, 
with the original on one column, and the Venetian 
variations on the other, as sung by the boatmen, 
were once common, and are still to be found. The 
following extract will serve to show the difference 
between the Tuscan epic and the " Canta alia 
Barcariola." 

ORIGINAL. 

Canto 1' arme pictose, e '1 capitano 
Che '1 gran Sepolcro libero di Cristo, 

Molto egli opro col senno, e con la mano 
Molto soiiri nel glorioso acquisto ; 

E in van 1* Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vane 
S' anno d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, 

Che il Ciel gli die favpre, e sotto a i Santi 

Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 

VENETIAN. 

L' arme pictose de cantar gho vogia, 
E de Goffrcdo la immortal braura 

Che al In '1 ha libera co strassia, e dogia 
Del nostro buon Gesii la Sepoltura 

De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 
Missier Pluton non 1' ha bu mai paura : 

Dio 1' ha agiuta, e '1 compagni sparpagnai 

Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insiemc i di del Dai. 

Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take 
up and continue a stanza of then once familiar 
bard. 

On the 7th of last January, the author of Childe 
Harold, and another Englishman, the writer of this 
notice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of 
whom was a carpenter, and the other a gondolier. 
The former placed himself at the prow, the latter 
at the stern of the boat. A little after leaving the 
quay of the Piazzetta, they began to sing, and 
continued their exercise until we arrived at the 
island. They gave us, amongst other essays, the 
death of-Clorinda, and the palace of Armida ; and 



• Marci Antonii'Sabelli de Vcnetffi Urbis situ narratio, edit. Taurin. 1527, 
lib. i. fol. 202. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



85 



did not sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. 
The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer of 
the two, and was frequently obliged to prompt his 
companion, told us that he could translate the 
original. He added, that he could sing almost 
three hundred stanzas, but had not spirits (morbin 
was the word he used) to learn any more, or to sing 
what he already knew : a man must have idle time 
on his hands to acquire, or to repeat, and, said the 
poor fellow, " look at my clothes and at me; lam 
starving." This speech was more affecting than 
his performance, which habit alone can make 
attractive. The recitative was shrill, screaming, 
and monotonous, and the gondolier behind assisted 
his voice by holding his hand to one side of his 
mouth. The carpenter used a quiet action, which 
he evidently endeavored to restrain; but was too 
much interested in his subject altogether to repress. 
From these men we learnt that singing is not con- 
fined to the gondoliers, and that, although the 
chant, is seldom, if ever, voluntary, there are still 
several amongst the lower classes who are acquainted 
with a few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the per- 
formers to row and sing at the same time. Al- 
though the verses of the Jerusalem are no longer 
casually heard, there is yet much music upem the 
Venetian canals ; and upon holydays, those strang- 
ers who are not near or informed enough to dis- 
tinguish the words, may fancy that many of the 
gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. 
The writer of some remarks which appeared in the 
Curiosities of Literature, must excuse his being 
twice quoted; for, with the exception of some 
phrases a little too ambitious and extravagant, he 
has furnished a very exact, as well as agreeable, 
description. 

" In Venice, the gondoliers know by heart long 
passages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chant 
them with a peculiar melody. But this talent 
seems at present on the decline : — at least, after 
taking some pains, I could find no more than two 
persons who delivered to me in this way a passage 
from Tasso. I must add, that the late Mr. Berry 
once chanted to me a passage from Tasso, in the 
manlier, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. 

" There are always two concerned, who alternate- 
ly sing the strophes. We know the melody event- 
ually by Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed ; it 
has properly no melodious movement, and is a sort 
of medium between the canto fermo and the canto 
figurato ; it approaches to the former by recitativical 
declamation, and to the latter by passages and course, 
by which one syllable is detained and embellished. 

" I entered a gondola by moonlight: one singer 
placed himself forwards and the other aft, and thus 
proceeded to St. Georgio. One began the song; 
when he had ended his strophe, the other took up 
the lay, and so continued the song alternately. 
Throughout the whole of it, the same notes invari- 
ably returned, but, according to the subject matter 
of the strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller 
stress, sometimes on one, and sometimes on another 
note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the 
whole strophe as the object of the poem altered. 

" On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse 
and screaming : they seemed, in the manner of all 
rude uncivilized men, to make the excellency of 
their singing in the force of their voice : one seem- 
ed desirous of conquering the other by the strength 
of his lungs ; and so far from receiving delight from 
this scene, (shut up as I was in the box of the gon- 
dola,) I found myself in a very unpleasant situation. 

•' My companion, to whom I communicated this 
circumstance, being very desirous to keep up the 
credit of his countrymen, assured me that this sing- 
ing was very delightful when heard at a distance. 
Accordingly we got out upon the shore, leaving one 
of the singers in the gondola, while the other went 
to the distance of some hundred paces. They now 
began to sing against one another, and I kept walk- 



ing up and down between them both, so as always 
to leave him who was to begin his part. I frequent- 
ly stood still and hearkened to the one and to the 
other. 

"Here the scene was properly introduced._ The 
strong declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking 
sound, met the ear from far, and called forth the at- 
tention ; the quickly succeeding transitions which 
necessarily required to be sung in a lower tone, 
seemed like plaintive strains succeeding the vocif- 
erations of emotion or of pain. The other, who 
listened attentively, immediately began where the 
former left off, answering him in milder or more 
vehement notes, according as the purport of the 
strophe required. The sleepy canals, the lofty 
buildings, the splendor of the moon, the deep shad- 
ows of the few gondolas that moved like spirits 
hither and thither, increased the striking pecu- 
liarity of the scene ; and amidst all these circum- 
stances, it was easy to confess the character of this 
wonderful harmony. 

"It suits perfectly well with an idle, solitary mari- 
ner, lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of 
thesecanals, waiting for his company, or for a fare, 
the tiresomeness of which situation is somewhat 
alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he has 
in memory. He often rinses his voice as loud as he 
can, which extends itself to a vast distance over the 
tranquil mirror, and as all is still around, he is, as 
it were, in a solitude in the midst of a large and 
populous town. Here is no rattling of carriages, no 
noise of foot passengers ; a silent gondola glides 
now and then by him, of which the splashings of 
•the oars are scarcely to be heard. 

"At a distance he hears another, perhaps iitterly 
unknown to him. Melody and verse immediately 
attach the two strangers : 'he becomes the respon- 
sive echo to the former, and exerts himself to be 
heard as he had heard the other. By a tacit con- 
vention they alternate verse for verse ; though the 
song should last the whole night through, they en- 
tertain themselves without fatigue : the hearers, 
who are passing between the two, take part in the 
amusement. 

" This vocal performance sounds best at a great 
distance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it 
only fulfils its design in the sentiment of remote- 
ness. It is plaintive but not dismal in its sound, 
and at times it is scarcely possible to refrain from 
tears. My companion, who otherwise was not a 
very delicately organized person, said quite unex- 
pectedly : ' e "singolare come quel canto intenerisce, 
e molto piu quando lo cantano meglio.' 

"I was told that the women of Libo, the long 
row of islands that divides the Adriatic from the 
Lagouns,* particularly the women of the extreme 
districts of Malamocco and Palestrina, sing in like 
manner the works of Tasso to these and similar 
tunes. 

" They have the custom, when their husbands are 
fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the 
evenings, and vociferate these songs, and continue 
to do so with great violence, till each of them can 
distinguish the responses of her own husband at a 
distance." f 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all 
classes of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful 
sons of Italy. The city itself can occasionally fur- 
nish respectable audiences for two and even three 
opera-houses at a time ; and there are few events in 
private life that do not call forth a printed and cir- 
culated sonnet. Docs a physician or a lawyer take 
his degree, or a clergyman preach his maiden ser- 
mon, has a surgeon performed an operation, would 
a harlequin announce his departure or his benefit, 
are you to be congratulated on a marriage, or a 



* The writer meant Lido, which is not a long row of islands, but a long 
island : littus, the shore. 

t Curiosities of Literature, vol. ii. p. 156, edit. 1S07; and Appendix Judx. 
to Black's Life of Ta3so. 



86 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



birth, or a lawsuit, the Muses are invoked to fur- 
nish the same number of syllables, and the individ- 
ual triumphs blaze abroad iu virgin white or party- 
colored placards on half the corners of the capital. 
The last curtesy of a favorite " prima donna " brings 
down a shower of these poetical tributes from those 
upper regions, from which, in our theatres, nothing 
but cupids and snow-storms are accustomed to de- 
scend. There is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, 
which, in its common course, is varied with those 
surprises and' changes so recommendable to fiction, 
out so different from the sober monotony of north- 
ern existence ; amusements are raised into duties, 
duties are softened into amusements, and every ob- 
ject being considered as equally making a part of 
the business of life, is announced and performed 
with the same earnest indifference and gay assidu- 
ity. The Venetian gazette constantly closes its 
columns with the following triple advertisement. 

Charade. 



Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the 
church of St. 



Theatres. 

St. Moses, opera. 

St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 

St. Luke, repose. 

When it is recollected what the Catholics believe 
then- consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think 
it worthy of a more respectable niche than between 
poetry and the play-house. 

4. 

Sparta hath many a worthier son titan he. 

Stanza x. line -5. 

The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the 
strangers who praised the memory of her son. 

5. 

St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand, Stanza xi. line o.. 

The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the 
Invalides but the gospel which supported the paw 
that is now on a level with the other foot. The 
horses also are returned to the ill-chosen spot 
whence they set out, and are, as before, half hidden 
under the porch of St. Mark's church. 

Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been 
satisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts 
of Erizzo and Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count Le- 
opold Cicognara, would have given them a Roman 
extraction, and a pedigree not more ancient than 
the reign of Nero. But M. de Schlegel stepped in 
to teach the Venetians the value of their own treas 
ures, and a Greek vindicated, at last and for ever, 
the pretension of his countrymen to this noble pro- 
duction.* Mr. Mustoxidi has not been left without 
a reply ; but, as yet, he has received no answer. It 
should seem that the horses are irrevocably Chian, 
and were transferred to Constantinople by Theodo- 
sius. Lapidary writing is a favorite play of the 
Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than 
one of their literary characters. One of the best 
specimens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable 
volume of inscriptions, all written by his friend Pac- 
ciaudi. Several were prepared for the recovered 
horses. It is to be hoped the best was not selected, 
when the following words were ranged in gold let- 
ters above the cathedral porch. 



QUATUOR ■ EQUORUM ■ SIGNA A ■ " VENETIS ' BY- 
ZAXTIO • CAPTA ■ AD ■ TEMP " D ' MAR " A * \R " 8 • 
MCCIV - POSITA * QTJJE ■ HOSTILIS • CUPIDITAS • A * 
MDCCIIIC • ABSTULERAT ■ FRANC • I ' IMP ■ PACIS " 
ORBI ■ DATJE ■ TROPHjEUM " A ■ MDCCCXV • VICTOR ' 
REDUXIT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be 
permitted to observe, that the injustice of the Ven- 
etians in transporting the horses from Constantino- 
ple was at least equal to that of the French in car- 
rying them to Paris, and that it would have been 
more prudent to have avoided all allusions to either 
robbery. An apostolic prince should, perhaps, have 
objected to affixing over the principal entrance of 
a metropolitan church an inscription having a refer- 
ence to any other triumphs than those of religion. 
Nothing less than the pacification of the world can 
excuse such a solecism. 

6. 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 

An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt. 
Stanza xii. lines 1 and 2. 

After many vain attempts on the part of the Ital- 
ians entirely to throw off the yoke of Frederic Bar- 
barossa, and as fruitless attempts of the emperor to 
make himself absolute master throughout the whole 
of his Cisalpine dominions, the bloody struggles of 
four and twenty years were happily brought to 
a close in the city of Venice. The articles of a 
treaty had been previously agreed upon between 
Pope Alexander III. and Barbarossa, and the for- 
mer having received a safe conduct, had already ar- 
rived at Venice from Ferrara, in company with the 
ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the consuls, 
of the Lombard league. There still remained, how- 
ever, many points to adjust, and for several days 
the peace was believed to be impracticable. At this 
juncture it was suddenly reported that the Emperor 
had arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the 
capital. The Venetians rose tumultuously, and in- 
sisted upon immediately conducting him to the city. 
The Lombards took the alarm, and departed towards 
Treviso. The Pope himself was apprehensive of 
some disaster if Frederic should suddenly advance 
upon him, but was reassured by the prudence and 
address of Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Several em- 
bassies passed between Chioza and the capital, until, 
at last, the Emperor relaxing somewhat of his pre- 
tensions, "laid aside his leonine ferocity, and put 
on the mildness of the lamb."* 

On Saturday, the 23d of July, in the year 1177, 
six Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great 
pomp, from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile 
from Venice. Early the next morning the Pope, 
accompanied by the Sicilian ambassadors, and by 
the envoys of Lombardy, whom he had recalled 
from the main land, together with a great 
concourse of people, repaired from the patri- 
archal palace to St. Mark's church, and solemnly 
absolved the Emperor and his partisans from the 
excommunication pronounced against him. The 
Chancellor of the Empire, on the part of his mas- 
ter, renounced the anti-popes and their schismatic 
adherents. Immediately the Doge, with a great 
suite both of the clergy and laity, got on board the 
galleys, and waiting 'on Frederic, rowed him in 
mighty state, from the Lido to the capital. The 
Emperor descended from the galley at the quay of 
the Piazetta. The Doge, the patriarch, his bish- 
ops and clergy, and the people of Venice with* their 
crosses and their standards, marched in solemn pro- 
cession before him to the church of Saint Mark. 
Alexander was seated before the vestibule of the 
basilica, attended by his bishops and cardinals, by 



• Sui quatlro cavilli delta Basilica di S. Marco in Venezia. Lettera di 
Andrea MuMoxidi Corcirese. Padua per Bettonie compag. . . 1816. 



* " Quibus aoditis, impcrator, opcrante co, qui corda principum sicut vulj 
et quando vult hurailiter incliuat, leonina ferilate deposita, ovinani man- 
suetudinem indut." Romualdi Salernitani Chronicon. apud Script. Rev. 
Ital. Tom. VII. p. 229. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



87 



the patriarch of Aquileja, by the archbishops and 
bishops of Lombardy, all of them in state, and 
clothed in their church robes. Frederic ap- 
proached — " moved by the Holy Spirit, venerating 
the Almighty in the person of Alexander, laying 
aside his imperial dignity, and throwing off his 
mantle, he prostrated himself at full length at the 
feet of the Pope. Alexander, with tears in his 
eyes, raised him benignantly from the ground, 
kissed him, blessed him ; and immediately the 
Germans of the train sang, with a loud voice, ' We 
praise thee, Lord.' The Emperor then taking 
the Pope by the right hand, led him to the church, 
and having received his benediction, returned to the 
ducal palace." * The ceremony of humiliation was 
repeated the next day. The Pope himself, at the 
request of Frederic, said mass at St. Mark's. The 
Emperor again laid aside his imperial mantle, and, 
taking a wand in his hand, officiated as verger, chiv- 
ing the laity from the choir, and preceding the pon- 
tiff to the altar. Alexander, after reciting the gos- 
pel, preached to the people. The Emperor put 
himself close to the pulpit in the attitude of listen- 
ing; and the pontiff, touched by this mark of his 
attention, for he knew that Frederic did not under- 
stand a word he said, commanded the patriarch of 
Aquileja to translate the Latin discourse into the 
German tongue. The creed was then chanted. 
Frederic made his oblation and kissed the Pope's 
feet, and, mass being over, led him by the hand to 
his white horse. He held the stirrup, and would 
have led the horse's rein to the water side, had not 
the Pope accepted of the inclination for the per- 
formance, and affectionately dismissed him with his 
benediction. Such is the substance of the account 
left by the archbishop of Salerno, who was present 
at the ceremony, and whose story is confirmed by 
every subsequent narration. It would be not worth 
bo minute a record, were it not the triumph of lib- 
erty as well as of superstition. The states of Lom- 
bardy owed to it the confirmation of their privi- 
leges ; and Alexander had reason to thank the 
Almighty, who had enabled an infirm, unarmed old 
man, to subdue a terrible and potent sovereign.f 



Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 
Stanza xii. lines 8 and 9. 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of the 
Highlander, Oh, for one hour of Dundee ! Henry 
Dandolo, when elected Doge, in 1192, was eighty- 
five years of age. When he commanded the Vene- 
tians at the taking of Constantinople, he was con- 
sequently ninety-seven years old. At this age he 
annexed the fourth and a half of the whole empire 
of Romania, J for so the Roman empire was then 
called, to the title and to the territories of the Ven- 
etian Doge. The three-eighths of this empire were 
preserved in the diplomas until the dukedom of Gi- 
ovanni Dolfino, who made use of the above desig- 
nation in the year 13.57-§ 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in per- 
son : two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were 



* Ibi. p. 231. 

t See the above cited Romuald of Salerno. In a second sermon which 
Alexander preached, on the first day of August, before the Emperor, he 
compared Frederic to the prodigal son, and himself to the forgiving father. 

X Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important ce, and has written Romani 
instead of Romania;. Decline and Fall, cap. lxi. note 9. But the title 
acquired by Dandolo rims thus in the chronicle of his namesake, the Doge 
Andrew Dandolo. Dacali titulo addidit, " Quarto: partis et dimidia totius 
imperii Romanice." And. Dand. Chroni^on. cap. iii. pars xxxvii. ap. 
Script. Rer. ltal. torn. xii. page 331. And the Romania is observed in the 
subsequent acts of the Doges. Indeed the contineutal possessions of the 
Greek empire in Europe were then generally known by the name of Romania, 
and tli i' appellation is still seen in,the maps of Turkey as applied to Thrace. 

§ See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, ibid, page 493. Mr. 
Gibbon appears not to include Dolfino, following San-ado, who s\vs, " il 
qual titolo si uso fin at Doge Giovanni Do'fino. See Vi'.e de' Duchi di 
Veuezia. ap. Script. Rer. Hal. torn. xxii. 530, 641. 



tied together, and a drawbridge or ladder let down 
from their higher yards to the walls. The Doge was 
one of the first to rush into the city. Then was 
completed, said the Venetians, the prophecy of the 
Erythraean sibyl. " A gathering together of the 
powerful shall be made amidst the waves of the 
Adriatic, under a blind leader ; they shall beset the 
goat — they shall profane Byzantium — they shall 
blacken her buildings — her spoils shall be dispersed ; 
a new goat shall bleat, until they have measured 
out and run over fiftv-four feet, nine inches, and a 
half."* 

Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, hav- 
ing reigned thirteen years, six months, and five 
days, and was buried in the church of St. Sophia, 
at Constantinople. Strangely enough it must sound, 
that the name of the rebel apothecary who received 
the Doge's sword, and annihilated the ancient gov 
eminent, in 179G-7, was Dandolo. 



But is not Dorians menace come to j)ass f 
Are they not bridled? 

Stanza xiii. lines 3 and 4. 
After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the 
taking of Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by 
the united armament .of the Genoese and Francesco 
da Carrara, Signor of Padua, the Venetians were 
reduced to the utmost despair. An embassy was 
ent to the conquerors with a, blank sheet of paper, 
praying them to prescribe what terms they pleased, 
and leave to Venice only her independence. The 
Prince of Padua was imlincd to listen to these pro- 
posals, but the Genoese, who after the victory at 
Pola, had shouted " to Venice, to Venice, and long 
live St. George," determined to annihilate their 
rival, and Peter Doria, their commander in chief, 
returned this answer to the suppliants : " On God's 
faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace 
from the Signor of Padua, nor from our commune 
of Genoa, until we have first put a rein upon those 
unbridled horses of yours, that are upon the porch of 
your evangelist St. Mark. When we have bridled 
them, we shall keep you quiet. And this is the pleas- 
ure of us and of your commune. As for these my broth- 
ers of Genoa, that you have brought with you to give 
up to us, I will not have them : take them back ; for, 
in a few days hence, I shall come and let them out 
of prison myself, both these and all the others." f 
In fact, the Genoese did advance as far as Mala- 
mocco, within five- miles of the capital ; but their 
own danger and the pride of their enemies gave 
courage to the Venetians, who made prodigious ef- 
forts, and many individual sacrifices, all of them 
carefully recorded by their historians. Vettor Pi- 
sani was put at the head of thirty-four galleys. The 
Genoese broke up from Malamocco, and retired to 
Chioza in October ; but they again threatened Ven- 
ice, which was reduced to extremities. At this 
time, the 1st of January, 1380, arrived Carlo Zeno, 
who had been cruising on the Genoese coast with 
fourteen galleys. The Venetians were now strong 
enough to besiege the Genoese. Doria was killed 
on the 22d of January by a stone bullet one hun- 
dred and ninety-five pounds weight, discharged 
from a bombard called the Trevisan. Chioza was 
then closely invested: five thousand auxiliaries, 
among whom were some English Condottieri, com- 
manded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the Vene- 



* " Fiet potentium in aquis Adriaticis congregatio, cceco produce, Mr- 
cam ambigait, Byzantium prophanabunt, cedifida denigrab' I 

dispergentar, Hircus novus batabit usque dum L1V pedes et IX pollicee, 
et semis pramensurati discurrant." [Chronicon, ibid, pars xrfxiv.] 

j "Alia < ■:'< D <<; Veneziam, non havereie mai pa 

nore di Padoaa, ne dat nostra commune rfi Genova, se primieramente non 
mettemo le briglie a qucUi vostri cavalli sfrcnati, cite sono su la ftcza del 
' • angelista S. Marco. Imbrenaii che g'i hanremo, or faremo 

stare ■inbuona pace. E questae la intenzionc not o commune, 

QuesUmieiJrtUeth Genevosi clie'kttveh i per doma/rci, non li 

oogUo ; rimanetegU in dietro pcrche io intendo da rjtd a poc'ti giorni venir 
gli a riscuoter, dalle loslre prigioni, e loro e gh altri." 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tians. The Genoese in their turn, prayed for con- 
ditions, but none were granted, until, at last, they 
surrendered at discretion; and, on the 21th of June, 
1380, the Doge Contarini made his triumphal entry 
into Chioza, Four thousand prisoners, nineteen 
y&, many smaller vessels and barks, with all 
the ammunition and arms, and outfit of the expedi- 
tion, fell into the hands of the conquerors, who, 
had it not been for the inexorable answer of Doria, 
■would have gladly reduced their dominion to the 
city of Venice. An account of these transactions 
is found in a work called the War of Chioza, written 
by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in Venice at the time.* 

9. 

The " Planter of the Lion." 

Stanza xiv. line 3. 

Plant the Lion — that is, the Lion of St. Mark, 
the standard of the republic, which is the origin of 
the word Pantaloon — Piantelone, Pantaleon, Pan- 
taloon. 

10. 

Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her .elm ami what enthralls. 

Stanza xv. lines 7 and 8. 
The population of Venice at the end oi' the seven- 
teenth century amounted to nearly two hundred 
thousand souls. At the last census, taken two \ ears 
ago, it was no more than about one hundred and 
1b, ie thousand, and it diminishes daily. The com- 
merce and the official employments, which were to 
be the unexhausted source of Venetian grandeur, 
have both expired. t Most of the patrician man- 
sions are deserted, and would gradually disappear, 
had not the government, alarmed bj Hie demolition 
of seventy-two, during the last two years, i tpres i\ 
forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many rem- 
nants Of the Venetian nobility are now sea 
and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the 
banks of the Brenta, whose palladian palaces have 
sunk, or are sinking in the general decay. Of the 

mill o Veneto," the name is still known, 

and that is all. He is but the shadow of his former 
self, but be is polite and kind, it surely may be 
pardoned to him if he is querulous. Whatever may 
have been the vices of the republic, and although 
the natural term of its . si .:<'i ; r,> may be thoughl by 
foreigners to have arrived in the due course of mor- 
tality, only one sentiment can bo expected from the 

Venetians themselves. At no time were the sub- 
jects of the republic so unanimous in their resolu- 
tion to rally round the standard of St. Mark, as when 
it was for I bo list time unfurled ; and the cowardice 
and the treachery of the few patricians who re i m 
mended the fatal neutrality were confined to the per- 
sons of the t ra iters themselves. Thepresenl race can- 
not be thought to regret the loss of their aristocrat- 
ical forms, and too despotic government; they think 
only on their vanished independence. They pine 
away at the remembrance, and on this subject sus- 
pend for a moment their gay good humor. \ I 
may be said in the words of the Scripture, " to die 
daily; " and so general and so apparent is the de- 
cline, as to become painful to a stranger, not recon- 
ciled to the sighl of a whole nation expiring as it 
were before his eyes. So artificial a creation, having 
lost that principle which called it into life and sup- 
ported its existence, must fall to pieces at once, and 
sink more rapidly than it cose. The abhorrence of 
slavery which drove the Venetians to the sea, has, 
since their disaster, forced them to the land, where 
they may he at least overlooked amongst the crowd 
of dependants, and not present the humiliating 



spectacle of a whole nation loaded with recent 
chains. Their liveliness, their affability, and that 
happy indifference which constitution alone can 
give, for philosophy aspires to it in vain, have not 
sunk under circumstances; but many peculiarities 
of costume and manner have by degrees been lost, 
and the nobles, with a pride common to all Italians 
who have been masters, have not been persuaded to 
parade their insignificance. That splendor which 
was a proof and a portion of their power, they 
would not degrade into the trappings of their sub- 
jection. They retired from the space which they 
had occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizens ; 
their continuance of which would have been a symp- 
tom of acquiescence, and an insult to those who 
suffi red by the common misfortune. Those who 
remained in the degraded capital might be said 
rather to haunt the scenes of their departed power, 
than to live in them. The reflection, " who and 
what enthralls," will hardly bear a comment from 
one who is, nationally, the friend and the ally of the 
conqueror. It may, however, be allowed to say thus 
much, that to those who wish to recover their inde- 
pendence, any masters must he an object of de- 
testation ; and it may be safely foretold that this 
unprofitable aversion will not have been corrected 
' Venice shall have sunk into the slime of her 
choked canals. 

11. 
I:, ili mption rose up in the Attic Muse ! 

Stanxa xvi. line 3. 
The story is told in Plutarch's life of Nicias. 

12. 

And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art. 

Stanza xviii. line 5. 

Venice Preserved; Mysteries of Udolpho; the 
Ghostseer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice; 

Othello. 

1.3. 
But from tht ir nature will the tannen grow 
Loftiest on loft us! cut} least shelter' d rocks. 

Stanza xx. lines 1 and 2. 

Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir pe- 
culiar to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky 
parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourish- 
ment can be found. On these spots it grows to a 
greater height than any other mountain tree. 

11. 
A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven. 

Stanza xxviii. lines 1 and 2. 

The above description may seem fantastical or 
exaggerated to those who have never seen an Orien- 
tal or an Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly 
sufficient delineation of an August evening (the 
eighteenth) as contemplated in one of many rides 
along the banks of the Brenta near La Mira. 

15. 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
With his melodious tears, fie gave himself to fame. 
Stanza xxx. lines 8 and 9. 

Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, 
we now know as little of Laura as ever.* The dis- 
coveries of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his 
sneers can no longer instruct or amuse. f We must 
not, however, think that these memoirs are as 
much a romance as Belisarius or the Incas, although 



* See an Historical and Critical Essay on the Life and Character of 
Petrarch: ami a Dissertation on an Bistorica] Hypothesis of the Abbe de 
Sade : Hi'- first appeared about the year 17S4 ; the other is inserted in the 
fourth volume of the Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and 



* "Chronica delia guerra di Chozac," &c. Script, tier. Italic, torn, xv 
pp. 699 to 804. 

t " Nonnujlorum e nobilitate immensffl sunt opes, adco ut vix mtimari 

possiiit: ill quod tribus e rebus oritur, par ilia, commercio, atque riz I both have been incorporated into a work, published under the first title Uv 

emoiumentis, quai e Repub. percipiunt, qua: banc ob causam diuturna fore Ballantyne in 1810. 

creditur."— See de Priucipatibns Ualias, Tractate edit. 1631. ' f Memoirea pour la Vie di PJtrarque. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



89 



we are told so by Dr. Beattie, a great name, but a 
little authority.* His "labor" has not been in 
vain, notwithstanding his "love" has, like most 
other passions, made him ridiculous. f The hypoth- 
esis which overpowered the struggling Italians, and 
carried along less interested critics in its current, is 
Tun out. We have another proof that we can be 
never sure that the paradox, the most singular, and 
therefore having the most agreeable and authentic 
air, will not give place to the reestablished ancient 
prejudice. 

It seems, then, first, that Laura was born, lived, 
died, and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the 
country. The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets 
of Cabricres, may resume their pretensions, and the 
exploded de la Bastie again be heard with compla- 
cency. The hypothesis of the Abbe had no stronger 
props than the parchment sonnet and medal found 
on the skeleton of the wife of Hugo de Sade, and 
the manuscript note to the Virgil of Petrarch, now 
in the Ambrosial library. If these proofs were both 
incontestable, the poetry was written, the medal 
composed, cast, and deposited within the space of 
twelve hours : and these deliberate duties were per- 
formed round the carcass of one who died of the 
Elague, and was hurried to the grave on the day of 
er death. These documents, therefore, are too 
decisive : they prove not the fact, but the forgery. 
Either the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a 
falsification. The Abbe cites both as incontestably 
true ; the consequent deduction is inevitable — they 
are both evidently false. j 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a 
haughty virgin rather than that tender and prudent 
wife, who honored Avignon by making that town 
the theatre of an honest French passion, and played 
off for one and twenty years her little machinery of 
alternate favors and refusals § upon the first poet 
of the age. It was, indeed, rather too unfair that a 
female should be made responsible for eleven chil- 
dren upon the faith of a misinterpreted abbreviation, 
and the decision of a librarian. || It is, however, 
satisfactory to think that the love of Petrarch was 
not platonic. The happiness which he prayed to 
possess but once and for a moment was surely not 
of the mind, IT and something so very real as a 
marriage project, with one who has been idly 
called a shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected 
in at least six places of his own sonnets.** The 
love of Petrarch was neither platonic nor poetical ; 
and if in one passage of his works he calls it 
" amore veementeissiino ma unico ed onesto," he 
confesses, in a letter to a friend, that it was guilty 



* Life of Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes, t. ii. p. 105. 

t Mr. Gibbon called his memoirs "o labor of love," (See Decline and 
Fall, cap. lxx. note 1,) and followed him with confidence and delight. The 
compiler of a very voluminous work must take much criticism upon trust ; 
Mr. Gibbon has done so, though not as readily as some other authors. 

I The sonnet had belore awakened the suspicious of Mr. Horace Walpolc. 
See his letter to Wharton in 1763. 

§ " Pur ce petit manege, cette alternative de favours et de rigueurs bien 
■nenagee, une femme tendre et sage amuse, pendant vingt et un ans, le plus 
gTand poete de son siecle, sans faire la moindre breche a son honeur." 
Mem. pour la Vie de Petrarque, Preface aux Frangais. The Italian editor 
of the London edition of Petrarch, who has translated Lord Woodhouselee, 
renders the "femme tendre et sage," "raffinata doelta." Riflessioni- 
intorno a madonna Laura, p. 234, vol. iii. ed. 1811. 

|| In a dialogue with St. Augustin, Petrarch has described Laura as having 
a body exhausted with repeated plubs. The old editors read and printed 
perturbationibus ; but Mr. Capperonier, librarian to the French king in 1762, 
who saw the MS. in the Paris library, made an attestation that " Oil Ht et 
qu'on doit lire, partubus exhaustum." De Sade joined the names of 
Messrs. Boudot, and Bejot with Mr. Capperonier, and in the whole discussion 
on tliis plubs, showed himself a downright literary rogue. See Riflessioni, 
ftc, p. 267. Thomas Aquinas is. called in to settle whether Petrarch's mis- 
tress was a chaste maid or a continent wife. 

TT "Pigmalion, quanto lodar ti dei 
Dell' imagine tua, se mille volte 
N' avesti quel ch' i' sol una vorrei." 

Sonnetto 58 quando giunse a Simon I' alto concetto. 
Le Rime, &c. par i. pag. 189, edit. Vcn. 1756. 

•• See Riflessioni, &c, p. 291. 

12 



and perverse, that it absorbed him quite and 
mastered his heart.* 

In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed 
for the_ culpability of his wishes ; for the Abbe de 
Sade himself, who certainly would not have been 
scrupulously delicate if he could have proved his 
descent from Petrarch as well as Laura, is forced 
into a stout defence of his virtuous grandmother. 
As far as relates to the poet, we have no security 
for the innocence, except perhaps in the constancy 
of his pursuit. He assures us in his epistle to pos- 
terity, that, when arrived at his fortieth year, he 
not only had in horror, but had lost all recollection 
and image of any " irregularity. "f Put the birth 
of his natural daughter cannot be assigned earlier 
than his thirty-ninth year ; and either the memory 
or the morality of the poet must have tailed him, 
when he forgot or was guilty of this slip. J The 
weakest argument for the purity of this love has 
been drawn from the permanence of effects, which 
survived the object of his passion. The reflection 
of Mr. do la Bastie, that virtue alone is capable of 
making impressions which death cannot efface, if 
one of those which everybody applauds, and every- 
body finds not to be true, the moment he examines 
his own breast or the record of human feeling. § 
Such apothegms can do nothing for Petrarch or for 
the cause of morality, except with the very weak 
and the very young. He that has made even a 
little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage can- 
not be edified with anything but truth. What is 
called vindicating the honor of an individual or a 
nation, is the most futile, tedious, aud uninstructive 
of all writing ; although it will always meet with 
more applause than that sober criticism, which is 
attributed to the malicious desire of reducing a 
great man to the common standard of humanity. 
It is, after all, not unlikely, that our historian was 
right in retaining his favorite hypothetic salvo, 
which secures the author, although it scarcely saves 
the honor of the still unknown mistress of Petrarch. || 

16. 
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died. 

Stanza xxxi. line 1. 

Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his re- 
turn from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban 
V. at Roine, in the year 1370, and, with the excep- 
tion of his celebrated visit to Venice, in company 
with Francesco Novello da Carrara, he appears to 
have passed the four last years of his life between 
that charming solitude and Padua. For four months 
previous to his death he was in a state of continual 
languor, and in the morning of July the 19th, in 
the year 1374, was found dead in his library chair, 
with his head resting upon a book. The chair is 
still shown among the precious relics of Arqua, 
which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has 
been attached to every thing relative to this great 
man from the moment of his death to the present 
hour have, it may be hoped, a better chance of au- 
thenticity than the Shaksperian memorials of Strat- 
ford upon Avon. 

Arqua (for the last syllable is accented in pro- 
nunciation, although the analogy of the English 
language has been observed in the verse), is twelve 
miles from Padua, and about three miles on the 
right of the high road to Rovigo, in the bosom of 



■ "Qaiella reae perversa passione che solo tutto mi occupava e mi rognava 
nel cuore." 

t ./Irion dishonesta are his words. 

X " A questa confessione cosi sincera diede fbrae occasione una nuova cad- 
uta ch' ei fece." Tiraboschi, Storia, § c. torn. v. lib. iv. par. ii. pag. 492. 

§ " 11 n'y a que la vertu scute qui soit capable de faire des impression* 
que la morl n' efface pas." M. de Bimard, Baron de la Bastie, in the Mem- 
uin-s de r.Vr.iidrmie des Inscriptions et Belles Lcltres for 1740 and 1751. See 
also Riflessioni, Sic., p. 293. 

" And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was inexorable, he enjoyed 
and might boast of enjoying the nymph of poetry." Decline aud Fall, cap 
lxx. p. 327, vol. xii. oct. Perhaps the if is here meant for although. 



90 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the Euganean hills. After a walk of twenty min- 
utes across a flat, well-wooded meadow, you come to 
a little blue lake, clear, but fathomless, and to the 
foot of a succession of acclivities and hills, clothed 
with vineyards and orchards, rich with fir and pome- 
granate trees, and every sunny fruit shrub. From 
the banks of the lake the road winds into the hills, 
and the church of Arqua is soon seen between a 
cleft where two ridges slope towards each other, 
and nearly enclose the village. The houses are 
scattered at intervals on the steep sides of these 
summits ; and that of the poet is on the edge of a 
little knoll overlooking two descents, and com- 
manding a view not only of the glowing gardens in 
the dales immediately beneath, but of the wide 
plains, above whose low woods of mulberry and 
willow^fhickened into a dark mass by festoons of 
vines, tall single cypresses, and the spires of towns 
are seen in the distance, which stretches to the 
mouths of the Po and the shores of the Adriatic. 
The climate of these volcanic hills is warmer, and 
the vintage begins a week sooner than in the plains 
of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot be said 
to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red marble, raised 
on four pilasters on an elevated base, and preserved 
from an association with meaner tombs. It stands 
conspicuously alone, but will be soon overshadowed 
by four lately planted laurels. Petrarch's fountain, 
for here every thing is Petrarch's, springs and ex- 
pands itself beneath an artificial arch, a little below 
the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest 
season, with that soft water which was the ancient 
wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be more 
attractive, were it not, in some seasons, beset with 
hornets and wasps. No other coincidence could 
assimilate the tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. 
The revolutions of centuries have spared these se- 
questered valleys, and the only violence which has 
been offered to the ashes of Petrarch was prompted 
not by hate, but veneration. An attempt was made 
to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, and one of 
the arms was stolen by a Forcntine through a rent 
which is still visible. The injury is not forgotten, 
but has served to identify the poet with the country 
where he was born, but where he would not live. A 
peasant boy of Arqua being asked who Petrarch 
was, replied, " that the people of the parsonage 
knew all about him, but that he only knew that he 
was a Florentine." 

Mr. Forsyth* was not quite correct in saying that 
Petrarch never returned to Tuscany after he had 
once quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass 
through Florence on his way from Parma to Rome, 
and on his return in the year 1350, and remained 
there long enough to form some acquaintance with 
its most distinguished inhabitants. A Florentine 
gentleman, ashamed of the aversion of the poet for 
his native country, was eager to point out this trivial 
error in our accomplished traveller, whom he knew 
and respected for an extraordinary capacity, exten- 
sive erudition, and refined taste, joined to that en- 
gaging simplicity of manners which has been so 
frequently recognized as the surest, though it is 
certainly not an indispensable, trait of superior ge- 
nius. 

Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxious- 
ly traced and recorded. The house in which he 
lodged is shown in Venice. The inhabitants of 
Arezzo, in order to decide the ancient controversy 
between their city and the neighboring Ancisa, 
where Petrarch was carried when seven months old, 
and remained until his seventh year, have designat- 
ed by a long inscription the spot where their great 
fellow citizen was born. A tablet has been raised to 
him in Parma, in the chapel of St. Agatha, at the 
cathedral, f because he was an archdeacon of that 



Sec, on Italy, p. 95, note, 2d edit, 
t D. 0. M. 
Francisca Petrarchje 
Parmensi Arcliidiacono. 



society, and was only snatched from his intended 
sepulture in their church by a. foreign death. Anoth- 
er tablet with a bust has been erected to him at 
Pavia, on account of his having passed the autumn 
of 1368 in that city, with his son-in-law Brossano. 
The political condition which has for ages pre- 
cluded the Italians from the criticism of the living, 
has concentrated their attention to the illustration 
of the dead. 

17. 
Or, it may be, with demons. 

Stanza xxxiv. line 1. 

The struggle is to the full as likely to be with 
demons as with our better thoughts. Satan chose 
the wilderness for the temptation of our Saviour. 
And our unsullied John Locke preferred the pres- 
ence of a child to complete solitude. 

18. 

In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire ; 
And Bolleau, whose rash envy, &c. 

Stanza xxxviii. lines 6 and 7. 

Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates 
Tasso, may serve as well as any other specimen to 
justify the opinion given of the harmony of French 
verse. 

A Malerbe a Racan, prefere Theophile, 

Et Je clinquant du Tasse a tout l'or de Virile. 

Sat. ix. vers. 176. 

The biographer Serassi,* out of tenderness to the 
reputation cither of the Italian or the French poet, 
is eager to observe that the satirist recanted or ex- 
plained away this censure, and subsequently allowed 
the author of the Jerusalem to be a " genius, sub- 
lime, vast, and happily born from the higher flights 
of poetry." To this we will add, that the recanta- 
tion is far from satisfactory, when we examine the 
whole anecdote as reported by Olivet. f The sen- 
tence pronounced against him by BohoursJ is re- 
corded only to the confusion of the critic, whose 
palinodia the Italian makes no effort to discover, 
and would not perhaps accept. As to the opposi- 
tion which the Jerusalem encountered from the 
Cruscan academy, who degraded Tasso from all 
competition with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, 
the disgrace of such opposition must also in some 
measure be laid to the charge of Alfonso, and the 
court of Ferrara. For Leonard Salviati, the princi- 
pal and nearly the sole origin of this attack, was, 



FareutibuB praclaris genera perantiquo 

Ethices Christians scriptori eixmio 

Romans lingua; reslitutori 

Etruscas priucipi 

Africa; ob carmen hac in urlje peractum regions ticcito 

S. P. Q.. R. laurea donata. 

Tanti Viri. 

Juvenilium juvenis seniliurn senex 

Sin. [iossissimus. 

Comes Nicolaus Canonicus Cicogcarus 

Marmorea proxima ara excitata. 

Ibique condito 

Biva; Jaouarue cruento corpore 

H. M. P. 

Suiiectum 

Bed infra meritum Francisci sepulchre 

Summa hac in a;de elferri maudantis 

Si Parma: occurnberet 

Extera morte hen nobis crepti. 

• La Vita del Tasso, lib. iii. p. 281, torn. ii. edit. Bergamo, 1790. 

t Histoire de l'Academie Franeaise, depuisl652 jusqu' a 1700, par l'Abbe 

d'Olivet, p. 181, edit. Amsterdam, 1730. "Mais, ensuite, venant a ['usage qu'i* 

a fait de ses talens, j'aurois montre que le bon sens n'est pas toujours ce qui 

domine chez lui," p. 182. Boileau said he had not changed Ills opinion : 

"J 'en ai si peu change, dit-il," lie., p. 181. 

X LaManiere de bieu Penser dans les ouvrages de l'esprit, sec. dial. p. 89, 
edit. 1692. Philanthes is for Tasso, and saj-s, in the outset, " de tous les 
beaux esprits que 1'Italie a portes, le Tasse est peut-etre celui qui pense le 
plus noblement." But Bohours seems to speak in Eudoxus, who closes with 
the absurd comparison : " Faites valoire le Tasse taut qu'il vous p.Uira, je 
m'en tiens pour moi a Virgile," Sc. Ibid. p. 102. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



91 



there can be no doubt,* influenced by a hope to ac- 
quire the favor of the House of Este; an object 
which he thought attainable by exalting the reputa- 
tion of a native poet at the expense of a rival, then 
a. prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts of Sal- 
viati must serve to show the cotemporary opinion 
as to the nature of the poet's imprisonment ; and 
will fill up the measure of our indignation at the 
tyrant jailer. f In fact, the antagonist of Tasso 
was not disappointed in the reception given to his 
criticism; he was called to the court of Ferrara, 
where having endeavored to heighten his claims to 
favor by panegyrics on the family of his sovereign,! 
he was in turn abandoned, and expired in neglected 
poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans was 
brought to a close in six years after the commence- 
ment of the controversy ; and if the academy owed 
its first renown to having almost opened with such 
a parodox,§ it is probable that, on the other hand, 
the care of his reputation alleviated rather than ag- 
gravated the imprisonment of the injured poet. 
The defence of his father and of himself, for both 
were involved in the censure of Salviati, found em- 
ployment for many of his solitary hours, and the 
captive could have been but little embarassed to 
reply to accusations, where, amongst other delin- 
quences, he was charged with invidiously omitting, 
in his comparison between France and Italy, to 
make any mention of the cupola of St. Maria del 
Fiore at Florence. || The late biographer of Ariosto 
seems as if willing to renew the controversy by 
doubting the interpretation of Tasso's self-estima- 
tionH related in Serassi's life of the poet. But 
Tiraboschi had before laid that rivalry at rest,** by 
showing, that between Ariosto and Tasso it is not a 
question of comparison, but of preference. 

19. 
The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
The iron crown of laurel's mimie'd leaves. 

Stanza xli. lines 1 and 2. 

Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from 
the Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, 
his Lust, which surmounted the tomb, was struck by 
lightning, and a crown of iron laurels melted away. 
The event has been recorded by a writer of the last 
century. ff The transfer of these sacred ashes on 
the 6th of June, 1801, was one of the most brilliant 
spectacles of the short-lived Italian Republic ; and 
to consecrate the memory of the ceremony, the 
once famous fallen Intrepidi were revived and re- 
formed into the Ariostean academy. The large 
public place through which the procession paraded 
was then for the first time called Ariosto Square. 
The author of the Orlando is jealously claimed as the 
Homer, not of Italy, but Ferrara. jj The mother of 
Ariosto was of Reggio, and the house in which he 
was born is carefully distinguished by a tablet with 

* La Vita, &c, lib. iii. p. 90, ton. ii. The English reader may see an 
nccounl of the opposition of the Crusea to Tasso, in Dr. Black, Life, &c, 
c;'.p. xvii. vol. ii. 

t For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso was neithci mors 
nor leas than a prisoner of state, the reader is referred to "Historical Illus- 
trations of the IVlh Canto of Childe Harold," pag. 5 and following. 

\ Orazioni funebri . . . delle loch' Don Luigi Cardinal d'Este . . . delle lodi 
3i Donno Alfonso d'Este. See La Vita, lib. iii. p. 117. 

§ It was founded ia 1582, and the Cruscan answer to Pellegrino's Caraffa 
or ejnea poesia was published in 1584. 

[I "Cotanto pote sempre in Iui il veleno della sua pessima volouta contro 
alle n a/jon Fiorenuna." La Vita, lib. iii. p. 9S, 98, torn. ii. 

Tf La Vila di M. L. Ariosto, sciitta dall' Abate Giorlamo Baroffaldi Giun- 
., Ferrara, 1S07, lib. iii. p. 2G2. See Historical Illustrations, 4c, 
p. 26. 

* • Storia della Lett. &c., lib. iii. torn. vii. par. iii. p. 1220, sect. 4. 

ff "Mi raccoutarono que* monaci, ch' essendo caduto un fulmine nella 
loro c'niesa schianto esso dalle tempie la coronna di lauro a quell' immortalc 
pocta." Op di Bianconi, vol. iii. p. 176, ed. Milano, 1802 ; lettera al Signor 
Guido Savini Arcinsiocritico, sull' indole di un fulmine caduto in Dresda 1'anno 
1759. 

tt "Appassionato ammiratore ed invitto apologista dell' Omero Ferra- 
rese." The title was first given by Tasso, and is quoted to the confusion of 
the Tassisti, lib. ii:. pp. 262, 265, La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, &c. 



these words : " Qui nacque Ludovico Ariosto tl 
giorno 8 di Settembre dell' anno 147-1." But the 
Ferrarese make light of the accident by which their 
poet was born abroad, and claim him exclusively for 
then- own. They possess his bones, they show his 
arm-chair, and his inkstand, and his autographs. 

" Hie illius arma 

liiC COITUS fuit " 



The house where he lived, the room where he 
died, are designated by his own replaced memorial,* 
and by a recent inscription. The Ferrarese are 
more jealous of their claims since the animosity of 
Denina, arising from a cause which their apologists 
mysteriously hint is not unknown to them, ventured 
to degrade their soil and climate to a Bceotian inca- 
pacity for all spiritual productions. A quarto vol 
ume has been called forth by the detraction, and 
this supplement to Barotti's Memoirs of the illus- 
trious Ferrarese has been considered a triumphant 
reply to the " Quado Storico Statistico dell' Alta 
Italia." 

20. 

For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 

Stanza xli. lines 4 and 5. 

The eagle, the sea calf, the laurel, f and the 
white vine, j were among the most approved pre- 
servatives against lightning ; Jupiter chose the first, 
Augustus Caesar the second,^ and Tiberius never 
failed to wear a wreath of the third when the sky 
threatened a thunder-storm. || These superstitions 
may be received without a sneer in a country where 
the magical properties of the hazel twig have not 
lost all their credit ; and perhaps the reader may 
not be much surprised to find that a commentator 
on Suetonius has taken upon himself gravely to 
disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of Tibe- 
rius, by mentioning that a few years before he wrote 
a laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome. IT 

4 
21. 

Know that the light /tiny sanctifies below. 

Stanza xli. line 8. 

The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the 
Forum, having been touched by lightning, were 
held sacred, and the memory of the accident was 
preserved by a puteal or altar, resembling the mouth 
of a well, with a little chapel covering the cavity 
supposed to be made by the thunderbolt. Bodies 
scathed and persons struck dead were thought to 
be incorruptible ;** and a stroke not fatal conferred 
perpetual dignity upon the man so distinguished by 
heaven, ff 

Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a 
white garment, and buried where they fell. The 
superstition was not confined to the worshippers of 
Jupiter ; the Lombards believed in the omens fur- 
nished by lightning, and a Christian priest confesses 
that, by a diabolical skill in interpreting thunder, a 
seer foretold to Agilulf, Duke of Turin, an event 
which came to pass, and gave him a queen and a 
crown. XX There was, however, something equivo- 
cal in this sign, which the ancient inhabitants of 
Rome did not always consider propitious :»and as 
the fears are likely to last longer than the consola- 



• " Parva sed apta mini, sed nulli obnoxia, sed non 
Sordida, parta meo sed tamen are domus." 

f Aquila, vitulus marinus, et laurua, fulmine non feiiunter. Plin. Nat. 
Hst. lib. ii. cap. Iv. 

} Columella, lib. x. 

§ Sueton. in Vit. August, cap. xc. 

|| Sueton. in Vit. Tiberii, cap. Ixix. 

V Note 2, p. 409, edit. Lugd. Eat. 1667. 

*• Vid. J. C. Bullenger, de Terra: Motu et Fulminib. lib. v. cap xi. 

tt OiSris KepavvoiOe'tg art/no; 1<iti, odev nai coj $£0$ rt- 
pUTai. Plut. Sympos. vid. J. C. Bulleng. ut sup. 

It Pauli Diaconi, de Gestis Langobard. lib. iii. cap. xiv. fo. 15, edit. 
Taurin. 1527. 



92 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tions of superstition, it is not strange that the Ro- 
mans of the age of Leo X. should have been so 
much terrified at some misinterpreted storms as to 
require the exhortations of a scholar, who arrayed 
all the learning on thunder and lightning to prove 
the omen favorable ; beginning with the flash which 
struck the walls of Velitrse, and including that 
which played upon a gate at Florence, and forejold 
the pontificate of one of its citizens.* 

22. 

Italia ! oh Italia ! §c. 

Stanza xlii. line 1. 

The two stanzas, XLII. and XLIIL, are, with 
the exception of a line or two, a translation of the 
famous sonnet of Fillicaja: 

"Italia, Italia, tu cui feo la sorte." 



Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 

The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind. 
Stanza xliv. lines 1 and 2. 

The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicus to 
Cicero on the death of his daughter describes it as 
it then was, and now is, a path which I often traced 
in Greece, both by sea and land, in different jour- 
neys and voyages. 

" On my return from Asia, as I was sailing from 
JEgina towards Megara, I began to contemplate the 
prospect of the countries around me : iEgina was 
behind, Megara before me ; Pirreus on the right, 
Corinth on the left ; all which towns, once famous 
and flourishing, now lie overturned and buried in 
then- ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but think 
presently within myself, Alas! how do we poor 
mortals fret and vex ourselves, if any of our friends 
happen to die or to be killed, whose life is yet so 
short, when the carcasses of so many noble cities lie 
here exposed before me in one view." f 

24. 

And we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form 

Stanza xlvi. iines 7 and 8. 

It is Poggio who, looking from the Capitoline 
hill upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the excla- 
mation, " Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata 
jacet, instai gigantei cadavcris corrupti atque un- 
dique exesi." t 

25. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone. 

Stanza xlix. line 1. 

The view of the Venus of Mcdeeis instantly sug- 
gests the lines in the Seasons, and the comparison 
of the object with the description proves not only 
the correctness of the portrait, but the peculiar 
turn of thought, and, if the term may be used, the 
sexual imagination of the descriptive poet. The same 
conclusion may be deduced from another hint in the 
same episode of Musidora ; for Thomson's notion of 
the privileges of favored love must have been either 
very primitive, or rather deficient in delicacy, when 
he made his grateful nymph inform her discreet 
Damon* that in some happier moment he might, 
perhaps, be the companion of her bath : 

11 The time may come you ueed not fly." 

The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the 
Life of Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Flor- 
entine gallery without a word on the Whetter. It 



• 1. p, Valeriana de fulminum significntionibus declamatio, ap. Crav 
Antiq. Rorn. torn. v. p. 593. The declamation is addressed to Julian of 
Medecis. 

t Dr. Middleton— History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, sect. vii. p. 
371, vol. ii. 

% De fortune varietate urbis Rome, ct de ruiuis ejusdem descriptio. ap 
Sellehgre, Thesaur. torn. i. p. 501. 



seems strange that the character of that disputed 
statue should not be entirely decided, at least in the 
mind of any one who has seen a sarcophagus in the 
vestibule of the Basilica of St. Paul without the 
walls, at Rome, where the whole group of the fable 
of Marsyas is seen in tolerable preservation ; and 
the Scythian slave whetting the knife is represented 
exactly in the same position as the celebrated master- 
piece. The slave is not naked ; but it is easier to 
get rid of this difficulty than to suppose the knife 
in the hand of the Florentine statue an instrument 
for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi supposes, 
the man is no other than the barber of Julius Caesar. 
YV'inkelmann, illustrating a bas relief of the same 
subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agostini, 
and his authority might have been thought conclu- 
sive, even if the resemblance did not strike the 
most careless observer.* 

Among the bronzes of the same princely collec- 
tion is still to be seen the inscribed tablet copied 
and commented upon by Mr. Gibbon. f Our histo- 
rian found some difficulties, but did not desist from 
his illustration : he might be vexed to hear that his 
criticism has been thrown away on an inscription 
now generally recognized to be a forgery. 

26. 

His eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy siceet cheek. 

Stanza li. lines 6 and 7. 

'OcpBaXftovs itJTiav. 

" Atque oculos pascat ulurque suos." 

Ovid. Amor. lib. ii. 

27. 
In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie. 

Stanza liv. line 1. 
This name will recall the memory, not only of 
those whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into 
the centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of 
her whose eloquence was poured over the illustrious 
ashes, and whose voice is now mute as those she 
sung. Corixna is no more; and with her should 
expire the fear, the flattery, and the envy, which 
threw too dazzling or too dark a cloud round the 
march of genius, and forbade the steady gaze of 
disinterested criticism. We have her picture em- 
bellished or distorted, as friendship or detraction 
has held the pencil : the impartial portrait was 
hardly to be expected from a contemporary. The 
immediate voice of her survivors will, it is probable, 
be far from affording a just estimate of her singular 
capacity. The gallantry, the love of wonder, and 
the hope of associated fame, which blunted the 
edge of censure, must cease to exist. — The dead 
have no sex ; they can surprise by no new miracles ; 
they can confer no privilege ; Corinna has ceased 
to be a woman — she is only an author : and it may 
be foreseen that many will repay themselves for 
former complaisance, by a severity to which the ex- 
travagance of previous praises may perhaps give the 
color of truth. The latest posterity, for to the 
latest posterity they will assuredly descend, will 
have to pronounce upon her various productions ; 
and the longer the vista through which they are 
seen, the more accurately minute will be the object, 
the more certain the justice, of the decision. She 
will enter into that existence in which the great 
writers of all ages and nations are, as it were, asso- 
ciated in a worfd of their own, and, from that supe- 
rior sphere, shed their eternal influence for the con- 
trol and consolation of mankind. But the individ- 
ual will gradually disappear as the author is more 
distinctly seen : some one, therefore, of all those 
whom the charms of involuntary wit, and of easy 



* See Monim. Ant. hied. par. i. cap. xvii. n. xliii. pag. 50 ; and Stork 
delli Arti, ftc, lib. xi. cap. 1. torn. ii. pag. 314. not. B. 
t Nomina gentesque Antique Italia;, p. 20J, edit. oct. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



93 



hospitality, attracted within the friendly circles of 
Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those virtues 
which, although they are said to love the shade, 
are, in fact, more frequently chilled than excited by 
the domestic cares of private life. Some one 
should be found to portray the unaffected graces 
with which she adorned those dearer relationships, 
the performance of whose duties is rather discov- 
ered among the interior secrets, than seen in the 
outward management, of family intercourse ; and 
which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of genuine 
affection to qualify for the eye of an indifferent 
spectator. Some one should be found, not to cele- 
brate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an 
open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, 
and always pleased, the creator of which, divested 
of the ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone 
forth only to give fresh animation to those around 
her. The mother tenderly affectionate and tenderly 
beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, but still 
esteemed, the charitable patroness of all distress, 
cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, 
and protected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the 
most where she was known the best ; and, to the 
sorrows of very many friends and more dependants, 
may be offered the disinterested regret of a stranger, 
who, amid the sublimer scenes of the Leman lake, 
received his chief satisfaction from contemplating 
the engaging qualities of the incomparable Corinna. 

28. 
Here repose 
Angelo's, Aljieri's bones. 

Stanza liv. lines 6 and 7- 
Alfieri is the great name of this age. The Ital- 
ians, without waiting for the hundred years, con- 
sider him as " a poet good in law." — His memory 
is the more dear to them because he is the bard of 
freedom ; and because, as such, his tragedies can 
receive no countenance from any of their sovereigns. 
They are but very seldom, and but very few of 
them, allowed to be acted. It was observed by 
Cicero, that nowhere were the true opinions and 
feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at the 
theatre.* In the autumn of 1S1(3, a celebrated im- 
provisatoire exhibited his talents at the opera-house 
of Milan. The reading of the theses handed in for 
the subjects of his poetry was received by a very 
numerous audience, for the most part in silence, or 
with laughter; but when the assistant, unfolding 
one of the papers, exclaimed, " The Apotheosis of 
Victor Alfieri" the whole theatre burst into a 
shout, and the applause was continued for some 
moments. The lot did not fall on Alfieri ; and the 
Signor Sgricci had to pour forth his extemporary 
common-places on the bombardment of Algiers. 
The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite so 
much as might be thought from a first view of the 
ceremony ; and the police not only takes care to look 
at the papers beforehand, but in case of any pru- 
dential afterthought, steps in to correct the blind- 
ness of chance. The proposal for deifying Alfieri 
was received with immediate enthusiasm, the rather 
because it was conjectured there would be no oppor- 
tunity of carrying it into effect. 

29. 
Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose. 
Stanza liv. line 9. 



* The free expression of their honest sentiments survived their liberties 
Titius, the friend of Antony, presented them wiih games in the theatre of 
Pompey. They did not suffer the brilliancy of the spectacle to efface from 
their memory that the man who furnished them with the entertainment had 
murdered the son of Pompey ; they drove him from the theatre with curses. 
The moral sense of a populace, spontaneously expressed, is never wrong. 
Even the soldiers of the triumvirs joined in the execration of the citizens, by 
shouting round the chariots of Lepidus and Piancus, who had proscribed 
their brothers, De Germanis non de Gallis duo triumphant Consules ; a 
saying worth a record, were it nothing but a good pun. [C. Veil. Paterculi 
Hist. lib. ii. cap. lxxix. pag. 78, edit. Elzevir, 1639. Ibid. lib. ii. cap. botvii.] 



The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscrip- 
tions, which so often leaves us uncertain whethei 
the structure before us is an actual depository, or a 
cenotaph, or a simple memorial not of death but 
life, has given to the tomb of Machiavelli no in- 
formation as to the place or time of the birth or 
death, the age or parentage, of the historian. 

TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS MACHIAVELLI. 

There seems at least no reason why the name should 
not have been put above the sentence which alludes 
to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudices 
which have passed the name of Machiavelli into an 
epithet proverbial of iniquity, exist no longer at 
Florence. His memory was persecuted as his life 
had been, for an attachment to liberty incompatible 
with the new system of despotism, which succeeded 
the fall of the free governments of Italy. He was 
put to the torture for being a "libertine," that is, 
for wishing to restore the republic of Florence ; and 
such are the undying efforts of those who are in- 
terested in the perversion not only of the nature of 
actions, but the meaning of words, that what was 
once patriotism, has by degrees come to signify de 
bauch. We have ourselves outlived the old mean- 
ing of " liberality," which is now another word for 
treason in one country and for infatuation in all. It 
seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse the 
author of the Prince, as being a pander to tyranny; 
and to think that the Inquisition would condemn 
his work for such a delinquency. The fact is that 
Machiavelli, as is usual with "those against whom 
no crime can be proved, was suspected of, and 
charged with, atheism ; and the first and last most 
violent opposers of the Prince were both Jesuits, 
one of whom persuaded the Inquisition " benche 
fosse tardo," to prohibit the treatise, and the other 
qualified the secretary of the Florentine republic as 
no better than a fool. The father Possevin was 
proved never to have read the book, and the father 
Lucchesin.i not to have understood it. It is clear, 
however, that such critics must have objected not 
to the slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed 
tendency of a lesson which shows how distinct are 
the interests of a monarch from the happiness of 
mankind. The Jesuits are reestablished in Italy, 
and the last chapter of the Prince may again call 
forth a particular refutation, from those who are 
employed once more in moulding the minds of the 
rising generation, so as to receive the impressions 
of despotism. The chapter bears for title, " Esor- 
tazione a liberare la Italia dai Barbari," and con- 
cludes with a libertine excitement to the future re- 
demption of Italy. " Non si deve adunque lasciar 
passare questa occasione, acciocche la Italia vegga 
dopo tanto tempo appaire un sao redentore. Nk 
posso esprimere conqualamore ei fusse ricevuto in 
tutte quelle provincie, che hanno patito per queste 
illnrioni esternc, con qual sete di vendetta, con che 
ostinata fede, con che lacrime. Quali porte se li 
serrerebeno? Quali popoli li negherebberio la obbedi- 
enzaf Quale Italiano li negkerebbe I'ossequio? ad 

OGNUNO PUZZA QUESTO liAKEAEO DOMINIO." * 
30. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar. 

Stanza lvii. line 1. 

Dante was born in Florence in the year 1261. He 
fought in two battles, was fourteen times ambassa- 
dor, and once prior of the republic. When the 
party of Charles of Anjou triumphed over the Bi- 
anchi, he was absent on an embassy to Pope Boni- 
face VIII., and was condemned to two years' ban- 



* II Principe di Niccolo Machiavelli, &c, con la prevazione e le note isto- 
riche e politiche di Mr. Amelot de la Iloussaye e 1' esame e confutazions dell' 
opera Casmopoli, 1769. 



94 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ishment and to a fine of eight thousand lite ; on non- 
payment of which he was further punished by the 
sequestration of all his property. The republic, 
however, was not content with this satisfaction, for 
in 1772 was discovered in the archives at Florence a 
sentence in which Dante is the eleventh of a list of 
fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt alive ; Talis 
pervenicns igne comburatur sic quod moriatur. The 
pretext for this judgment was a proof of unfair 
barter, extortions, and illicit gains. Baracteriarum 
iniguarum, extorsionum, et illicitorum hicrorum,* 
and with such an accusation it is not strange that 
Dante should have always protested his innocence, 
and the injustice of his "fellow-citizens. His appeal 
to Florence was accompanied by another to the 
Emperor Henry ; and the death of that sovereign 
in 1313, was the signal for a sentence of irrevocable 
banishment. He had before lingered near Tuscany 
with hopes of recall ; then travelled into the north 
of Italy, where Verona had to boast of his longest 
residence ; and he finally settled ut Ravenna, which 
was his ordinary but not constant abode until his 
death. The refusal of the Venetians to grant him 
a public audience, on the part of Guido Novello da 
Polenta, his protector, is said to have been the 
principal cause of this event, which happened in 
1321. He was buried ("in sacra minorum eede ") 
at Ravenna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected 
by Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo in 14S3, 
praetor for that republic which had refused to hear 
him, again restored by Cardinal Corsi in 1692, and 
replaced by a more magnificent sepulchre, con- 
structed in 1780, at the expense of the Cardinal 
Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The offence or misfortune 
of Dante was an attachment to a defeated party, 
and, as his least favorable biographers allege against 
him, too great a freedom of speech and haughtiness 
of manner. But the next age paid honors almost 
divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in 
vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, 
crowned his image in a church, f and his picture is 
still one of the idols of their cathedral. They 
struck medals, they raised statues to him. The 
cities of Italy, not being able to dispute about his 
own birth, contended for that of his great poem, 
and the Florentines thought it for their honor to 
prove that he had finished the seventh canto before 
they drove him from his native city. Fifty-one 
years alter his death, they endowed a professorial 
chair for the expounding of his verses, and Boccac- 
cio was appointed to this patriotic employment. 
The example was imitated by Bologna and Pisa, 
and the commentators, if they performed but little 
service to literature, augmented the veneration 
which beheld a sacred or moral allegory in all the 
images of his mystic muse. His birth and his in- 
fancy were discovered to have been distinguished 
above those of ordinary men ; the author of the De- 
cameron, his earliest biographer, relates, that his 
mother was warned in a dream of the importance of 
her pregnancy : and it was found, by others, that at 
ten years of age he had manifested his precocious 
passion for that wisdom or theology, which, under 
the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a 
substantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy 
had been recognized as a mere mortal production, 
and at the distance of two centuries, when criticism 
and competition had sobered the judgment of Ital- 
ians, Dante was seriously declared superior to 
Homer : J and, though the preference appeared to 
some casuists " an heretical blasphemy worthy of 
the flames," the contest was vigorously maintained 
for nearly fifty years. In later times it was made a 
question which of the Lords of Verona could boast 



* Storia della Lett. Ital. torn. v. lib. iii. par. 2, p. 443. Tiraboschi is incor- 
loct: the dates of the three decrees against Dairte are A. D. 1302, 1314, and 
1316. 

t So relates Ficino, but some think his coronation only an allegory. See 
Storiaj &c, nt snp. p. 453. 

% By Varchi in his Ercolano. The controversy continued from 1570 to 
1616. See Storia, tic, torn. vii. lib. iii. par. iii. b. 1280 



of having patronized him,* and the jealous skepti- 
cism of one writer would not allow Ravenna the 
undoubted possession of his bones. Even the crit- 
ical Tiraboschi was inclined to believe that the poet 
had foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries of 
Galileo. — Like the great originals of other nations, 
his popularity has not always maintained the same 
level. The last age seemed inclined to undervalue 
him as a model and a study ; and Bcttinelli one day 
rebuked his pupil Monti, for poring over the harsh 
and obsolete extravagances of the Commedia. The 
present generation, having recovered from the Gal- 
lic idolatries of Cesarotti, has returned to the an- 
cient worship, and the Danieggiare of the northern 
Italians is thought even indiscreet by the more 
moderate Tuscans. 

There is still much curious information relative 
to the life and writings of this great poet which has 
not as yet been collected even by the Italians ; but 
the celebrated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this 
defect, and it is not to be regretted that this national 
work has been reserved for one so devoted tp ~afn 
country and the cause of truth. 

31. 

Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 

Tin/ factions, in their ivorse than civil war, 

Proscribed, fyd. 

Stanza lvii. lines 2, 3, and 4. 
The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was 
not buried at Liternum, whither he had retired to 
voluntary banishment. This tomb was near the 
sea-shore, and the story of an inscription upon it, 
Ingrata Patria, having given a name to a modern 
tower, is, if not true, an agreeable fiction. If he 
was not buried, he certainly lived there. f 

In cost angusta e solilaria villa 

Era 'I grand 1 uomo che d'Africa B'appella 

Perche prima cul ferro al vivo aprilla.t 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar 
to republics ; and it seems to be forgotten that for 
one instance of popular inconstancy, we have a 
hundred examples of the fall of courtly favorites. 
Besides, a people have often repented — a monarch 
seldom or never. Leaving apart many familiar 
proofs of this fact, a short story may show the dif- 
ference between even an aristocracy and the multi- 
tude. 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at 
Potolongo, and many years afterwards in the more 
decisive action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled 
by the Venetian government, and thrown into 
chains. The Avvogadori proposed to behead him, 
but the supreme tribunal was content with the sen- 
tence of imprisonment. Whilst Pisani was suffer- 
ing this unmerited disgrace, Chioza, in the vicinity 
of the capital, § was, by the assistance of the Signer 
of Padua, delivered into the hands of Pietro Doria. 
At the intelligence of that disaster, the great bell 
of St. Mark's tower tolled to arms, and the people 
and the soldiery of the galleys were summoned to 
the repulse of the approaching enemy ; but they 
protested they would not move a step, unless Pisani 
were liberated and placed at their head. The great 
council was instantly assembled ; the prisoner was 
called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Conta- 
rini, informed him of the demands of the people 
and the necessities of the state, whose only hope of 
safety was reposed on his efforts, and who implored 
him to forget the indignities he had endured in her 
service. " I have submitted," replied the magnan- 
imous republican, "I have submitted to your delib- 



* Gio. Jacopo Dionisi Canonico di Verona. Serie di Anedotto, n. 2. See 
Storia, &c, torn. r. lib. i. par. i. p. 24. 

t Vitam Litemi eg-it sine deaideio nrbis. See T. Liv. Hist. lib. xxxviii. 
Livy reports that some said he was buried at Liternum, others at Rome Ih 
cap. Iv. 

| Trionfo della Castita. 

§ See note 8, page 62. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAHOLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



95 



erations without complaint ; I have supported pa- 
tiently the pains of imprisonment, for they were 
inflicted at your command : this is no time to in- 
quire whether I deserved them — the good of the re- 
public may have seemed to require it, and _ that 
which the republic resolves is always resolved wisely. 
Behold me ready to lay down my life for the preser- 
vation of my country." Pisani was appointed gen- 
eralissimo, and by his exertions, in conjunction with 
those of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon recovered 
the ascendancy over their maritime rivals. 

The Italian communities were no less unjust to 
their citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, 
both with the one and the other, seems to have 
been a national, not an individual object: and, not- 
withstanding the boasted equality before the laws, 
which an ancient Greek writer* considered the 
great distinctive mark between his countrymen and 
the barbarians, the mutual rights of fellow-citizens 
seem never to have been the principal scope of the 
old democracies. The world may have not yet seen 
an essay by the author of the Italian Republics, in 
which the distinction between the liberty of former 
states, and the signification attached to that word 
by the happier constitution of England, is ingeni- 
ously developed. The Italians, however, when they 
had ceased to be free, still looked back with a sigh 
upon those times of turbulence, when every citizen 
might rise to a share of sovereign power, and have 
never been taught fully to appreciate the repose of 
a monarchy. Sperone Speroni, when Francis Maria 
II. Duke of Rovere proposed the question, "which 
was preferable, the republic or the principality — the 
perfect and not durable, or the less perfect and not 
so liable to change," replied, "that our happiness 
is to be measured by its quality, not by its duration ; 
and that he preferred to live for one damlike a man, 
than for a hundred years like a brute, a stock, or a 
stone." This was thought, and called, a magnificent 
answer, down to the last days of Italian servitude. f 

32. 
And the crown 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely toore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grovon. 

Stanza lvii. lines 6, 7, and 8. 

The Florentines did not take the opportunity of 
Petrarch's short visit to their city in 13o0 to revoke 
the decree which confiscated the property of his 
father, who had been banished shortly after the 
exile of Dante. His crown did not dazzle them ; 
but when in the next year they were in want of his 
assistance in the formation of their university, they 
repented of their injustice, and Boccaccio was sent 
to Padua to entreat the laureate to conclude his 
wanderings in the bosom of his native country, 
where he might finish his immortal Africa, and 
enjoy with his recovered possessions, the esteem of 
all classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him 
the option of the book and the science he might 
condescend to expound : they called him the glory 
of his country, who was dear, and would be dearer 
to them ; and they added, that if there was anything 
unpleasing in their letter, he ought to return among 
them, were it only to correct their style. J Petrarch 
seemed at first to listen to their flattery and to the 
entreaties of his friend, but he did not return to 
Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to the tomb of 
Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 

33. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
His dust. Stanza lviii. lines 1 and 2. 



* The Greek boasted that lie was iffovOjlos. See the last chapter of the 
first book of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. 

t " E intorno alia magnified msposta," &c. Serassi Vita del Tasso, lib. 
iii. pa jr. 149, torn. ti. edit. 2. Bergamo. 

X " Accingili innoltre, se ci e lecito an cor l'csortarti, a compire l'immortal 
tua Africa. . . . Se ti avvienne d'incontrare nel nostro stile coaa che ti displ- 
aced, cio debb' essere un altro motivo ad esaudire i desiderj della tua patria." 
Sloria della Ijett. ltal. torn. t. par. i. lib. i, pag. 7G. 



Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Michael 
and St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the 
Valdelsa, which was by some supposed the place of 
his birth. There he passed the latter part of his 
life in a course of laborious study, which shortened 
his existence ; and there might his ashes have been 
secure, if not of honor, at least of repose. But the 
"hysena bigots " of Certaldo tore up the tombstone 
of Boccaccio, and ejected it from the holy precincts 
of St. Michael and St. James. The occasion, and, 
it may be hoped, the excuse, of this ejectment was 
the making of a new floor for the church ; but the fact 
is, that the tombstone was taken up and thrown 
aside at the bottom of the building. Ignorance 
may share the sin with bigotry. It would be painful 
to relate such an exception to the devotion of the 
Italians for their great names, could it not be ac- 
companied by a trait more honorably conformable to 
the general character of the nation. The principal 
person of the district, the last branch of the house 
of Medicis, afforded that protection to the memory 
of the insulted dead which her best ancestors had 
dispensed upon all cotemporary merit. The Mar- 
chioness Lenzoni rescued the tombstone of Boccac- 
cio from the neglect in which it had sometime lain, 
and found for it an honorable elevation in her own 
mansion. She has done more : the house in which 
the poet lived has been as little respected as his 
tomb, and is falling to ruin over the head of one 
indifferent to the name of its former tenant. It 
consists of two or three little chambers, and a low 
tower, on which Cosmo II. affixed an inscription. 
This house she has taken measures to purchase, 
and proposes to devote to it that care and consider- 
ation which are attached to the cradle and to the 
roof of genius. 

This is not the place to undertake the defence of 
Boccaccio ; but the man who exhausted his little 
patrimony in the acquirement of learning, who was 
among the first, if not the first, to allure the sci- 
ence and the poetry of Greece to the bosom of 
Italy; — who not only invented a new style, but 
founded, or certainly fixed, a new language ; who, 
besides the esteem of every polite court of Europe, 
was thought worthy of employment by the predom- 
inant republic of his own country, and, what is 
more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who lived the 
life of a philosopher and a freeman, and who died 
in the pursuit of knowledge, — such a man might 
have found more consideration than he has met with 
from the priest of Certaldo, and from a late English 
traveller, who strikes off his portrait as an odious, con- 
temptible, licentious writer, whose impure remains 
should be suffered to rot without a record.* That 
English traveller, unfortunately for those who have 
to deplore the loss of a very amiable person, is be- 
yond all criticism ; but the mortality which did not 
protect Boccaccio from Mr. Eustace, must not de- 
fend Mr. Eustace from the impartial judgment of 
his successors. — Death may canonize his virtues, not 
his errors ; and it may be modestly pronounced that 
he transgressed, not only as an author, but as a 
man, when he evoked the shade of Boccacio in com- 
pany with that of Aretine, amidst the sepulchres 
of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it with indignity. 
As far as respects 

" II llagello de 1 Frineipi, 
II Divin Pietro Arelino," 



* Classical Tour, cap. ix. vol. ii. p. 355, edit. 3d. " Of Boccaccio, the 
modern Petronius, we say nothing ; the abuse of genius is more odious and 
more contemptible than its absence ; and it imports little where the impunj 
remains of a licentious author are consigned to their kindred dust. For the 
same reason the traveller may pass unnoticed the tomb of the malignaut 
Aretino." 

This dubious phrase is hardly enough to save the tourist from the suspicion 
of another blunder respecting the burial-place of Aretine, whose tomb was in 
the church of St. Luke at Venice, and gave rise to the famous controversy of 
which some notice is taken in Bayle. Now the words of Mr. Eustace woidd 
lead us to think the tomb was at Florence, or at least was to be somewhere 
recognized. Whether the inscription so much disputed was ever written on 
the tomb cannot now be decided, for all memorial of this author has Uisap. 
peared from the church of St. Luke. 



96 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



it is of little import what censure is passed upon a 
coxcomb who owes his present existence to the 
above burlesque character given to him by the poet 
whose amber has preserved many other grubs and 
worms ; but to classify Boccaccio with such a per- 
son, and to excommunicate bis very ashes, must of 
itself make us doubt of the qualification of the 
classical tourist for writing upon Italian, or, indeed, 
upon any other literature ; for ignorance on one 
point may incapacitate an author merely for that 
particular topic, but subjection to a professional 
prejudice must render him an unsafe director on all 
occasions. Any perversion and injustice may be 
made what is vulgarly called "a case of con- 
science," and this poor excuse is all that can be 
offered for the priest of Certaldo, or the author of 
the Classical Tour. It would have answered the 
purpose to confine the censure to the novels of Boc- 
caccio, and gratitude to that source which supplied 
the muse of Dryden with her last and most harmo- 
nious numbers might perhaps have restricted that 
censure to the objectionable qualities of the hun- 
dred tales. Atanj rale the repentance of Boccaccio 
might have arrested bis exhumation, and it should 
have been recollected and told, that in his old age 
he wrote a letter to bis friend to discourage the 
reading of the Decameron, for the sake of modesty, 
and for the sake of the author, who would not have 
an apologist always at hand to state in his excuse 
that he wrote it when young, and at the command 
of his superiors.* It' is neither the licentiousness 
of the writer, nor the evil propensities of the reader, 
which have given to the Decameron alone, of all the 
works of Boccaccio, a perpetual popularity. The 
establishment of a new and delightful dialect con- 
ferred an immortality on the works in which it was 
first tixed. The sonnets of Petrarch were, for the 
same reason, fated to survive his self-admired Africa, 
the "favorite of kings." The invariable traits of 
nature and feeling with which the novels, as well as 
the verses, abound, have doubtless been the chief 
source of the foreign celebrity of both authors; but 
Boccaccio, as a man, is ho more to ho estimated by 
that work, than Petrarch is to be regarded in no 
other light than as the lover of Laura. Even, how- 
ever, had the father of the Tuscan prose been known 
only as the author o( the Decameron, a considerate 
writer would have been cautious to pronounce a 
sentence irreconcilable with the unerring voice of 
many ages and nations. An irrevocable value has 
never been stamped upon any work solely recom- 
mended by impurity. 

The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, 
which began at a very early period, was the choice 
of his scandalous personages in the cloisters as well 
as the courts; hut the princes only laughed at the 
gallant adventures so unjustly charged upon queen 
Theodelinda, whilst the priesthood cried shame 
upon the (I, bauchees drawn from the convent and 
the hermitage ; and most probably for the opposite 
reason, namely, that the picture was faithful to the 
life. Two of the novels are allowed to be facts use- 
fully turned into tales, to deride the canonization of 
rogues and laymen. S etto and Marcelli- 

nus are cited with applause even bj tin' decent Mu- 
ratori.f The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in 
Bayle, states, thai a new edition of the novels was 
proposed, of which the expurgation consisted in 

omitting the words '-1111)111." and "nun." and 
tacking the immoralities to other names. The lit- 
] history of Italy particularizes no such edition; 
but it was not long before the whole of Europe had 
but one opinion of the Decameron : and the absolu- 
tion of the author seems to have been a point set- 
tled at least a hundred 1 ■ a ;o. "On se feroil 



* " Non enim ttbiqueest, qui in excusationem meam consurgens dicat, jnve- 
nia icripsit, et majoria coactus imperio." The lettei was addressed to Magh- 
iimrd of Oavalcanti, marshal of the kingdom ol Sicily. Sec Tiraboschi, 
Scoria, fee., Mm. v. par. ii. lib. iii. pa ['.S2S l i I. \ en. 1795. 

i i • . i i ■ in] topra Is Auticliili Italian.-, Diss, lviii. p. 25J, torn. iii. edit. 
Mil. ui, 1751. 



sillier si' Ton pretendoit convaincre Boccacc de 
n'avoir pas etc honnete homme, puis qu'il a fait le 
Decameron." So said one of the best men, and 
perhaps the best critic, that ever lived — the very 
martyr to impartiality.* But as this information, 
that in the beginning of the last century one would 
have been hooted at for pretending that Boccaccio 
was not a good man, may seem to come from one oi 
those enemies who are to be suspected, even when 
they make us a present of truth, a more acceptable 
contrast with the. proscription of the body, soul, and 
muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few' v 
from the virtuous, the patriotic cotemporary, who 
thought one of the tales of this impure writer 
worthy a Latin version from his own pen. "I have 
remarked elsewhere," says Petrarch, writing to 
Boccaccio, "///a/ the boo/,- itself has been worried by 
certain dogs, but .staii//;/ defended by your i/"Ji' ana 
voice. Nor teas I astonished, fur i hurt- had proof 
if I lie vigor of your mind, and I know you have 
fallen mi that unaccommodating incapable rare of 
mortals who, whatever tiny either like not , or know 
not, or en mult do, are sure to reprehend in others; 
inn! mi those occasions only put on a show of learning 
and eloquence, hut otherwiseare entirety dumb." \ 

It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do 
not resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them 
who did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would 
not lose the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to 
his memory. Bevius, canon of Padua, at the be- 
ginning of the sixteenth century, erected at Arqua, 
Opposite to the tomb of the Laureate, a tablet, in 
which he associated Boccaccio to the equal honors 
of Dante and of Petrach. 

34. 
What% her pyramid of precious stones? 

Stanza lx. line 1. 

Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo 
and expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure 
only at the source ; and it is in search of some me- 
morial of the virtuous republicans of the family that 
we \isit the church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. 
The tawdry, glaring, unfinished chapel in that 
church, designed for the mausoleum of the Dukes 
of Tuscany, set round with crowns and collins, gives 
birth to mi emotions but those of contempt for the 
lavish vanity of a race of despots, whilst the pave- 
ment slab, simply inscribed to the Father of his 
Country, reconciles us to the name of Medici. J It 
was very natural for Corinna $ to suppose that the 

statue raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella 

de' deposit i was intended for his great namesake; 
but tin 1 magnificent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a 
coffin half hidden in a niche of the sacristy. The 
ii <:n of Tuscany dates from the sovereignty of the 
Medici. Of the sepulchral peace which succeeded 
to the establishment of the reigning families in 
Italv, our own Sidney has given us a glowing but a 
faithful picture. "Notwithstanding all tin- sedi- 
tions of Flon uce, and other cities of Tuscany, the 
horrid factions of (iuelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and 
Bianchi, nobles and commons, they continued popu- 
lous, strong, and exceeding rich; hut in the 
of less than a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable 
reign of the Medices is thought to have destroyed 
nine parts in ten of the people of that province. 
Among other things it is remarkable, that when 
Philip the Second of Spain gave Sienna to the 
Duke of Florence, his ambassador then at Lome 
sent him wand, that he had given away more than 



• Edm . fee., p. 63$, edit. B.isle, 1741, in the Supplement 

to B ij le's Dictionary. 

t "Animadverti alicubi til rum ipsum canum dentlbus lacessitum, tuo tameii 
iv;rie hi. ui"'- vmv ilri ■•iiKiin. N.i- miraiua Mim : nam et vires in- 
." nil tui novi, et scio expurtus esses hominum genus Incolens <t ignarum, 
qui link. (nil I ipsivi'l in 'li mi v. I nrsriiint, vel non possunt, hiatus reprehendnnt ; 
adbocunu ud, aed elinguea ad reliqua." . . . Epist. Joan. Boo- 

cutio, Opp. torn. i. p. 510, edit. Basil. 

} Cosinus Medices, Decn to Put lico, Pater Patria. 

§ Corinne, liv. xviii. cap. iii. vol. iii. page -US. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



97 



650,000 subjects ; and it is not believed* there are 
now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and territory. 
Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and other towns 
that were then good and populous, are in the like 
proportion diminished, and Florence more than any. 
When that city had been long troubled with sedi- 
tions, tumults, and wars, for the most: part unpros- 
perous, they still retained such strength, that when 
Charles VIII. of France, being admitted as a friend 
with his whole army, which soon after conquered 
the kingdom of Naples, thought to master them, 
the people, taking arms, struck such a terror into 
him, that he was glad to depart upon such condi- 
tions as they thought tit to impose. Machiavel re- 
ports, that in that time Florence alone, with the 
Val d'Arno, a small territory belonging to that 
city, could, in a few hours, by the sound of a bell, 
bring together, 135,000 well-armed men ; whereas 
now that city, with all the others in that province, 
are brought to such despicable weakness, emptiness, 
poverty, and baseness, that they can neither resist 
the oppressions of their own prince, nor defend him 
or themselves if they were assaulted by a foreign 
enemy. The people are dispersed or destroyed, and 
the best families sent to seek habitations in Venice, 
Genoa, Rome, Naples, and Lucca. This is not the 
effect of war or pestilence ; they enjoy a perfect 
peace, and suiter no other plague than the govern- 
ment they are under." * From the usurper Cosmo 
down to the imbecile Gaston, we look in vain for 
any of those unmixed qualities which should raise 
a patriot to the command of his fellow-citizens. 
The Grand Dukes, and particularly the third Cos- 
mo, had operated so entire a change in the Tuscan 
character, that the candid Florentines, in excuse for 
some imperfections in the philanthropic system of 
Leopold, are obliged to confess that the sovereign 
was the only liberal man in bis dominions. Yet 
that excellent prince himself had no other notion of 
a national assembly, than of a body to represent 
the wants and wishes, not the will, of the people. 

An earthquake reel'd unheededly away. 

Stanza lxiii. line 5. 
"Andsuch was their mutual animosity, so intent 
were they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which 
overthrew in great part many of the cities of Italy, 

which turned the eour.se of rapid Streams, poured 
back the sea upon the rirers, and tore down the rerij 
mountains, was not felt by one of the combatants." t 
Such is the description of Livy.' It may be doubted 
whether modern tactics would admit of such an ab- 
straction. 

The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be 
mistaken. The traveller from the village under 
Cortona to Casa di Piano, the next stage on the 
way to Rome, has for the first two or three miles, 
around him, but more particularly to the right, that 
flat land which Hannibal laid waste in order to in- 
duce the Consul Flaminius to move from Arezzo. 
On his left, and in front of him, is a ridge of hills 
bending clown towards the lake of Thrasimene, 
called by Livy " montcs Cortonenses," and now 
named the Gualandra. These hills he approaches 
at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries pretend to 
have been so denominated from the bones found 
there ; but there have been no bones found there, 
and the battle was fought on the other side of 
the hill. From Ossaja the road begins to rise a 
little, but does not pass into the roots of the moun- 
tains until the sixty-seventh milestone from Flo- 
rence. The ascent thence is not steep but perpetual, 
and continues for twenty minutes. The lake is 
soon seen below on the right, with Borghetto, a 



round tower close upon the water; and tie undu- 
lating hills partially covered with wood, among 
which the road winds, sink by degrees into the 
marshes near to this tower. Lower than t he road, 
down to the'right amidst these woody hillocks, 
Hannibal placed his horse,* in the jaws of or rather 
above the pass, which was between the lake and 
the present road, and most probably close to Dor- 
ghetto, just under the lowest of the " tumuli." f 
On a summit to the left, above the road, is an old 
circular ruin which the peasants call "the Tower 
of Hannibal the Carthaginian." Arrived at the 
highest point of the road, the traveller has a partial 
view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him 
as he descends the Gualandra. Jle soon finds him- 
self in a vale enclosed to the left and in front and 
behind him by the Gualandra hills, bending round 
in a segment larger than a semicircle, and running 
clown at each end to the lake, which obliques to the 
right and form the chord of this mountain arc. 
The position cannot be guessed at from the plains of 
Cortona, nor appears to be so completely enclosed 
unless to one who is fairly within the hills. It then, 
indeed, appears "a place made as it were on pur- 
pose for a snare," locus insidiis natus. " Borghetto 
is then found to stand in a narrow, marshy pass 
close to the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no 
other outlet at the opposite turn of the mountains 
than through the little town of l'assignano, which 
is pushed into the water by the foot of a high rocky 
acclivity." J There is a woody eminence branching 
down from the mountains into the upper end of the 
plain nearer to the side of Passignano, and on this 
stands a white village called Torre. Polybius seems 
to allude to this eminence as thcone on which Han- 
nibal encamped and drew out his heavy-armed Af- 
fricans and Spaniards in a conspicuous position. § 
From this spot he despatched his Balearic and light- 
armed troops round through the Gualandra heights 
to the right, so as to arrive unseen and form an 
ambush among the broken acclivities which the . 
road now passes, and to be ready to act upon the 
left flank and above the enemy, whilst the horse 
shut up the pass behind. Flaminius came to the 
lake near Borghetto at sunset ; and, without send- 
ing any spies before him, marched through the pass 
the next morning before the day had quite broken, 
so that he perceived nothing of the horse and light 
troops above and about him, and saw oiriy the 
heavy-armed Carthaginians in front on the hill of 
Torre. I| The consul began to draw out his army 
in the flat, and in the mean time the horse in am- 
bush occupied the pass behind him at Borghetto. 
Thus the Romans were completely enclosed, hav- 
ing the lake on the right, the main army on the hill 
of Torre in front, the Gualandra hills tilled with 
the light-armed on their left flank, and being pre- 
vented from receding by the cavalry, who, the farther 
they advanced, stopped up all the outlets in the 
rear. A fog rising from the lake now spread itself 
over the army of the consul, but the high lands 
were in the sunshine, and all the different corps in 
ambush looked towards the hill of Torn' for the 
order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and 
moved clown from his post on the height. At the 
same moment all his troops on the eminences be- 
hind and in the flank of Flaminius, rushed forwards 
as it were with one accord into the plain. The Ro- 
mans, who were forming their array in the mist, 
suddenly heard the shouts of the enemy among 



* On Government, chap. ii. sect. xxvi. pag. 208, edit. 1751. Sidney is, 
together with Locke and Boodley, one of Mr. Hume's " despicable " writers. 

f " Tantusquc full ardor animorum, eado intentus pugna; UllmtlB, Ut eani 
terra moturo qui multarum urbium Italia; magnas partes prostravit, avertitque 
cursu rapido amnes mare fluminibus invexit, montcs lapsu ingenti proruit, 
nomo pugnantium senserit." . . . Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap. xii. 

13 



* " Eqnites ad ipsas fauces saltus tumulis apte tegentibus local." T. Livil 
lib. xxii. cap. iv. 

t " Ubi inaxime montes Cortonenses Thrasimenus subit." Ibid. 

% " Inde colics assurgunt." Ibid. 

§ Toy fiiv Kara Trptiaioirov rf>c iropcias \6$nv airHs Karc^ 
XaGcTO, KO.I rove AiGviis, kcu T<ivc."\(lnpa c , 'If' £"' avrov 
KaTESTOaTOirticvae. HUt. lib. Hi. cap. 83. The account in Polybio. i. 
not so easily reconcilable with present appearances us that in I. ivy; he talks 
of hills to the right and left ol the pass and valley; but when Flaminius 
entered he had the lake at the right of both. 

IJ "A tcrgo et super caput decepeie idsidire." T. Liv. &c. 



98 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



them, on every side, and before they could fall into 
their ranks, or draw their swords, or see by whom 
they were attacked, felt at once that they were sur- 
rounded and lost. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the 
Gualandra into the lake. The traveller crosses the 
first of these at about a mile after he comes into the 
plain, and this divides the Tuscan from the papal 
territories. The second, about a quarter of a mile 
further on, is called " the bloody rivulet," and the 
peasants point out an open spot to the left between 
the "Sanguinetto" and the hills, which, tiny 
say, was the principal scene of slaughter. The 
Other part of the plain is covered with thick set 
olive-trees in corn grounds, and is nowhere quite 
level except near the edge of the lake. It is, in- 
deed, most probable, that the battle was fought near 
this end of the valley, for the six thousand Ro- 
mans, who, at the beginning of the action, broke 
through the enemy, escaped to the summit of an 
eminence which must have been in this quarter, 
otherwise they would have had to traverse the whole 
plain and to pierce through the main army of Han- 
nibal. 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours, 
but the death of Flaminius was the signal for a gen- 
eral dispersion. The Carthaginian horse then burst 
in upon the fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about 
Borghetto, but chiefly the plain of the Sanguinetto 
and the passes of the Gualandra, were strewed with 
dead. Near some old walls on a bleak ridge to the 
left above the rivulet, many human bones have been 
repeatedly found, and this has continued the pre- 
tensions and the name of the " stream of blood." 

Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north 
some painter k the usual genius of the place, and 
the foreign Julio Romano more than divides Man- 
tua with her native Virgil.* To the south we hear 
of Roman names. Near Thrasiniene, tradition is 
still faithful to the fame of an enemy, and Il.anni- 
bal the Carthaginian is the only ancient name re- 
membered on the banks of the Perugian lake. 
Flaminius is unknown ; but the postillions on that 
road have been taught to show the very spot where 
II Console Romano was slain. Of all who fought 
and fell in the battle of Thrasiniene, the historian 
himself has, besides the generals and Maharbal, pre- 
served indeed only a single name. You overtake 
the Carthaginian again on the same road to Rome. 
The antiquary, that is, the hostler, of the posthouse 
at Spoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the vic- 
torious enemy, and shows you the gate still called 
Porta di Annibale. It was hardly worth while to 
remark that a French travel writer, well known by 
the name of the President Deputy, saw Thrasimene 
in the lake of Bolsena, which lay conveniently on 
his way from Sienna to Rome. 

36. 



But thou, Clitumnus. 

Stanza Ixvi. line 1. 

No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on 
the temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and 
Spoleto, and no site, or scenery even in Italy, is 
more worthy a description. For an account of the 
dilapidation of this temple, the reader is referred to 
Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of 
Childe Harold. 

37. 

Chai-ming the eye with dread, — a matchless cat- 
aract. Stanza lxxi. line 9. 
I saw the " Cascata del marmore " of Terni 
twice, at different periods ; once from the summit 
of the precipice, and again from the valley below. 
The lower view is far to be preferred, if the traveller 
has time for one only ; but in any point of view, 



either from above or below, it is worth all the cas- 
cades and torrents of Switzerland put together: 
the Staubach, Reichenbach, Pisse Vache, fall of Ar- 
penaz, &c, are rills in comparative appearance. Of 
the fall of Schafl'hausen I cannot speak, not yet 
having seen it. 

38. 

An iris sits amidst the infernal surge. 

Stanza lxxii. line 3. 

Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of 
iris, the reader may have seen a short account in a 
note to Manfred. The fall looks so much like " the 
hell of waters," that Addison thought the descent 
Uuded to by the gulf in which Alecto plunged into 
the infernal regions. It is singular enough that 
two of the finest cascades in Europe should be ar- 
tificial — this of the Velino, and the one at Tivoli. 
The traveller is strongly recommended to trace the 
Velino, at hast as high as the little lake called Pie" 
di hup. The Rcatine territory was the Italian 
Tempo,* and the ancient naturalist, among other 
beautiful varieties, remarked the daily rainbows of 
the lake Yeliuus. f A scholar of great name has 
devoted a treatise to this district alone. J 

39. 

The thundering lauwine. 

Stanza lxxiii. line 5. 

In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanches 
are known by the name of lauwine. 

40. 
/ abhorred 
Too much, to conquer for the 2>oet's sake, 
The drilld dull lesson, forced down word by word. 
Stanza lxxv. lines 6, 7, and 8. 

These stanzas may probably remind the reader 
of Ensign Northerton's remarks: "D — n Homo," 
&C, but the reasons for our dislike .are not exactly 
the same. I wish to express that we Income tired 
of the task before we can comprehend the beauty ; 
that we learn by rote before we can get by heart ; 
that the freshness is worn away, and the future 
pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed, by 
the didactic anticipation, at an age when we can 
neither feel nor understand the power of composi- 
tions which it requires an acquaintance with life, as 
well as Latin and Greek, to relish, or to reason 
upon. For the same reason we never can be aware 
of the fulness of some of the finest passages of 
Shakspeare, ("To be, or not to be," for instance,) 
from the habit of having them hammered into lis at 
eight years old, as an exercise not of mind but 
of memory : so that when we are old enough to en- 
joy them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. 
In some parts of the Continent young persons are 
taught from more common authors, and do not read 
the best classics till their maturity. I certainly do 
not speak on this point from any pique or aversion 
towards the place of my education. I was not a 
slow, though an idle boy ; and I believe no one could, 
or can be more attached to Harrow than I have al- 
ways been, and with reason ; — a part of the time 
passed there was the happiest of my life ; and my 
preceptor (the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was the best 
and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings 
I have remembered but too well, though too late — 
when I have erred, and whose counsels I have but 
followed when I have done well or wisely. If ever 
this imperfect record of my feeling towards him 
should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one w r ho 
never thinks of him but with gratitude and venera- 
tion — of one who would more gladly boast of hav- 



• About the middle of the Xlllh century the coins of Mantua bore on 
»iile the image and figure of Virgil. Zecca d'ltalia, pi. xvii. i. 6. . . Voyage 
liana le MUauais, &«., par. A. Z. Millin. torn. ii. pag. 294, Pahs, 1817. 



* "Reatini me ad sua Tempe duxerunt." Cicer. epist. ad Attic, xt. 
Ub. ir. 

f " In eodem lacu nullo non die apparere arcus." Plin. Hist. Nat. lib. ii. 
cap. lxii. 

X Aid. Manut. do Reatina urbe agroque, ap. Saliengre, Thesaur. torn. i. 
p. 773. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



99 



ng been his pupil, if, by more closely following his 
njunctions, he could reflect any honor upon his in- 
Itructor. 

41. 

The Scij)ios' tomb contains no ashes now. 

Stanza lxxix. line 5. 

For a comment on this and the two following 
stanzas, the reader may consult Historical Illustra- 
tions of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 

42. 
The trebly hundred triumphs. 

Stanza lxxxii. line 2. 
Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the 
number of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius ; 
and Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and the modern writ- 
ers. 

43. 

Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel, §c. 
Stanza lxxxiii. line 1. 
Certainly were it not for these two traits in the 
life of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should re- 
gard him as a monster unredeemed by any admira- 
ble quality. The atonement of his voluntary resig- 
nation of empire may perhaps be accepted by us, as 
it seems to have satisfied the Romans, who, if they 
had not respected must have destroyed him. There 
could be no mean, no division of opinion ; they 
must have all thought, like Eucrates, that what 
had appeared ambition was a love of glory, and 
that what had been mistaken for pride was a real 
grandeur of soul.* 

44. 

And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
Stanza lxxxvi. line 4. 

On the third of September, Cromwell gained the 
victory of Dunbar ; a year afterwards he obtained 
"his crowning mercy" of Worcester ; and a few 
years after, on the same day, which he had ever 
esteemed the most fortunate for him, died. 

45. 
And thou, dread statue! still existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty. 

Stanza lxxxvii. lines 1 and 2. 

The projected division of the Spada Pompey has 
already been recorded by the historian of the De- 
cline and Fail of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon 
found it in the memorials of Flaminius Vacca, f 
and it may be added to his mention of it that Pope 
Julius III. gave the contending owners five hun- 
dred crowns for the statue ; and presented it to Car- 
dinal Capo di Ferro, who had prevented the judg- 
ment of Solomon from being executed upon the 
image. In a more civilized age this statue was ex- 
posed to an actual operation : for the French who 
acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the Coliseum, re- 
solved that their Coesar should fall at the base of 
that Pompey, which was supposed to have been 
sprinkled with the blood of the original dictator. 
The nine-foot hero was therefore removed to the 
arena of the ampitheatre, and to facilitate its trans- 
port suffered the temporary amputation of its right 
arm. The republican tragedians had to plead that 
the arm was a restoration : but their accusers do not 
believe that the integrity of the statue would have 
protected it. The love of finding every coincidence 
has discovered the true Cocsarian ichor in a stain 
near the right knee ; but colder criticism has re- 
jected not only the blood but the portrait, and as- 
signed the globe of power rather to the first of the 
emperors than to the last of the republican masters 



* " Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes idees de la facon dont je vous vois 
%gir. Je croyois que vous aviez de l'ambition, mais aucun amour pour la 
gloire : je voyois Lien que voire 2me etait haute ; mais je ne soupgonnois pas 
qu'elle fnt grandee." — Dialogue de Sylla etd'Eucrate. 

t Memorie, num. lvii. pag. 9, ap. Montfaucen, Darium ltalicum 



of Rome. "Winklemann * is loath to allow an he- 
roic statue of a Roman citizen, but the Grimani 
Agrippa, a cotemporary almost, is heroic ; and 
naked Roman figures were only very rare, not abso- 
lutely forbidden. The face accords much better 
with the " hominem integrum et castum et gravem," f 
than with any of the busts of Augustus, and is too 
stern for him who was beautiful, says Suetonius, at 
all periods of his life. The pretended likeness to 
Alexander the Great cannot be discerned, but the 
traits resemble the medal of Pompey. J The objec- 
tionable globe may not have been an ill-applied flat- 
tery to him who found Asia Minor the boundary, and 
left it in the centre of the Roman empire. It seems 
that Winkelmann has made a mistake in thinking 
that no proof of the identity of this statue, with 
that which received the bloody sacrifice, can be de- 
rived from the spot where it was discovered. § Fla- 
minius Vacca says sotto una cantina, and this can- 
tina is known to have been in the Vicolo de' Leutari 
near the Cancellaria, a position corresponding ex- 
actly to that of the Janus before the basilica of 
Pompey's theatre, to which Augustus transferred 
the statue after the curia was either burnt or taken 
down. || Part of the Pompeian shade, IT the porti- 
co, existed in the beginning of the XVth century, 
and the atrium was still called Satrum. So says 
Blondus.** At all events, so imposing is the stem 
majesty of the statue, and so memorable is the 
story, that the play of imagination leaves no room 
for the exercise of the judgment, and the fiction, it 
a fiction it is, operates on the spectator with an ef- 
fect not less powerful than truth. 

46. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! 
Stanza lxxxviii. line 1. 

Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded 
most probably with images of the foster-mother of 
her founders, but there were two she-wolves of whom 
history makes particular mention. One of these, 
of brass in ancient work, was seen by Dionysius ft 
at the temple of Romulus, under the Palatine, and 
is universally believed to be that mentioned by the 
Latin historian, as having been made from the money 
collected by a fine on usurers, and as standing un- 
der the Ruminal fig-tree j J The other was that 
which Cicero §§ has celebrated both in prose and 
verse, and which the historian Dion also records as 
having suffered the same accident as is alluded to 
by the orator. |||| The question agitated by the anti- 



• Storia delle Arid, &c, lib. ix. cap. 1, pag. 321, 322, torn. ii. 
t Cicer. Epist. ad. Atlicum, xi. 6. 
X Published by Causeus in his Museum Romanum. 
§ Storia delle Arti, &c. Ibid. 

H Sueton. in vit. August, cap. 31, and in vit. C. 3. Caesar, cap. 83. Appiaa 
says it was burnt down. See a note of Pitiscus to Suetonius, pag. 224. 
TJ " Tu modo Pompeia lentA spatiare sub umbra.'* 

Ovid. Ar, Aman. 
*• Roma instaurata, lib. ii. fo. 31 

tt Xti^Kca TTnifiiiaTii na'Katns ipyaala;. Antiq. Rom. lib 1. 
XX " Ad ficum Ruininalem simulacra infantium conditorum urbis 6ub 
uberibus lupae posuerunt." Liv. Hist. lib. x. cap. lxix. This was in the 
year U. C. 455, or 457. 

§§ " Turn statua Natta», turn simulacra Deorum, Romulusque et Remus 
cum altrice bellua vi fulminus ictis conciderutit." De Diviuat. ii. 20. " Tac- 
tus est ille etiam qui hanc urbem condidit Romulus, quern inauratum in Capi- 
tolio parvum afque lactantem, uberibus lupinis inhiantem fuisse meminisu's." 
In Catilin. iii. 8. 

" Hie siivestris erat Romnni nominis altrix 
Martia, qua' parvos Mavortis scmine natos 
Uberibus gravidis vilali rore rigebat 
Qua? turn cum pueria flanunato fulminia ictu 
Concidit, atque avulsa pedum vestigia liquit." 

De Consulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i. de Divinat. cap. ii.) 

Ill 'Ei/ yap tm (raTr/ToAtd) dvUptavTSs rl noXXol vtto Ktpav- 
VbiV r/tii'£%oji/€i50nmti/, Ktil S.ya\fiara tiXXa re, /cat Aids ini 
kiovos tripvplvov,ciK(ov T£ tic XvKaivrjs aitviTC roi'Pa/ja) icai 
uvv TU 'Pcj/jiJAri Wpti/i£H7 iirtcrr,. Dion. Hist. lib. xxxvii. pag. 37. 
edit. Rob. Steph. 1548. He goes on to mention that the letters of the columns 
on which the laws were written were liquefied and become dpLV&pa. 
AU Uutf ths Romans ilid was to erect a large 6tatue to Jupiter, looking 



100 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



quaries is, whether the wolf now in the conservators' 
palace is that of Livy and Dionysius, or that of Cice- 
ro, or whether it is neither one nor the other. The 
earlier writers differ as much as the moderns : Lucius 
Faunus * says, that it is the one alluded to by both, 
which is impossible, and also by Virgil, which may 
be. Fulvius Ursinus f calls it the wolf of Dionys- 
ius, and Marlianust talks of it as the one men- 
tioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius tremblingly 
assents. § Nardini is inclined to suppose it may be 
one of the many wolves preserved in Ancient Rome ; 
but of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian 
statue. || Montfaucon U mentions it as as a point 
without doubt. Of the latter writers the decisive 
Winkelmann ** proclaims it as having been found 
at the church of Saint Theodore, where, or near 
where, was the temple at Romulus, and consequent- 
ly makes it the wolf of Dionysius. His authority 
is Lucius Faunus, who, however, only says that it 
was placed, not found, at the Ficus Ruminalis, by 
the Comitium, by which he docs not seem to allude 
to the church of Saint Theodore. Rycquius was 
the first to make the mistake, and winkelmann 
followed Rycquius. 

Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and 
says lie had heard the wolf with the twins was 
found ff near the arch of Septimius Severus. The 
commentator on Winkelmann is of the same opin- 
ion with that learned person, and is incensed at 
Nardini for not having remarked that Cicero, in 
speaking of the wolf struck with lightning in the 
Capitol, makes use of the past tense. But, with 
the Abate's leave, Nardini does not positively assert 
the statue to be that mentioned by Cicero, and, if 
he had, the assumption would not perhaps have 
been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate himself 
is obliged to own that there are marks very like the 
scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the pres- 
ent wolf; and, to get rid of this, adds, that the 
wolf seen by Dionysius might have been also struck 
by lightning, or otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the 
words of Cicero. The orator in two places seems 
to particularize the Romulus and the Remus, espe- 
cially the first, which his audience remembered 
to have been in the Capitol, as being struck with 
lightning. In his verses he records that the twins 



towards the c:tst : no mention is afterwords made of the wolf. This happ ned 
in A. U. C. 689. The Abate Fea, in noticing this passage of Dion (Scoria 
delle Arti, &c, torn. i. pag. 202, note x.) Bays, Nun ostante, aggiunge 
Dione, che fosse ben fermata (the wolf) by which it is cleai the Abate trans- 
lated the Xylandro*Leunclavian version, which puts qwtmlns stdbilita for the 
original JJuueyr/, a word that dors not meau ben fermtta,, hut only raised, 

as may be distinctly seen from another pa isage of the si Dion: 'IltfuvAi}- 

0r/ fitv ovv h 'A)'/jtn-!r«s kcii tov Avyuvarov ivravOa ISpvaai. 
I list. lib. Ivi. Dion says that Agrippa ,( wished to raise a statue of Augustus 
in the Pantheon." 

• " In L'aclcin purlieu .tu i lupa, cujus uberibtis Romulus ac Remus lactan- 
tos inhiant, conspicitur: tie hac < liceroet Virgilius semper iutellexere. Livius 
hoc signum abiEdilihus ex pecuniisquibus mulctati essen fceneratores, posiium 
iiinuit. Antea in < lomitiis ad Picum Ruminalem, quo loco pueri fuerant ex- 
posili locatum pro ccrto est." Luc. Fount de Antiq. Urh. Hum. lib. ii. cap. 
vii. ap. Sollengre, torn. i. p. '217. In his XVIlth chapter he repeats that the 
statues were there, hot nut that they were found there. 

t Ap. Nardini R a Veins, iii>. v.cap. [v. 

X Marliani Urh. Rom. Topograph. lib. ii. cap. ix. He mentions another 

wdf and twins in the Vatic m, lil>. v. cap. xxi. 

§ "Non desunt qui hanc ipsam esse putent, quam odpinximus, qu?e e 
comito in Bastlicom, Lateranum, cum nonnnllis aliis autiquitatum reliquiis, 
atque hincln Capitolium postes relata sit, quamvis Marlianus autiquam Cap. 

rtolinain esse maluit a Tullio deacriptam, cui ut in re nimis dubia, trepide ad- 
sontimur." Just. Rycquii tie Caj.it. Roman. Colnlli. cap. xxiy. pag. 250, 
edit. Lugd. Eat. 169G. 

|| Nardini Roma Vetus, iih. v. cap, Iv. 

Tf " Lupa hodieqne in capitollnis prostrat sedibus, cumvestigio fulminis quo 
ictam llarrat Cicero." Diarium Italic torn. i. p. 174. 

•* Storia delle Arti, &c, lih. iii. cop. iii. § ii. note 10. Winkelmann has 
iiiadea strange blunder in the note, by saying the Ciceronian wolf was not in 
the Capitol, and that Dion was wrong in saying so. 

t| " Intesi dire, che 1'ErcoIo di bronzo, che oggi si trora nella sala di 
Campidoglio, fu trovato nel foro Romano appresso l'arco di Settimlo : e vofu 
trovata anche la lupa di bronzo die allala Romolo e Remo e sta nella Loggia 
de conservator!." Flam. Vacca, Memorie, num. iii. pag. a ap. Montfaucon, 
Diar. Ital. torn. i. 



and wolf both fell, and the latter left behind the 
marks of her feet. Cicero does not say that the 
wolf was consumed ; and Dion only mentions that 
it fell down, without alluding, as the Abate has 
made him, to the force of the blow, or the firmness 
with which it had been fixed. The whole strength, 
therefore, of the Abate's argument hangs upon the 
past tense ; which, however, may be somewhat di- 
minished by remarking that the phrase only shows 
that the statue was not then standing in its former 
position. Winkelmann has observed, that the 
present twins are modern; and it is equally clear 
that there are marks of gilding on the wolf which 
might therefore be supposed to make part of the 
ancient group. It is known that the sacred images 
of the Capitol were not destroyed when injured by 
time or accident, but were put into certain under- 
ground depositories called favissce.* It may be 
thought possible that the wolf had been so deposit- 
ed, and had been replaced in some conspicuous sit- 
uation when the Capitol was rebuilt by Vespasian, 
Rycquius, without mentioning his authority, tells 
thai it was transferred from the Comitium to the 
Lateran, and thence brought to the Capitol. If it 
was found near the arch of Severus, it may have 
been one of the imams which Orosius + says was 
thrown down in the Forum by lightning when Ala- 
ric took the city. That it is of very high antiqui- 
ty the workmanship is a decisive proof; and that 
circumstance induced Winkelmann to believe it the 
wolf of Dionysius. The Capitolene wolf, however, 
may have been of the same early date as that at the 
temple of Romulus. Lactantius J asserts that in 
his time the Romans worshipped a wolf ; and it is 
known that the Lupercalia held out to a very late 
period $ after every other observance of the ancient 
superstition had totally expired. This may account 
for the preservation of the ancient image longer 
than the other early symbols of Paganism. 

It may be permitted, however, to remark, that 
the wolf was a Roman symbol, hut that the wor- 
ship of that symbol is an inference drawn by the 
zeal of Lactantius. The early Christian writers are 
not to be trusted in the charges which they make 
against the Pagans. Eusebius accused the Ro- 
mans to their faces of worshipping Simon Magus, 
and raising a statue to him in the island of the Ty- 
ber. The Romans had probably never heard of 
such a person before, who came, however, to play a 
considerable, though scandalous part in the church 
history, ami has left several tokens of his aerial 
combat with St. Peter at Rome; notwithstanding 
that an inscription found in this very island of the 
Tyher showed the Simon Magus of Eusebius to be 
a certain indigenal god, called Semo Sangus or 
Fidius. || 

Even when the worship of the founder of Rome 
had been abandoned, it was thought expedient to 
humor the habits of the good matrons of the city 
by sending them with their sick infants to the 
church of Saint Theodore, as they had before car- 



• Luc. Faun. Ibid. 

| See note to stanza Ixxx. in Historical Illustrations. 

J "Roinuli nulrix Lupa honoribus est aftecta divinig, et fferrem 6i animal 
psum fuiss. t, cujus flguram genu" Lnctant. de Falsa Rul ; :rio1e\ ]|!.. 1, cap. 
xx. pag. 101, edit, varior, 16S0 : that is to say, he would rather adore a wolf 
thons prostitute. His commentator Ins observed that (he opinion of Livy 
concerning Laurentia being figured in thiswolfwas not universal, Strata 
thought so. Rycquius is wrong in saying that Lacmntius mentions the wolf 

xs in the Capitol. 

§ To A. D. 496. "Quis credere possil," says Earonius [Ann. Eccles. 

in. viii. p. 602, in. an. 496], "viguisse adhuc Rom.-e ad Gelassll tempora, 
qu e fuere ante exordia urhis allala in ltdiam Lupercalia .' " Gelasius wrote 

letter which occupies four folio pages to Andromachus the senator, and 
others, to show that the rites should be given up. 

|| Eusebius has these words: K ,[i dvSpiaVTt ira/)' v/iTv of Stdj 
rcrt'/ir/rut, ti> ToiTifhpt irorapiiy psTa%v t&v Bva yetpvp&v, 
f'xoJf cntypatptii' '1'ia/titt kv,v ravrriv, Sfyojvt Sito X&yKTto. 
Eccles. Hist. lib. ii. cap. xiii. p. 40. Justin Martyr has hid the story 'oefore 
hut Baronius himself was obliged to detect this fable. See Nardini Roml 
Vet. lib. vii. cap. xii. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



101 



ried them to the temple of Romulus.* The practice land willing to abandon both his empire and his mis- 
is continued to this day ; and the site of the above tress for a sight of the Fountains of the Nile. Such 



church seems to be thereby identified with that of 
the temple; so that if the wolf had been really 
found there, as Winkelmann says, there would be 
no doubt of the present statue being that seen by 
Dionysius.f But Faunus, in saying that it was 
at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, is only 
talking of its ancient position as recorded by Pliny ; 
and even if he had been remarking where it was 
found, would not have alluded to the church of 
Saint Theodore, but to a very different place, near 
which it was then thought the Ficus Ruminalis 
had been, and also the Comitium ; that is, the three 
columns by the church of Santa Maria Liberatrice, 
at the corner of the Palatine looking on the Forum. 
It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image 
was actually dug up, J and perhaps, on the whole, 
the marks of the gilding, and of the lightning, are 
a better argument in favor of its being the Cicero- 
nian wolf than any that can be adduced for the con- 
trary opinion. At any rate, it is reasonably selected 
for the text of the poem as one of the most inte- 
resting relics of the ancient city, § and is certainly 
the figure, if not the very animal to which Virgil 
alludes in his beautiful verses : 

" Geminos huic libera circum j 
Ludere pendentes pueros, et lambere matrem 
lmpavklo3 : illam tereti cervice reflexam 
Mulcere alternos, et corpora fingere lingua." fl 



47. 
For the Roman's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould. 

Stanza xc. lines 3 and 4. 
It is possible to be a very great man, and to be 
still very inferior to Julius Caesar, the most complete 
character, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. 
Nature seems incapable of such extraordinary com- 
binations as composed his versatile capacity, which 
was the wonder even of the Romans themselves. 
The first general — the only triumphant politician — 
inferior to none in eloquence — comparable to any in 
the attainments of wisdom, in an age made up of 
the greatest commanders, statesmen, orators, and 
philosophers, that ever appeared in the world — an 
author who composed a perfect specimen of military 
annals in his travelling carriage — at one time in a 
controversy with Cato, at another writing a treatise 
on punning, and collecting a set of good sayings — 
fightinglf and making love at the same moment, 



did Julius Caesar appear to his cotemporaries and to 
those of the subsequent ages, who were the most 
inclined to deplore and execrate his fatal genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his 
surpassing glory, or with his magnanimous, his 
amiable qualities, as to forget the decision of his 
impartial countrymen : 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN. * 



* "In essa gli antichi pontefici per toglier la memoria de' giuochi Luper- 
cali istituiu in onore di Romolo, iutrodussero l'uso di portarvi Bambini 
oppresii da infermita occulte, acci6 si liberino per l'intercessione di questo 
Kanto, come di continuo si sperimenta." Rione xii. Ripa accurals e suc- 
eincta descrizione, &c, di Roma Moderna dell' Ab. Ridolf, Venuti, 1766. 

t Nardini, lib. v. cap. 11, convicts Pomponius Laitus crassi erroris, in 
putting the Ruminal fig-tree at the church of Saint Theodore : but as Livy 
Bays the wolf was at the Ficus Ruminalis, and Dionysius at the temple ot 
Romulus, he is obliged (cap. iv.) to own that the two were close together, as 
well as the Lupercal cave, shaded, as it were, by the fig-tree. 

X " Ad comitium ficus olim Ruminalis genuinabat, sub qua Iups rurnam, 
hoc est, mammam, docente Varrone, suxerant olim Romulus et Remus ; non 
procul a templo hodie D. Mari;e Liberatricis appellato ubi forsan inventa no- 
bilis ilia .Tnea statua lupai geminos puerulos lactantis, quam hodie in capilolio 
videmus." Olai Borrichii Antiqua Urbis Romans Facies, cap. x. See also 
cap. xii. Borricliius wrote after Nardini in 16S7. Ap. Graiv. Antiq. Rom. 
torn. iv. p. 1522. 

§ Donatus, Tib. xi. cap. 18, gives a medal representing on one side the wolf 
:n the same position as that in the Capitol ; and in the reverse the wolf with 
the head not reverted. It is of the time of Antoninus Pius. 

|| JEit. viii. 631. See Dr. Middleton, in his letter from Rome, who in- 
clines to the Ciceronian wolf, but without examining the snbject. 

IT In his tenth book, Lucan shows him sprinkled with the blood of Pharsalia 
.n die arms of Cleopatra, 

Sanguine Thessalics cladis perfusus adulter 
Admisit Venerem curis, et miscuil armis. 

After feasting with his mistress, he sits up all night to converse with the 
tgypdan sages, and tells Achoreus, 

Spes sit mihi ccrta videndi 
Niliacos fontes, bellum civile relinquara. 



43. 

What from this barren being do we rfirp? 

Our senses narrow, and our reason frail. 

Stanza xciii. lines 1 and 2. 
". . . . omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, 
nihil percepi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt ; angustos 
sensus ; imbecillos animos, brevia curricula vita:; in 
profundo vcritatem demersam ; opinionibus et insti- 
tutis omnia teneri ; nihil veritati relinqui : deinceps 
omnia tenebris circumfusa esse dixerunt." f The 
eighteen hundred years which have elapsed sinco 
Cicero -wrote this have not removed any of the im- 
perfections of humanity : and the complaints of the 
ancient philosophers may, without injustice or affec- 
tation, be transcribed in a poem written yesterday. 

49. 
There is a stern round tower of other days. 

Stanza xcix. line 1. 
Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called 
Cape di Bove, in the Appian Way. See Historical 
Illustrations of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold. 

50. 

Prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites — early death. 

Stanza cii. lines 5 and 6. 

'Ov oi -Scot (piXovaiv, airoOvfio-Kti vcog. 

To yap SaveTv cvk aioxpov d\\' aicrxpois SaveTi: 

Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poetcs 
Gnomici, p. 231, edit. 1784. 

51. 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis th us the mighty falls, 
Stanza evil, line 9. 
The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on 
the side towards the Circus Maximus. The very 
soil is formed of crumbled brick-work. Nothing 
has been told, nothing can be told, to satisfy the 
belief of any but a Roman antiquary. See Histor- 
ical Illustrations, page 206. 

52. 
There is the moral of all human tales : 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory, &C. 

Stanza cviii. lines f, 2, and 3. 
The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of tho 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and 
his cotemporary Romans, has the following eloquent 



" Sic velut in tuta securi pace trahebant 
Noctis iter medium." 
Immediately afterwards, lie is fighting again and dcfemliug every position. 
" Sed adest defensor ubique 
Ca?sar ethos aditus gladiis, hos ignibus arcct 

caxa nocte carinis 

lnsiluit Cs-sar semper feliciter usus 
Pracipiti cursu bcUorum et tempore rapto." 

* "Jure casus exUtimetur," says Seutonius, after a fair estimation of his 
character, and making use of a ptirase which was a formula in Livy's time. 
11 Melium jure ca'sum pronuntiavit, eliam si regni crimine insons fuerit : " 
[lib. iv. cap. 48,1 anc ' which was continued in the legal judgments pro- 
nounced in justifiable homicides, such as killing housebreakers. See Sueton. 
in vit. C. J. Ca-sar, with the commentary of Pitiscus, p. 184 

t Academ. 1, 13. 



102 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



passage : " From their railleries of this kind, on the 
barbarity and misery of our island, one cannot help 
reflecting on the surprising fate and revolutions of 
kingdoms ; how Rome, once the mistress of the 
world, the seat of arts, empire, and glory, now lies 
sunk in sloth, ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to 
the most cruel as well as the most contemptible of 
tyrants, superstition, and religious imposture : 
•while this remote country, anciently the jest and 
contempt of the polite Romans, is become the hap- 
py seat of liberty, plenty, and letters ; flourishing 
in all the arts and refinements of civil life ; yet 
running perhaps the same course which Rome it- 
self had run before it, from virtuous industry to 
wealth ; from wealth to luxury ; from luxury to an 
impatience of discipline, and corruption of morals ; 
till, by a total degeneracy and loss of virtue, being 
grown ripe for destruction, it fall a prey at last to 
some hardy oppressor, and, with the loss of liber- 
ty, losing everything that is valuable, sinks gradu- 
ally again into its original barbarism."* 

53. 

And apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, ichose ashes slept sublime. 
y Stanza ex. lines 8 and 9. 

The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter ; 
that of Aurelius by St. Paul. See Historical Illus- 
trations of the IV th Canto, &c. 

54. 

Still we Trajan's name adore. 

Stanza cxi. line 9. 

Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman 
princes ; f and it would be easier to find a sovereign 
uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than 
one possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to 
this emperor. " When he mounted the throne," 
says the historian Dion, J " he was strong in body, 
he was vigorous in mind ; age had impaired none of 
his faculties ; he was altogether free from envy and 
from detraction ; he honored all the good, and he 
advanced them ; and on this account thc-y could not 
be the objects of his fear, or of his hate ; he never 
listened to informers ; he gave not way to his anger : 
he abstained equally from unfair exactions and un- 
just punishments ; he had rather be loved as a man 
than honored as a sovereign ; he was affable with 
his people, respectful to the senate, and universally 
beloved by both ; he inspired none with dread but 
the enemies of his country." 

55. 
Rienzi, last of Romans. 

Stanza cxiv. line 5. 
The name and exploits of Rienzi must be famil- 
iar to the reader of Gibbon. Some details and ined- 
ited manuscripts relative to this unhappy hero will 
be seen in the Illustrations to the IVth Canto. 



* The History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, sect. vi. vol. ii. p. 102. 
The contrast has been reversed in a late extraordinary instance. A gentle- 
man was thrown into prison at Paris ; efforts were made for his release. The 
French minister continued to detain him, under the pretence that he was not 
an Englishman, but only a Roman. See " Interesting Facts relating to 
Joachim Murat," pag. 139. 

f " Hujus tantum memoriae delatum est, ut, usque ad nostram atatem 
non aliter in Senatu principibus acclamatur, nisi, FELICIOR . AVGVSTO . 
MELIOR . TRAJANO." Eutrop. Brev. Hist. Rom. lib. viii. cap. v. 

X Tio r£ yap aojuart tppwro xa\ ttj \pv\ii riKjia^ev, 

tjc uf]d' vno yfipws du6\vvto-8ei nal ovt' £(p6opei aire 

KaBfipti tivol, dX\a Kai iravv rdi/rac tovs dyadovs iriua Kai 
iutyaXvvf Kai Sta tovto ovtc £0o6 > £t>d Tiva olvtCiv, ovti 

ijiiaci SiaSoXaTs rt i'lKiara itriarevc, Kai opyy fiKiara 

tSovXovTO- t&v rt xpnpdro)v 7-ujv dXXiJTpiojv taa Kai ipovow 

ruv diiKUV dncix^TO (ptXoviuvds tc ovv in' ai)T>ns 

piaWov 5) Tifiduevns exaipe, Kai toj te <5i}/»(0 /i£r' iKUiKCias 
cvveyivCTo, Kai Ttj yrjptivaia aeuvnopeirois ojuiXci' dyairnTOs 
ftlf Tract' 0ofj£poc ot /irjScvi, ttXijv 7roAc/Ji«i$ o"v. Hist. Rom. lib. 
Ixriii. cap. vi. et vii. torn. ii. p. 1123, 1124, edit. Hamb. 1750. 



56. 



Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal restiny-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast. 

Stanza cxv. lines 1, 2, and 3. 

The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca 
would incline us to believe in the claims of the Ege- 
rian grotto.* He assures us that he saw an inscrip- 
tion in the pavement, stating that the fountain was 
that of Egeria, dedicated to the nymphs. The in- 
scription is not there at this day : but Montfaucon 
quotes two lines t of Ovid from a stone in the Villa 
Giustiniani, which he seems to think had been 
brought from the same grotto. 

This grotto and valley were formerly frequented 
in summer, and particularly the first Sunday in May, 
by the modern Romans', who attached a salubrious 
quality to the fountain which trickles from an ori- 
fice at the bottom of the vault, and, overflowing the 
little pools, creeps down the matted grass into the 
brook below. The brook is the Ovidian Almo, 
whose name and qualities are lost in the modern 
Aquataccio. The valley itself is called Valle di 
Caffarelli, from the dukes of that name who made 
over their fountain to the Pallavicini, with sixty 
rubbia of adjoining land. 

There can be little doubt that this long dell is the 
Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of 
Umbritus, notwithstanding the generality of his 
commentators have supposed the descent of the sat 
irist and his friend to have been into the Arician 
grove, where the nymph met Hippolitus, and where 
she was more peculiarly worshipped. 

The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban 
hill, fifteen miles distant, would be too considera- 
ble, unless \xc were to believe in the wild conjecture 
of Vossius, who makes that gate travel from its 
present station, where he pretends it was during the 
reign of the kings, as far as the Arician grove, and 
then makes it recede to its old site within the 
shrinking city.j The tufo, or pumice, which the 
poet prefers to marble, is the substance composing 
the bank in which the grotto is sunk. 

The modern topographers § find in the grotto the 
statue of the nymph and nine niches for the Muses, 
and a late traveller || has discovered that the cave 
is restored to that simplicity which the poet re- 
gretted had been exchanged for injudicious orna- 
ment. But the headless statue is palpably rather a 
male than a nymph, and has none of the attributes 
ascribed to it at present visible. The nine Muses 
could hardly have stood in six niches ; and Juvenal 
certainly does not allude to any individual cave. 11 



• " Poco lontano dal detto luogo si scende ad un casaietto, del qualen © 
sono Padroni li Cafarelli, che con questo nome e chiamato il luogo ; vi e una 
fontana sotto una gran volta antica, che al presente si gode, e Ii Romaui vi 
vanno Testate a ricrearsi ; nel pavimento di essa fonte si legge in un epitafiio 
essere quella la fonte di Egeria, dedicata alle ninfe, e questa dice I'epitarTio, 
essere la medesima fonte in cui fu convertita." Memorie, &c, ap. Nardiui, 
pag. 13. He does not give the inscription. 

\ " In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadratus solidus in quo sulpta 
hatt duo Ovidii carmina sunt: 

./Egeria est qua? prsbet aquas dea grata Camoems 
Ilia Nums conjunx consiliuinque fuit. 

Qui lapis videtur ex eodem Egeria: fonte, ant ejusvicinia isihuc comportatus." 
Diarium Italic, p. 153. 
% De Magnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Grav. Ant. Rom. torn. iv. p. 1507. 
§ Echinard, Descrizione di Roma e dell' agro Romano, corretto dall' Abate 
Venuti, in Roma, 1750. They believe in the grotto and nymph. " Simula, 
cro di questo fonte, essendovi sculpite le acque a pie (U esso." 
J Classical Tour, chap. vi. p. 217, vol. ii. 
U " Substitit ad veteres arcus, madidamque Capenam, 
Hie ubi nocturne Numa constituebat arnica. 
Nunc sacri fontis nemus, et delubra locantur 
Judaiis quorum cophinum fomaroque supellex. 
Omnis enim populo mercedem pendere jussa est 
Arbor, et ejectis mendicat silva Camcenis. 
In valleni EgerUe descendimus, et speluncas 
Dissimiles veres : quanto pra?stantius esset 
Numen aqua, viridi si margine clauderet undas 
Herba, nee ingenuum violarent marmora tophum." 

Sat. III. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



103 



Nothing can be collected from the satirist but that 
somewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in 
which it was supposed Numa held nightly consulta- 
tions with his nymph, and where there was a grove 
and a sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated 
to the Muses ; and that from this spot there was a 
descent into the valley of Egeria, where were sev- 
eral artificial caves. It is clear that the statues of 
the Muses made no part of the decoration which 
the satirist thought misplaced in these caves ; for he 
expressly assigns other fanes (delubra) to these di- 
vinities above the valley, and moreover tells us 
that they had been ejected to make room for the 
Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called that of 
Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to the 
Muses, and Nardini * places them in a poplar 
grove, which was in his time above the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, 
that the cave now shown may be one of the " arti- 
ficial caverns," of which, indeed, there is another a 
little way higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder 
bushes : but a single grotto of Egeria is a mere mod- 
ern invention, grafted upon the application of the 
epithet Egerian to these nymphea in general, and 
which might send us to look for the haunts of Numa 
upon the banks of the Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mis- 
translation by his acquaintance with Pope : he care- 
fully preserves the correct plural — 

" Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
The Egerian grots; oh, how unlike the true. 

The valley abounds with springs, f and over 
these springs, which the Muses might haunt from 
their neighboring groves, Egeria presided ; hence 
she was said ' to supply them with water ; and she 
was the nymph of the grottos through which the 
fountains were taught to flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of 
the Egerian valley have received names at will, 
which have been changed at will. Venuti j owns 
he can see no traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, 
Juno, Venus, and Diana, which Nardini found, or 
hoped to find. The mutatorium of Caracalla's cir- 
cus, the temple of Honor and Virtue, the temple of 
Bacchus, and, above all, the temple of the god Redi- 
culus, are the antiquaries' despair. 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of 
that emperor cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the 
reverse shows a circus, supposed, however, by some 
to represent the Circus Maximus. It gives a very 
good idea of that place of exercise. The soil has 
been but little raised, if we may judge from the 
small cellular structure at the end of the Spina, 
which was probably the chapel of the god Comus. 
This cell is half beneath the soil, as it must have 
been in the circus itself, for Dionysius § could not 
be persuaded to believe that this divinity was the 
Roman Neptune, because his altar was under 
ground. 

57. 



Yet let us ponder boldly. 

Stanza exxvii. line 1. 

" At all events," says the author of the Academi- 
cal Questions, " I trust, whatever may be the fate 
of my own speculations, that philosophy will regain 
that estimation which it ought to possess. The 
free and philosophic spirit of our nation has been 
the theme of admiration to the world. This was 
the proud distinction of Englishmen, and the lumi- 
nous source of all their glory. Shall we then for- 
get the many and dignifled sentiments of our an- 
cestors, to prate in the language of the mother or 
the nurse about our good old prejudices ? This is 
not the way to defend the cause of truth. It was 



• Lib. iii. cap. iii. 

t " Undique e solo aqua; scatnriunt." Nardini, lib. iii. cap. iii. 

X Echinard. &c, Cic. cit. p. 297, 293. 

§ Autiq. Rom. lib. ii. cap. xxxi. 



not thus that our fathers maintained it in the brill- 
iant periods of our history. Prejudice may be 
trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of 
time while reason slumbers in the citadel ; but if 
the latter sink into a lethargy, the former will 
quickly erect a standard for herself. Philosophy, 
wisdom and liberty, support each other ; he who 
will not reason is a bigot ; he who cannot, is a fool ; 
and he who dares not, is a slave." Preface, p. xiv 
xv. vol. i. 1805. 

58. 

Great Nemesis ! 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long. 
Stanza exxxii. lines 2 and 3. 

We read in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a 
warning received in a dream,* counterfeited, once 
a year, the beggar, sitting before the gate of his 
palace with his hand hollowed and stretched out for 
charity. A statue formerly in the Villa Borghese, 
and which should be now at Paris, represents the 
Emperor in that posture of supplication. The ob- 
ject of this self degradation was the appeasement 
of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on good for- 
tune, of whose power the Roman conquerors were 
also reminded by certain symbols attached to their 
cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and 
the crotalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis 
of the Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the 
above statue pass for that of Belisarius : and until 
the criticism of Winkelmannf had rectified the 
mistake, one fiction was called in to support another. 
It was the same fear of the sudden termination of 
prosperity that made Amasis, king of Egypt, warn 
his friend Polverates of Samos, that the gods loved 
those whose lives were checkered with good and 
evil fortunes. Nemesis was supposed to lie in wait 
particularly for the prudent ; that is, for those whose 
caution rendered them accessible only to mere acci- 
dents : and her first altar was raised on the banks 
of the Phrygian iEsepus by Adrastus, probably the 
prince of that name who killed the son of Croesus 
by mistake. Hence the goddess was called Adras- 
tea.+ 

The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august: 
there was a temple to her in the Palatine under the 
name of Rhamnusia : § so great indeed was the 
propensity of the ancients to trust to the revolution 
of events, and to believe in the divinity of Fortune, 
that in the same Palatine there was a temple to the 
Fortune of the day.H This is the last superstition 
which retains its hold over the human heart ; and 
from concentrating in one object the credulity so 
natural to man, has always appeared strongest in 
those unembarrassed by other articles of belief. 
The antiquaries have supposed this goddess to be 
synonymous with Fortune and with Fate ; IT but it 
was in her vindictive quality that she was worship- 
ped under the name of Nemesis. 



* Sucton. in Vit. August!, cap. 91. Cassaubon, in the note, refers to Plu- 
tarch's Lives of Camillus and JEmilius Paulas, and also to his apothegms 
fur the character of this deity. The hollowed hand was reckoned the last 
degree of degradation ; and when the dead body of the prefect Rufinus was 
borne about in triumph by the people, the indignity was increased by putting 
his hand in that position. 

t Storia delle Arti, &c, lib. xii. cap. iii. torn. ii. p 422. Viscouti calls the 
statue, however, a Cybele. It is given in the Museo Pic-Clement, torn. i. par. 
40. The Abate Fea (Spiegazione dei Rami. Storia, fa., torn. iii. p. 513), calls 
it a Chrisippus. 
} Diet, de Bayle, article Adrastea. 
§ It is enumerated by the regionary Victor. 
|| Fortuna hujusce diei. Cicero mentions her, de Legib. lib. ii. 
IT DEAE NEMES1 

SIVE FORTUNAE 
PISTORIVS 
• RVGIANVS 
V. C. LEGAT. 
LEG. XI U. G. 
CORD. 

See duestiones Romans, &c, ap. Gisev. Antiq. Roman, torn. v. p. 948. Set 
also Muratori, Nov. Thesaur. Inscrip. Vet. torn. t. p. S3, 89, where there ar 
three Latin and one Greek inscription to Nemesis, and others to Fate. 



104 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



59. 



I see before me the Gladiator lie. 

Stanza cxl. line 1. 

"Whether the wonderful statue which suggested 
this image be a laquearian gladiator, which, in spite 
of Winkelmann's criticism has been stoutly main- 
tained,* or whether it be a Greek herald, as that 
great antiquary positively asserted, f or whether it 
is to be thought a Spartan or barbarian shield- 
bearer, according to the opinion of his Italian edit- 
or, j it must assuredly seem a copy of that master- 
piece of Ctesilaus which represented "a wounded 
man dying who perfectly expressed what there re- 
mained of" life in him."§ Montfaucon j| and Maf- 
feiH thought it the identical statue; but that, 
statue was of bronze. The gladiator was once in 
the villa Ludovizi, and was bought by Clement XII. 
The right arm is an entire restoration of Michael 
Angelo.** 

60. 

He, their sire, 
Butcher' d to make a Roman holiday. 

Stanza cxli. lines 6 and 7- 

Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and vol- 
untary ; and were supplied from several conditions : 
from slaves sold for that purpose ; from culprits ; 
from barbarian captives either taken in war, and, 
after being led in triumph, set apart for the games, 
or those seized and condemned as rebels ; also from 
free, citizens, some fighting for hire {auctorati), 
others from a depraved ambition : at last even 
knights and senators were exhibited, a disgrace of 
which the first tyrant was naturally the first in- 
ventor, ff In the end, dwarfs, and even women, 
fought; an enormity prohibited by Severus. Of 
these the most to be pitied, undoubtedly, were the 
barbarian captives ; and to this species a Christian 
writer j}; justly applies the epithet "innocent," 
to distinguish them from the professional gladiators. 
Aurelian and Claudius supplied great numbers of 
these unfortunate victims ; the one after his tri- 
umph, and the other on the pretext of a rebellion.^ 
No war, says Lipsius,|||| was ever so destructive to 
the human race as these sports. In spite of the 
laws of Constantine and Constans, gladiatorial 
shows survived the old established religion more 
than seventy years ; but they owed their final ex- 
tinction to the courage of a Christian. In the year 
404, on the kalends of January, they were exhibit- 
ing the shows in the Flavian amphitheatre before 
the usual immense concourse of people. Almachius 
or Telemachus, an eastern monk, who had travelled 
to Rome intent on his holy purpose, rushed into 
the midst of the arena, and endeavored to separate 
the combatants. The pra;tor Alypius, a person in- 



• By the Abate Bracci, dissertacrione supra un clipeo votivo, &c. Preface, 
pag. 7, who accounts for the cord round the neck, but nut for the horn, which it 
does not appear the gladiators themselves ever used. Note A, Storia detle 
Arti, torn. ii. p. 205. 

t Either Polifontes, herald of Lains, killed by (Edipus ; or Cepreas, herald 
(»t Euritheus, killed by the Athenians when he endeavored to drag the Hera- 
clida? from the altar of mercy, and in whose honor they instituted annual 
games, continued to the time of Hadrian ; or Anthemocritus, the Athenian 
herald, killed by the Megarenses, who never recovered the impiety. See 
Storia delle Arti, &c, torn. ii. p. 203, 201, 205, 206, 207, lib. ix. cap. ii. 

| Storia, Sfcc., torn. ii. p. 207. Not. (A.) 

§ "Vulneratum deficientem fecit in quo possit intelligi quantum restat 
animffi." Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. xxxiv. cap. ii. 

11 Antiq. torn. iii. par. 2, tab. 155. 

17 Race. stat. tab. 61. 

* * Mas. Capitol, torn. iii. p. 154, edit. 1755. 

tt Julius Citsar, who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, brought Funus 
Leptinus and A. Caienus upon the arena. 

XI Tertulian, " certe quidem et innocentes gladiatoresin ludem veniunt, et 
Toluptatis publics hosta; fiant." Just. Lips. Saturn. Sermon, lib. ii. cap. iii. 

§§ Vopiscua, in Tit. Aurel. and in vit. Claud. Ibid. 

1111 "Credo imb scio nulhim bellum tantam cladem vastitiemque generi 
iumano intullisse, quara hos advolupiatem ludos." Just. Lips. Ibid. lib. i. 
tap. xii. 



credibly attached to these games,* gave instant or- 
ders to the gladiators to slay him ; and Telemachus 
gained the crown of martyrdom, and the title of 
saint, which surely has never either before or since 
been awarded for a more noble exploit. Honorius 
immediately abolished the shows, which were never 
afterwards revived. The story is told by Theodore f 
and Cassiodorus, j and seems worthy of credit not- 
withstanding its place in the Roman martyrology. § 
Besides the torrents of blood which flowed at the 
funerals, in the amphitheatres, the circus, the forums, 
and other public places, gladiators were introduced 
at feasts, and tore each other to pieces amidst the 
supper tables, to the great delight and applause of 
the guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself to sup- 
posethe loss of courage, and the evident degenera- 
cy of mankind, to be nearly connected with the abo- 
lition of these bloody spectacles. || 

61. 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 

Stanza cxlii. lines 5 and 6. 

When one gladiator wounded another, he shout- 
ed, "he has it," "hoc habet," or "habet." The 
wounded combatant dropped his weapon, and ad- 
vancing to the edge of the arena, supplicated the 
spectators. If he had fought well, the people saved 
him ; if otherwise, or as they happened to be in- 
clined, they turned down their thumbs, and he was 
slain. They were occasionally so savage that they 
were impatient if a combat lasted longer than ordi- 
nary without wounds or death. The emperor's 
presence generally saved the vanquished ; and it is 
recorded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, that 
he sent those who supplicated him for life, in a 
spectacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people ; in other 
words, handed them over to be slain. A similar 
ceremony is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. 
The magistrate presides ; and after the horsemen 
and piccadores have fought the bull, the matadore 
steps forward and bows to him for permission to 
kill the animal. If the bull has done his duty bv 
killing two or three horses, or a man, which last is 
rare, the people interfere with shouts, the ladies 
wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. 
The wounds and death of the horses are accompa- 
nied with the loudest acclamations, and many ges- 
tures of delight, especially from the female portion 
of the audience, including those of the gentlest 
blood. Everything depends on habit. The author 
of Childe Harold, the writer of this note, and one 
or two other Englishmen, who have certainly in 
other days borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, 
during the summer of 1809, in the governor's box 
at the great amphitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite 
to Cadiz. The death of one or two horses com- 
pletely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman 
present, observing them shudder and look pale, no- 
ticed that unusual reception of so delightful a sport 
to some young ladies, who stared and smiled, and 
continued their applauses as another horse fell 
bleeding to the ground. One bull killed three 
horses off his own horns. He was saved by accla- 
mations, which were redoubled when it was known 
he belonged to a priest. 

An Englishman, who can be much pleased with 



* Augustinus (lib. vi. confess, cap. viii.) " Alipium suum gladiatori spectaculi 
inhiutu incredibuitei abiepttun," scriuit. ib. lib. i. cap. xii. 

t Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v. 

t Cassiod, Tripartita, 1. x. c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 

§ Earouius, ad. ann. et in notis ad Martyrol. Rom. 1, Jan. See Maran- 
goui delle mernorie sacre e profane dell' Anfiteatro Flavio, p. 25, edit. 1715. 

|| "Quod? non tu Lipsi momentum aliquod habuisse censes ad virtutem ? 
Magnum. Tempora nostra, nosque ipsos videamus. Oppidum ecce umim 
alterumve captum, direptum est : tumultus circa nos, non in nobis : et tamen 
concidimus et turbamur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per annos meditata sapientia 
studia? ubi ille animus qui possit dicere, si fractus illabatur orbis?" &c. 
Ibid. lib. ii. cap. xxvi. The prototype of Mr. 'Windham's panegyric on 
bull-baiuug. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



105 



seem°- two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot 
bear to look at a horse galloping round an arena 
with his bowels trailing on the ground, and turns 
from the spectacle and the spectators with horror 
and disgust. 

62. 

Like Laurels on the bald first Cessar's head. 
Stanza cxliv. line 6. 

Suetonius informs us that Julius Coesar was par- 
ticularly gratified by that decree of the senate, 
which enabled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all 
occasions. He was anxious not to show that he 
was the conqueror of the world, but to hide that he 
was bald. A stranger at Rome would hardly have 
guessed at the motive, nor should we without the 
help of the historian. 

63. 

While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand. 
Stanza cxlv. line 1. 

This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Ro- 
man Empire ; and a notice on the Coliseum may be 
seen in the Historical Illustrations to the IVth 
Canto of Childe Harold. 

64. 
Spared and blest by time. 

Stanza cxlvi. line 3. 

" Though plundered of all its brass, except the 
ring which was necessary to preserve the aperture 
above ; though exposed to repeated fires, though 
sometimes flooded by the river, and always open to 
the rain, no monument of equal antiquity is so 
well preserved as this rotunda. It passed with lit- 
tle alteration from the Pagan into the present wor- 
ship ; and so convenient were its niches for the 
Christian altar, that Michael Angelo, ever studious 
of ancient beauty, introduced their design as a 
model in the Catholic church." — F.orsyth's Re- 
marks, &c, on Italy, p. 137, sec. edit. 

6-3. 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts around 
them close. Stanza cxlvii. lines 8 and 9. 

The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the 
busts of modern great, or, at least, distinguished, 
men. The flood of light which once fell through 
the large orb above on the whole circle of divinities, 
now shines on a numerous assemblage of mortals, 
some one or two of whom have been almost deified 
by the veneration of their countrymen. 

66. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim, drear light. 
Stanza cxlviii. line 1. 

This and the three next stanzas allude to the 
story of the Roman daughter, which is recalled to 
the traveller by the site, or pretended site, of that 
adventure, now shown at the church of St. Nicho- 
las in carcere. The difficulties attending the full 
belief of the tale are stated in Historical Illustra- 
tions, &c. 

67. 
Turn to the Mole, which Hadrian rear'd on high. 
Stanza clii. line 1. 

The castle of St. Angelo. See— Historical Illus- 
trations. 



Stanza cliii. 
This and the six next stanzas have a reference to 
the church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of 
the comparative length of this basilica, and the J 
other great churches of Europe, see the pavement 
of St. Peter's, and the classical Tour through Italy, 
vol. ii. page 125, et seq. chap. iv. 
14 



69. 
The strange fate 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns. 

Stanza clxxi. lines 6 and 7. 

Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 
heart; Charles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bank- 
rupt in means and glory ; Cromwell of anxiety ; 
and, " the greatest is behind," Napoleon lives a 
prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but superflu- 
ous list might be added of names equally illustrious 
and unhappy. 

70. 
Lo, Nemi, navelVd in the icoody hills. 

Stanza clxxiii. line 1. 

The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat 
of Egeria, and from the shades which embosomed 
the temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its 
distinctive appellation of The Grove. Nemi is but 
an evening's ride from the comfortable inn of Al- 
bano. 

71. 

And afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast, <S,c. &;c. 

Stanza clxxiv. lines 2, 3, and 4. 

The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unri- 
valled beauty, and from the convent on the highest 
point, which has succeeded to the temple of the La- 
tian Jupiter, the prospect embraces all the objects 
alluded to in the cited stanza ; the Mediterranean ; 
the whole scene of the latter half of the iEneid, 
and the coast from beyond the mouth of the Tiber 
to the headland of Circamm and the Cape of Terra- 
cina. 

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either 
at the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince 
Lucien Bonaparte. 

The former was thought some years ago the ac- 
tual site, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of 
Cicero. At present it has lost something of its 
credit, except for the Domenichinos. Nine monks 
of the Greek order live there, and the adjoining 
villa is a cardinal's summer-house. The other vil- 
la, called Rufinella, is on the summit of the hill 
above Frascati, and many rich remains of Tuscu- 
lum have been found there, besides seventy-two 
statues of different merit and preservation, and 
seven busts. 

From the same eminence are seen the Sabine 
hills, embosomed in which lies the long valley of 
Rustica. There are several circumstances which 
tend to establish the identity of this valley with the 
" Ustica" of Horace; and it seems possible that 
the mosaic pavement which the peasants uncover by 
throwing up the earth of a vineyard may belong to 
his villa. Rustica is pronounced short, not accord- 
ing to our stress upon " Usticce cubantis." — It is 
more rational to think that we are wrong than that 
the inhabitants of this secluded valley have changed 
then- tone in this word. The addition of the con- 
sonant prefixed is nothing : yet it is necessary to be 
aware that Rustica may be a modern name which 
the peasants may have caught from the antiquaries. 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a 
knoll covered with chestnut trees. A stream runs 
clown the valley, and although it is not true, as said 
in the guide books, that this stream is called Licen- 
za, yet there is a village on a rock at the head of 
the valley which is so denominated, and which may 
have taken its name from the Digentia. Licenza 
contains seven hundred inhabitants. On a peak a 
little way beyond is Civitella, containing three hun- 
dred. On the banks of the Anio, a little before you 
turn up into Valle Rustica, to the left, about an 
hour from the villa, is a town called Vicovaro, 
another favorable coincidence with the Varia of the 
poet. At the end of the valley, towards the Anio, 
there is a bare hill, crowned with a little town called 
Bardela. At the foot of this hill the rivulet of Li- 



106 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cenza flows, and is almost absorbed in a wide sandy 
bed before it reaches the Anio. Nothing can be 
more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whether in 
a metaphorical or direct sense : 

" Me quotiens reficit gclidus Digentia rivus, 
Q,uem Mandula bibit rugosus frigore pagus." 

The stream is clear high up the valley, but before 
it reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yel- 
low like a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half 
an hour's walk from the vineyard where the pave- 
ment is shown, does seem to be the site of the 
fane of Vacuna, and an inscription found there tells 
that this temple of the Sabine Victory was repaired 
by Vespasian.* With these helps, and a position 
corresponding exactly to everything which the poet 
has told us of his retreat, we may feel tolerably se- 
cure of our site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called 
Campanile, and by following up the rivulet to the 
pretended Bandusia, you come to the roots of the 
higher mountain Gennaro. Singularly enough, the 
only spot of ploughed land in the whole valley is on 
the knoll where this Bandusia rises. 

" . . . . tu frigusamabile 
Fessis vomere tauris 
Prasbes, et pecori vago." 

The peasants show another spring near the mo- 
saic pavement, which they call " Oradina," and 
which flows down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, 
and then it trickles over into the Digentia. 

But we must not hope 

" To trace the Muses upwards to their spring-," 

fjy exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange 
that any one should have thought Bandusia a foun- 
tain of the Digentia — Horace has not let drop a 
word of it ; and this immortal spring has in fact 
been discovered in possession of the holders of 
many good things in Italy, the monks. It w T as at- 
tached to the church of St. Gervais and Protais 
near Venusia, where it is most likely to be found. f 
We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller in find- 
ing the occasional pine still pendant on the poetic 
villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but 
there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or 
mistook, for the tree in the ode. % The truth is, that 
the pine is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a 
garden tree, and it was not at all likely to be found 
in the craggy acclivities of the valley of Rustica. 
Horace probably had one of them in the orchard 
close above his farm, immediately overshadowing 
his villa, not on the rocky heights at some distance 
from his abode. The tourist may have easily sup- 
posd himself to have seen this pine figured in the 
above cypresses, for the orange and lemon trees 
which throw such a bloom over his description of 
the royal gardens at Naples, unless they have been 
since displaced, were assuredly only acacias and 
other common garden shrubs. § The extreme dis- 
appointment experienced by choosing the Classical 
Tourist as a guide in Italy must be allowed to find 
vent in a few observations, which, it is asserted 
without fear of contradiction, will be confirmed 
by every one who has selected the same conductor 
through the same country. This author is in fact 
one of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers 



• IMP. CjESAR VESPAS1ANVS 

PONTIFEX MAXIMVS. TRIB 

POTEST. CENSOR. .ffiDEM 

VICTORIiE. VETVSTATE 1LLAPSAM 

SVA. IMPENSA. RESTITVIT. 

t See Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43. 

j See Classical Tour, &c, chap. vii. p. 250, vol. li. 

§ " Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is the royal garden, 
laid out in parterres, and walks shaded by rows of oraDge trees." Classical 
Toui, fcc.chap. xi. vol. ii. oct. 365. 



that have in our times attained a temporary reputa- 
tion, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he 
speaks of objects which he must be presumed to 
have seen. His errors, from the simple exaggera- 
tion to the downright misstatement, are so frequent 
as to induce a suspicion that he had either never 
visited the spots described, or had trusted to the 
fidelity of former writers. Indeed the Classical 
Tour has every characteristic of a mere compila- 
tion of former notices, strung together upon a very 
lender thread of personal observation, and swelled 
out by those decorations which are so easily supplied 
by a systematic adoption of all the common places 
of praise, applied to everything, and therefore sig- 
nifying nothing. 

The style which one person thinks cloggy and 
cumbrous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of 
others, and such may experience some salutary ex- 
citement in ploughing through the periods of the 
Classical Tour. It must be said, however, that 
polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation of 
value. It is amongst the pains of the damned to 
toil up a climax with a huge round stone. 

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there 
was no such latitude allowed to that of his senti- 
ments. The love of virtue and of liberty, which 
must have distinguished the character, certainly 
adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace, and the gentle- 
manly spirit, so recommendatory either in an au- 
thor or his productions, is very conspicuous through- 
out the Classical Tour. But these generous quali- 
ties are the foliage of such a performance, and may 
be spread about it so prominently and profusely as 
to embarrass those who wish to see and find the fruit 
at hand. The unction of the divine, and the exhor- 
tations of the moralist, may have made this work 
something more or better than a book of travels, 
but they have not made it a book of travels ; and 
this observation applies more especially to that en- 
ticing method of instruction conveyed by the per- 
petual introduction of the same Gallic Helot to reel 
and bluster before the rising generation, and terrify 
it into decency by the display of all the excesses of 
the revolution. An animosity against atheists and 
regicides in general, and Frenchmen specifically, 
may be honorable, and may be useful as a record ; 
but that antidote should either be administered in 
any work rather than a tour, or, at least should be 
served up apart, and not so mixed with the whole 
mass of information and reflection as to give a bit- 
terness to every page : for who would choose to have 
the antipathies of any man, however just, for his 
travelling companions ? A tourist, unless he as- 
pires to the credit of prophecy, is not answerable 
for the changes which may take place in the country 
which he describes ; but his reader may very fairly 
esteem all his political portraits and deductions as 
so much waste paper, the moment they cease to as- 
sist, and more particularly if they obstruct his ac- 
tual survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any govern- 
ment or governors, is meant to be here offered ; but 
it is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the 
change operated, either by the address of the late 
imperial system, or by the disappointment of every 
expectation by those who have succeeded to the 
Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so 
apparent, as not only to put Mr. Eustace's antigal- 
lican philippics entirely out of date, but even to 
throw some suspicion upon the competency and can- 
dor of the author himself. A remarkable example 
may be found in the instance of Bolonga, over 
whose papal attachments, and consequent desola- 
tion, the tourist pours forth such strains of condo- 
lence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed 
trumpet of Mr. Burke. Now Bolonga is at this mo- 
ment, and has been for some years, notorious 
amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to 
revolutionary principles, and was almost the only 
city which made any demonstrations in favor of the 
unfortunate Murat. This change may, however, 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



107 



have been made since Mr. Eustace visited this coun- 
try ; but the traveller whom he has thrilled with hor- 
ror at the projected stripping of the copper from the 
cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find 
that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or 
any other plunderers, the cupola being covered with 
lead* 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics 
had not given considerable currency to the Classical 
Tour, it would have been unnecessary to warn the 
reader, that however it may adorn his library, it 
will be of little or no service to him in his carriage ; 
and if the judgment of those critics had hitherto 



" " What, then, will be the astonishment, or rather the horror of my 

reader, when I inform him the French committee 

turned its attention to Saint Peter's, and employed a company of Jews to 
estimate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze that adorn the inside of 
the edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults and dome on the 
outside." Chap. iv. p. 130, vol. ii. The story about the Jews is positively 
dtuied at Rome. 



been suspended, no attempt would have been made 
to anticipate their decision. As it is, those who 
stand in the relation of posterity to Mr. Eustace 
may be permitted to appeal from cotemporary 
praises, and are perhaps more likely to be just in 
proportion as the causes of love and hatred are the 
farther removed. This appeal had, in some measure, 
been made before the above remarks were written ; 
for one of the most respectable of the Florentine 
publishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated 
inquiries of those on their journey southwards to 
reprint a cheap edition of the Classical Tour, was, 
by the concurring advice of returning travellers, in- 
duced to ^abandon his design, although he had al- 
ready arranged his types and paper, and Lad struck 
off one or two of the first sheets. 

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like 
Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the 
Cardinals, but he does not think it necessary to ex- 
tend the same discreet silence to their humble par- 
tisans. 



THE GIAOUR; 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 



One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — 
To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting. 

MOORE. 



TO 

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, RESPECT FOR 
HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED 

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

BYRON. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The Tale -which these disjointed fragments pre- 
sent, is founded upon circumstances now less com- 
mon in the East than formerly ; either because the 
ladies are more circumspect than in the " olden 
time ; " or because the Christians have better for- 
tune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, 
contained the adventures of a female slave, who was 
thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for 
infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her 
lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed 
by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Ar- 
naouts were beaten back from the Morea, which 
they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the 
Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, 
on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the 
abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desola- 
tion of the Morea, during which the cruelty exer- 
cised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals 
of the faithful. 



THE GIAOUR. 

No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb 1 which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain : 
When shall such hero live again ? 



Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Collona's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the Eastern wave ; 
And if, at times, a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odors there . 
For there — the rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the nightingale, 2 
The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by Nature given, 
In softest incense back to heaven ; 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there, 
And many a shade that love might share, 
And many a grotto, meant for rest, 
That holds the pirate for a guest ; 



THE GIAOUR. 109 


Whose bark in sheltering cove below 


Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 


Lurks for the passing peaceful prow 


Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 


Till the gay mariner's guitar 3 


Was freedom's home or glory's grave ! 


Is heard, and seen the evening star 


Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 


Then stealing with the muffled oar, 


That this is all remains of thee ? 


Far shaded by the rocky shore, 


Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 


Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 


Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 


And turn to groans his roundelay. 


These waters blue that round you lave, 


Strange — that where Nature lov'd to trace 


Oh servile offspring of the free — 


As if for gods, a dwelling place, 


Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 


And every charm and grace hath mix'd 


The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 


Within the paradise she fix'd, 


These scenes, their story not unknown, 


There man, enamor'd of distress, 


Arise, and make again your own ; 


Should mar it into wilderness, 


Snatch from the ashes of your sires 


And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 


The embers of their former fires ; 


That tasks not one laborious hour ; 


And he who in the strife expires 


Nor claims the culture of his hand 


Will add to theirs a name of fear 


To bloom along the fairy land, 


That tyranny shall quake to hear, 


But springs as to preclude his care, 


And leave his sons a hope, a fame 


And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 


They too will rather die than shame . 


Strange — that where all is peace beside 


For freedom's battle once begun, 


There passion riots in her pride, 


Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, 


And lust and rapine wildly reign 


Though baffled oft, is ever won. 


To darken o'er the fair domain. 


Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 


It is as though the fiends prevail'd 


Attest it many a deathless age ! 


Against the seraphs they assail'd, 


While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 


And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell, 


Have left a nameless pyramid, 


The freed inheritors of hell ; 


Thy heroes, though the general doom 


So soft the scene, so form'd! for joy, 


Hath swept the column from their tomb, 


So curst the tyrants that destroy ! • 


A mightier monument command, 




The mountains of their native land ! 




There points thy muse to stranger's eye 


He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 


The graves of those that cannot die ! 


Ere the first day of death is fled, 


'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, 


The first aark day of nothingness, 


Each step from splendor to disgrace ; 


The last of danger and distress, 


Enough — no foreign foe could quell 


(Before decay's effacing fingers 


Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 


Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 


Yes ! self-abasement paved the way 


And mark'd the mild angelic air, 


To villain-bonds and despot sway. 


The rapture of repose that's there, 




The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak 




The languor of the placid cheek, 


What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 


And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 


No legend of thine olden time, 


That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 


No theme on which the muse might soar • 


And but for that chill, changeless brow, 


High, as thine own in days of yore, 


Where cold obstruction's apathy 4 


When man was worthy of thy clime ; 


Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 


The hearts within thy vallies bred, 


As if to him it could impart 


The fiery souls that might have led 


The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 


Thy sons to deeds sublime, 


Yes, but for these, and these alone, 


Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 


Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour 


Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave, 6 


He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 


And callous, save to crime ; 


So fan - , so calm, so softly seal'd, 


Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 


The first, last look by death reveal'd ! 5 


Mankind, where least above the brutes ; 


Such is the aspect of this shore ; 


Without even savage virtue blest, 


'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 


Without one free or valiant breast. 


So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 


Still to the neighboring ports they waft 


We start, for soul is wanting there. 


Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 


Hers is the loveliness in death, 


In this the subtle Greek is found, 


That parts not quite with parting breath ; 


For this, and this alone, renown'd. 


But beauty with that fearful bloom, 


In vain might liberty invoke 


That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 


The spirit to its bondage broke, 


Expression's last receding ray, 


Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 


A gilded halo hovering round decay, 


No more her sorrows I bewail, 


The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 


Yet this will be a mournful tale, 


Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 


And they who listen may believe, 


Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished 


Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 


earth ! 


******** 



HO BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing 


He stood — some dread was on his face, 


The shadows of the rocks advancing, 


Soon hatred settled in its place ; 


Start on the fisher's eye like boat 


It rose not with the reddening flush 


Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 


Of transient anger's darkening blush, 


And, fearful for his light caique, 


But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 


He shuns the near, but doubtful creek : 


Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 


Though worn and weary with his toil, 


His brow was bent, his eye was glazed, 


And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 


He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 


Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 


And sternly shook his hand on high, 


Till Port Leone's safer shore 


As doubting to return or fly : 


Receives him by the lovely light 


Impatient of his flight delay'd, 


That best becomes an eastern night. 


Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 


******** 


Down glanced that hand, and grasped his bl«de ; 




That sound had burst his waking dream, 


Who thundering comes on blackest steed. 


As slumber starts at owlet's scream. 


With slacken'd bit, and hoof of speed ? 


The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 


Beneath the clattering iron's sound 


Away, away, for life he rides ; 


The cavern'd echoes wake around 


Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed, 9 


In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 


Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 


The foam that streaks the courser's side 


The rock is doubled, and the shore 


Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide; 


Shakes with the clattering tramp no more :, 


Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 


The crag is won, no more is seen 


There's none within his rider's breast ; 


His Christian crest and haughty mien. 


And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 


'Twas but an instant he restrain'd 


'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! 7 


That fiery barb so sternly rein'd : 


I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 


'Twas but a moment that he stood, 


But in thy lineaments I trace 


Then sped as if by death pursued ; 


What time shall strengthen, not efface : 


But in that instant o'er his soul 


Though young and pale, that sallow front 


Winters of memory seem'd to roll, 


Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; 


And gather in that drop of time 


Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 


A life of pain, an age of crime. 


As meteor-like thou glidest by, 


O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 


Right well I view and deem the one 


Such moment pours the grief of years. 


Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 


What felt he then, at once opprest 




By all that most distracts the breast ? 


On — on he hastened, and he drew 


That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 


My gaze of wonder as he flew : 


Oh, who its dreary length shall date ? 


Though like a demon of the night 


Though in time's record nearly nought, 


He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight, 


It was eternity to thought ! 


His aspect and his air impress'd 


For infinite as boundless space 


A troubled memory on my breast, 


The thought that conscience must embrace. 


And long upon my startled ear 


Which in itself can comprehend 


Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 


Wo without name, or hope, or end. 


• He spurs the steed ; he nears the steep, 




That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 


The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ! 


He winds around ; he hurries by ; 


And did he fly or fall alone ? 


The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 


Wo to that hour he came or went ! 


For well I ween unwelcome he 


The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, 


Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 


To turn a palace to a tomb : 


And not a star but shines too bright 


He came, he went, like the simoom, 10 


On him who takes such timeless flight. 


That harbinger of fate and gloom, 


He wound along, but, ere he pass'd, 


Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 


One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 


The very cypress droops to death — 


A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 


Dark tree, still sad when other's grief is fled, 


A moment breathed him from his speed, 


The only constant mourner o'er the dead! 


A moment on his stirrup stood — 




Why looks he o'er the olive-wood ? 


The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 


The cresent glimmers on the hill, 


No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 


The mosque's high lamps are quivering still : 


The lonely spider's thin gray pall 


Though too remote for sound to wake 


Waves slowly widening o'er the Avail ; 


In echoes of the far tophaike, 8 


The bat builds in his haram bower ; 


The flashes of each joyous peal 


And in the fortress of his power 


Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 


The owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 


To-night, set Rhamazani's sun ; 


The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 


To-night the Bairam feast's begun ; 


With baffled thirst, and famine grim; 


To-night — but who and what art thou, 


For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 


Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 


"Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread: 


And what are these to thine or thee, 


'Twas sweet of yore to see it play, 


That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 


And chase the sultriness of day, 



THE GIAOUR. 



Ill 



As, springing high, the silver dew 

In whirls fantastically flew, 

And flung luxurious coolness round 

The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 

'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 

To view the wave of watery light, 

And hear its melody by night, 

And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd 

Around the verge of that cascade ; 

And oft upon his mother's breast 

That sound had harmonized his rest ; 

And oft had Hassan's youth along 

Its bank been soothed by beauty's song ; 

And softer seemed each melting tone 

Of music mingled with its own. 

But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 

Along the brink at twilight's close : 

The stream that fill'd that font is fled — 

The blood that warm'd his heart is shed ! 

And here no more shall human voice 

Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice ; 

The last sad note that swell'd the gale 

"Was woman's wildest funeral wail ; 

That quench'd in silence, all is still, 

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 

Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 

No hand shall close, its clasp again. 

On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 

The rudest steps of fellow man — 

So here the very voice of grief 

Might wake an echo like relief; 

At least 'twould say, " all are not gone ; 

There lingers life, though but in one — " 

For many a gilded chamber's there, 

Which solitude might well forbear ; 

Within that dome as yet decay 

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 

But gloom is gathered o'er the gate 

Nor there the fakir's self will wait ; 

Nor there will wandering dervise stay, 

For bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred "bread and salt." " 

Alike must wealth and poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by, 

For courtesy and pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, that refuge unto men, 

Is desolation's hungry den. 
The guest flies the hall, and the vassals from labor, 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre ! ,2 



1 hear the sound of coming feet, 

But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 

More near — each turban I can scan, 

And silver-sheathed ataghan ; 13 

The foremost of the band is seen, 

An emir by his garb of green : 14 

" Ho ! who art thou ? — this low salam 15 

Replies of Moslem faith I am. 

The burden ye so gently bear, 

Seems one that claims your utmost care, 

And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 

My humble bark would gladly wait." 

" Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 



Nay, leave the sail still furl'd and ply, 
The nearest oar that's scatter'd by ; 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channell'd waters dark and deep, 
Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run, 
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, 
That one of " 



Sullen it plung'd, and slowly sank, 

The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 

I watch'd as it sank, methought 

Some motion from the current caught 

Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam 

That checker'd o'er the living stream : 

I gazed, till vanishing from view, 

Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 

Still less and less, a speck of white 

That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight ; 

And all its hidden secrets sleep, 

Known but to genii of the deep, 

Which, trembling in their coral caves 

They dare not whisper to the waves. 



As rising on its purple wing 

The insect queen 16 of eastern spring, 

O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 

Invites the young pursuer near, 

And leads him on from flower to flower 

A weary chase and wasted hour, 

Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 

With panting heart and tearful eye : 

So beauty lures the full-grown child, 

With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 

A chase of idle hopes and fears, 

Begun in folly, closed in tears. 

If won, to equal ills betray'd, 

Wo waits the insect and the maid — 

A life of pain, the loss of peace, 

From infant's play, and man's caprice : 

The lovely toy so fiercely sought 

Hath lost its charm by being caught. 

For every touch that wooed its stay 

Hath brush'd its brightest hues away. 

Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 

'Tis left to fly or fall alone. 

With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 

Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? 

Can this with faded pinion soar 

From rose to tulip as before ? 

Or beauty, blighted in an hour, 

Find joy within her broken bower ? 

No ! gayer insects fluttering by 

Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 

And lovelier things have mercy shown 

To every failing but their own, 

And every wo a tear can claim 

Except an erring sister's shame. 



The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 

Is like the scorpion girt by fire, 
In circle narrowing as it glows, 
The flames around their captive close, 
Till, inly search'd by thousand throes, 
And maddening in her ire, 



112 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



One sad and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain, 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
And darts into her desperate brain : 
So do the dark in soul expire, 
Or live like scorpion girt by fire ; 17 
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath, 
Around it flame, within it death ! 



Black Hassan from the haram flies, 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila •there no longer dwell ? 
That tale can only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumors in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away, 
When Rhamazan's I8 last sun was set, 
And flashing from each minaret, 
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless east. 
'Twas then she went as to the bath, 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
For she was flown her master's rage, 
In likeness of a Georgian page, 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd^ 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserv'd a grave: 
And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tales his Nubians tell, 
Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
And others say that on that night, 
By pale Phingari's 19 trembling light 
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 



Her eye's dark charm 'twere Vain to tell, 

But gaze on that of the gazelle, 

It will assist thy fancy well ; 

As large, as languishingly dark, 

But soul beam'd forth in every spark 

That darted from beneath the lid, 

Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 20 

Yea, soul, and should our prophet say 

That form was nought but breathing clay, 

By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 

Though on Al-Sirat's 21 arch I stood 

Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 

With paradise within my view, 

And all his houris beckoning through. 

Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 

And keep that portion of his creed 22 

Which saith that woman is but dust, 

A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 

On her might Muftis gaze, and own 

That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 



On her fair cheek's unfading hue 

The young pomegranate's 23 blossoms strew. 

Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 

Her hair in hyacinthine 24 flow, 

When left to roll its folds below, 

As 'midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all, 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 

It fell and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 

So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 

The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! 25 

As rears her crest the ruffled swan, 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus armed with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate : 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he ? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 



Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
With twenty vassals in his train, 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
The chief before as deck'd for war, 
Bears in his belt the scimetar 
Stained with the best of Arnaut blood 
When in the pass the rebels stood, 
And few return'd to tell the tale 
Of what befell in Parne's vale. 
The pistols which his girdle bore 
Were those that once a pashai wore, 
Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 
Even robbers tremble to behold, 
"lis said he goes to woo a bride 
More true than her who left his side ; 
The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
And worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 
******** 

The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer ; 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
****** * * 

The foremost Tartar's in the gap, 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above the mountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light ; 



THE GIAOUR. 



113 



Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray, 
By time, or mountain lightning riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 

******** 

They reach the grove of pine at last: 

" Bismillah ! 26 now the peril's past; 

For yonder view the opening plain, 

And there we '11 prick our steeds amain." 

The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 

A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 

The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 

But three shall never mount again ; 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er then - courser's harness leant, 

Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
And there await the coming shock, 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stern Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course. 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; 
Then curl'd his very beard 27 with ire, 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
" Though far and near the bullets hiss, , 
I've scaped a bloodier hour than this. " 
And now the foe their covert quit, 
And call his vassals to submit ; 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
Nor of his little band a man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! ^ 
In fuller sight, more near and near, 
The lately ambush'd foes appear, 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Who leads them on with foreign brand, 
Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
" 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! I know him now ; 
I know him by his pallid brow ; 
I know him by the evil eye 29 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him by his jet-black barb : 
Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith, 
It shall not save him from the death » 
'Tis he ! well met in any hour ! 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour ! " 

As rolls the river into the ocean, 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure c.olumn proudly gleaming, 
15 



Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and mingling flood, 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash, 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore, 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
AVith waves that, madden as they meet — 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 

And pealing wide or ringing near 

Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The death-shot hissing from afar ; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 

Reverberate along that vale, 

More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, 
That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, 
To seize and share the dear caress ; 
But love itself could never pant 
For all that beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervor hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes, 
When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold : 
Friends meet to part ; love laughs at faith ; 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 

******** 

With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt : 
Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
Which quivers round that faithless brand ; 
His turban far behind him roll'd, 
And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 
His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
And crimson as those clouds of morn 
That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
The day shall have a stormy end ; 
A stain on every bush that bore 
A fragment of his palampore, 30 
His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, 
His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
Fallen Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
Yet lowering on his enemy, 
As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 
And o'er him bends that foe with brow 
As dark as his that bled below. — 
******** 

" Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave ; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his- power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour : 
He call'd on Alia — but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 
I watched my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
And now I go — but go alone." 



114 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The browsing camels' bells are tinkling : 
His mother look'd from her lattice high, 

She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye, 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
,: 'Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh." 
She could not rest in the garden bower, 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
" Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift ? 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 
Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
And warily the steep descends, 
And now within the valley bends ; 
And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow — 
How could I deem his courser slow ? 
Right well my largess shall repay 
His welcome speed, and weary way." 

The Tartar lighted at the gate, 

But scarce upheld his fainting weight ; 

His swarthy visage spake distress, 

But this might be from weariness ; 

His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, 

But these might be from his courser's side ; 

He drew the token, from his vest — 

Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest — 

His calpac 31 rent — his caftan red — 

" Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed ; 

Me, not for mercy, did they spare, 

But this empurpled pledge to bear. 

Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt ; 

Wo to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." 



A turban 32 carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 
Whereon can now be scarcely read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, 
Or prayed with face towards the shrine, 
In orisons resumed anew 
At solemn sound of " Alia Hu !" 33 
Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
And stranger in his native land ; 
Yet died he as in arms he stood, 
And unavenged, at least in blood. 
But him the maids of paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite, 
And the dark heaven of Houri's eyes 

On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave, 34 
And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 



But thou, false infidel ! shalt writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's 35 scythe; 
And from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost Eblis' x throne ; 
A fire unquench'd, unquenchable, 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ; 
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 



The tortures of that inward hell ! 
But first, on earth as vampire 37 sent, 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck/the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : » 

Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire, 
As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 
The youngest, most beloved of all, 
Shall bless thee with a father's name — 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue : 
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair, 
Of which in life a lock when shorn 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn ; 
But now is borne away by thee, 
Memorial of thine agony ! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip * 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 
Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they i 



" How name ye yon lone Caloyer ! 

His features I have scann'd before 
In mine own land : 'tis many a year, 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
I could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
As death was stamp 'd upon his brow." 

" 'Tis twice three years at summer-tide 
Since first among our freres he came ; 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name. 
But never at our vesper prayer, 
Nor e'er before confession chair 
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies, 
But broods within his cell alone, 
His faith and race alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost, 
And here ascended from the coast ; 
Yet seems he not of Othman race, 
But only Christian in his face : 
I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
Repentant of the change he made, 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these walls he brought, 
And thus our abbot's favor bought ; 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay, 



THE GIAOUR. 



115 



Or pent within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On cliff he hath been known to stand, 
And rave as to some bloody hand 
Fresh sefer'd from its parent limb, 
Invisible to all but him, 
Which beckons onward to his grave, 
And lures to leap into the wave." 



Dark and unearthly is the scowl 

That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 

The flash of that dilating eye 

Reveals too much of times gone by ; 

Though varying, indistinct its hue, 

Oft will his glance the gazer rue, 

For in it lurks that nameless spell 

Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 

A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 

That claims and keeps ascendancy ; 

And like the bird whose pinions quake, 

But cannot fly the gazing snake, 

Will others quail beneath his look, 

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 

Front him the half-affrighted friar 

When met alone would fain retire, 

As if that eye .and bitter smile 

Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 

Not oft to smile descendeth he, 

And when he doth 'tis sad to see 

That he but mocks at misery. • 

How that pale lip will curl and quiver, 

Then fix once more as if for ever ; 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e'er to smile again. 

Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 

From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth 

But sadder still it were to trace 

What once were feelings in that face : 

Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 

But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; 

And there are hues not always faded, 

Which speak a mind not all degraded 

Even by the crimes through which it waded : 

The common crowd but see the gloom 

Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 

The close observer can espy 

A noble soul, and lineage high : "» 

Alas ! though bothbestow'd in vain, 

Which grief could change, and guilt could stain. 

It was no vulgar tenement 

To which such lofty gifts were lent, 

And still with little less than dread 

On such the sight is riveted. 

The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 

Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent, 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye ; 
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

" His floating robe around him folding, 
Slow sweeps he through the colum'd aisle ; 



With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 

The rights that sanctify the pile. 
But when the anthem shakes the choir, 
And kneel the monks, his steps retire; 
By yonder lone and wavering torch 
His aspect glares within the porch ; 
There will he pause till all is done — 
And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
See — by the half-illumined wall 
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 
That pale brow widely wreathing round, 
As if the Gorgon there had bound 
The sablest of the serpent-braid 
That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
For he declines the convent oath, 
And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, 
But wears our garb in all beside : 
And, not from piety but pride, 
Gives wealth to walls that never heard 
Of his one holy vow nor word. 
Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
Peals louder praises to the sky, 
That livid cheek, that stony air 
Of mix'd defiance and despair ! ■ 
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine, 
Else may we dread the wrath divine 
Made manifest by awful sign. 
If ever evil angel bore 
The form of mortal, such he wore : 
By all my hope of sins forgiven, 
Such looks are not of earth nor heaven ! " 

To love the softest hearts are prone, 

But such can ne'er be all his own ; 

Too timid in his woes to share, 

Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 

And sterner hearts alone may feel 

The wound that time can never heal. 

The rugged metal of the mine 

Must burn before its surface shine, 

But plunged within the furnace-flame, 

It bends and melts — though still the same ; 

Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 

'Twill serve thee to defend or kill ; 

A breastplate for thine hour of need, 

Or blade to bid thy foemen bleed ; 

But if a dagger's form it bear, 

Let those who shape its edge beware ! 

Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 

Can turn and tame the sterner heart ; 

From these its form and tone are ta'en, 

And what they make it, must remain, 

But break — before it bend acain. 



If solitude succeed to grief, 
Release from pain is slight relief; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness 
Might thank the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share ; 
Even bliss — 'twere wo alone to bear ; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal, 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay t 



116 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



It is as if the desert-bird, 39 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famish' d nestlings' scream, 
Nor mourns a life to ftiem transferr'd, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void, 
The leafless desert of the mind, 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
Better to sink beneath the shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 



•' Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 

'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 
To bid the sins of others cease, 

Thyself without a crime or care, 
Save transient ills that all must bear, 
Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd, 
Such as thy penitents unfold, 
Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
My days, though few, have pass'd below 
In much of joy, but more of wo ; 
Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
I've 'scaped the weariness of life ; 
Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 
I loathed the languor of repose. 
Now nothing left to love or hate, 
No more with hope or pride elate, 
I'd rather be the thing that crawls 
Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 
For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. 
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, and would be still, 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem ; 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom : 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear, a life of lingering woes. 
My spirits shrunk not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
And in the field it had been sweet, 
Had danger woo'd me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I've braved it — not for honor's boast ; 
I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
To such let others carve their way, 
For high renown, or hireling pay : 
But place again before my eyes 
Aught that I deem a worthy prize, 



The maid I love, the man I hate ; 
And I will hunt the steps of fate, 
To save or slay, as these require, 
Through rending steel, and rolling fire ; 
Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one 
Who would but do — what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave, 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 
Then let life go to him who gave : 
I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happy — need I noio f 



" I loved her, friar ! nay adored — 

But these are words that all can use — 
I proved it more in deed than word: 
There's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose ; 
'Twas shed for her, who died for me, 

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : 
Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 

Nor midst my sins such act record ; 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
The very name of Nazarene 
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 
Well weldfcd in some hardy hands, 
And wounds by Galileans given, 
The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
For him his Houris still might wait 
Impatient at the prophet's gate : 
I loved her — love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey ; 
And if it dares enough, 'twere hard 
If passion met not some reward — 
No matter how, or where, or why 
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh ; 
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
I wish she had not loved again. 
She died — 1 dare not tell thee how ; 
But look — 'tis written on my brow ; 
There read of Cain the curse and crime, 
In characters unworn by time : 
Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 
Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
Yet did he but what I had done 
Had she been false to more than one. 
Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 
But true to me, I laid him low : 
Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 
Her treachery was truth to me ; 
To me she gave her heart, that all 
"Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall ; 
And I, alas ! too late to save ! 
Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
'Twas some relief, our foe a grave. 
His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
Has made me — what thou well may'st hate. 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear 40 
The death-shot peal'd of murder near, 

As filed the troop to where they fell ! 
He died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
One prayer to Alia all he made : 



THE GIAOUR. 



117 



He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 

I gazed upon him where he lay. 

And watch'd his spirit ebb away ; 

Though pierc'd like pard by hunters' steel, 

He felt not half that now I feci. 

I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 

The workings of a wounded mind; 

Each feature of that sullen corse 

Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 

Oh, what had vengeance given to trace 

Despair upon his dying face ? 

The late repentance of that hour, 

When penitence hath lost her power 

To tear one terror from the grave, 

And will not soothe, and cannot save. 



" The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 

But mine was like the lava flood 
That boils in ^Etna's breast of flame. 

I cannot prate in puling strain 

Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain ; 

If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 

Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 

If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 

And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 

And all that I have felt, and feel, 

Betoken love — that love was mine, 

And shown by many a bitter sign. 

'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 

I knew but to obtain or die. 

I die — but first I have possess'd, 

And, come what may, I have been blest. 

Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 

No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 

But for the thought of Leila slain, 

Give me the pleasure with the pain, 

So would I live and love again. 

I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 

For him who dies, but her who died : 

She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 

Ah ! had she but an earthly grave, 

This breaking heart and throbbing head 

Should seek and share her narrow bed. 

She was a form of life and light, 

That, seen, became a part of sight ; 

And rose, where'er I turned mine eye, 

The morning-star of memory ! 

" Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; 

A spark of that immotal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given, 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above, 
But heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
A ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
A glory circling round the soul ! 
I grant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall ; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
She was my life's unerring light: 
That quench'd, what beam shall break my night ? 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 
Although to death or deadliest ill ! 



Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
This present joy, this future hope, 
No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
In frenzy then their fate accuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to wo ? 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward blow : 
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear: 
I read abhorrence on thy brow, 

And this too was I bcrn to bear ! 
'Tis true that, like that bird of prey, 
With havoc have I mark'd the way : 
But this was taught me by the dove, 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
The bird that sings within the brake, 
The swan that swims upon the lake, 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 
And let the fool still prone to range, 
And sneer on all who cannot change, 
Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
I envy not his varied joys, 
But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine — 
Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my wo, 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee, 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
For worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. _ 
The very crimes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 

" And she was lost — and yet I breathed, 

But not the breath of human life ; 
A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 
And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, ahhorr'd all place, 
Shuddering I shrunk from nature's face, 
Where every hue that charm'd before 
The blackness of my bosom wore. 
The rest thou dost already know, 
And all my sins, and half my wo. 
But talk no more of penitence ; 
Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence, 
And if thy holy tale were true, 
The deed that's done can'st thou undo ? 
Think me not thankless — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief. 41 
My soul's estate in secret guess : 
But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
When thou canst bid my Leila live, 
Then will I sue thee to forgive : 
Then plead my cause in that high place 
Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 
From forest-cave her shrieking young, 



118 

And calm the lonely lioness : 

But sooth not — mock not my distress. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" In earlier days, and calmer hours, 

When heart with heart delights to blend, 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 

I had — ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind him of my end : 

Though souls absorbed like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When prudence would his voice assume, 

And warn — I reck'd not what — the while : 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass, 
. And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sooth : 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 

Through many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been, 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
If guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame, 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame ? 
I do not ask him not to mourn, 
Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier ? 
But bear this ring, his own of old, 
And tell him — what thou dost behold : 
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 



" Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 

No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 

Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 

I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ; 

But could not, for my burning brow 

Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 

I wish'd but for a single tear, 

As something welcome, new, and dear : 

I wish'd it then, I wish it still; 

Despair is stronger than my will. 

Waste not thine orison, despair 

Is mightier than thy pious prayer 

I would not, if I might, be blest; 

I want no paradise, but rest. 

'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then 

I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 

And shining in her white symar, 42 

As through yon pale gray cloud the star 



Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
Dimly I view its trembling spark, 
To-morrow's night shall be more dark 
And I, before its rays appear, 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 
I wander, father ! for my soul 
Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
Forgetful of our former woes ; 
And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 
I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
No breathing form within my grasp, 
No heart that beats reply to mine, 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care riot ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wish to hold. 
Alas ! around a shadow prest, 
They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
Yet still 'tis there ! in silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright-black eye— 
I knew 'twas false — she could not die ! 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell ; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
They told me wild waves roll'd above 
The face I view, the form I love ; 
They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! 
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, 
Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more ; 
Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul, 
Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 
* * * * * * •* • 

" Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead, 
And, save the cross above my head, 
Be neither nane nor emblem spread, 
By prying stranger to be read, 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." 

He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace, 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day : 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of her he loved, or him he slew.« 



NOTES TO THE GIAOUR. 



That tomb, which, gleaming o'er the cliff. 

Page 108, fine 3. 
A Tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by 
some supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 



Sultana of the nightingale. 

Page 108, line 16. 
The attachment sf the nightingale to the rose is 
a well known Persran fable. If I mistake not, the 
"Bulbul of a thousand tales " is one of his appel- 
lations. 

3. 
Till the gag mariner' s guitar. 

Page 109, line 3. 
The guitar is the constant amusement of the 
Greek sailor by night : with a steady fair wind, and 
during a calm, it is accompanied always by the 
voice, and often by dancing. 

4. 
Where cold obstruction's apathy. 

Page 109, line 44. 

" Ay, but to die and go we know not where, 
To lie in cold obstruction." 

Measure for Measure, Act III. 130, Sc. 2. 



The first, last look by death reveal'd. 

Page 109, line 52. 
I trust that few of my readers have ever had an 
opportunity of witnessing what is here attempted 
in description, but those who have, will probably 
retain a painful remembrance of that singular beauty 
which pervades, with few exceptions, the features 
of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, 
"after the spirit is not there." It is to be re- 
marked, in cases of violent death by gunshot 
wounds, the expression is always that of languor, 
whatever the natural energy of the sufferer's char- 
acter : but in death from a stab, the countenance 
preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the 
mind its bias to the last. 

6. 

Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 

Page 109, line 114. 
Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, (the 
slave of the seraglio and guardian of the women,) 
who appoints the Waywode. A pander and eu- 
nuch — these are not polite, yet true appellations — 
now governs the governor of Athens ! 

7. 
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour. 
Page 109, line 24. 
Infidel. 

8. 
In echoes of the far tophaike. 

Page 110, line 59. 
" Tophaike," musket. — The Bairam is announced 
by the cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the 
mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, 
loaded with ball, proclaim it during the night. 



Stoifl as the hurl'd on highjerreed. 

Page 110, line 85. 
Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, 
which is darted from horseback with great force and 
precision. It is a favorite exercise of the Mussul- 
mans ; but I know not if it can be called a manly 
one, since the most expert in the art are the Black 
Eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next to these, 
a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful that 
came within my observation. 

10. 
lie came, he went, like the simoom. 

Page 110, line 116. 
The blast of the desert, fatal to everything living, 
and often alluded to in eastern poetry. 

11. 
To bless the sacred " bread and salt." 

Page 111, line 143. 
To partake of food, to break bread and salt with 
your host, insures the safety of the guest ; even 
though an enemy, his person from that moment is 
sacred. 

12. 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre. 
Page'lll, line 51. 
I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospi- 
tality are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet; 
and, to say truth, very generally practised by his 
disciples. The first praise that can be bestowed on 
a chief is a panegyric on his bounty ; the next, on 
his valor. 

13. 
And silver-sheathed ataqhan. 

Page 111, line 56. 
The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in 
the belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver ; 
and, among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 

14. 
An emir by his garb of qreen. 

"Page 111, line 58. 
Green is the privileged color of the prophet's 
numerous pretended descendants ; with them, as 
here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to 
supersede the necessity of good works : they are the 
worst of a very indifferent brood. 

15. 
IIo ! who art thou? — this low salam. 

Page 111, line 59. 
Salam aleikoum salwm ! peace be with you ; be 
with you peace — the salutation reserved for the faith- 
ful : — to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good journey ; 
or saban hiresem, saban serula ; good morn, good 
even ; and sometimes, "may your end be happy ! " 
are the usual salutes. 

16. 
The insect-queen of eastern spring. 

Page ,111 line 92. 
The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most 
rare and beautiful of the species. 



120 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



17. 



Or live like scorpion girt by fire. 

Page 112, line 7. 
Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, 
so placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. 
Some maintain that the position of the sting, when 
turned towards the head, is merely a convulsive 
movement ; but others have actually brought in the 
verdict,! " Felo de se." The scorpions are surely 
interested in a speedy decision of the question; as, 
if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will 
probably be allowed to live as long as they think 
proper, without being martyred for the sake of an 
hypothesis. « 

18. 
When Rhamazan's last sun was set. 

Page 112, line 23. 
The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See 
note 8. 

19. 
By pale Phingari' s trembling light. 

Page 112, line 42. 
Phingari, the moon. 

20. 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 

Page 112, line 54. 
The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
the embellisher of Istakhar ; from its splendor, 
named Sehebgerag, "the torch of night;" also, 
"the cup of the sun," &c. — In the first edition, 
" Giamschid " was written as a word of three syl- 
lables, so D'Herbelot has it ; but I am told Rich- 
ardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes " Jam- 
shid." I have left in the text the orthography of 
the one with the pronunciation of the other. 

21. 
Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood. 

Page 112, line 58. 
Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth less than the 
thread of a famished spider, over which the Mus- 
sulmans must skate into paradise, to which it is the 
only entrance ; but this is not the worst, the river 
beneath being hell itself, into which, as may be ex- 
pected, the unskilful and tender of foot contrive to 
tumble with a " facilis descensus Averni," not very 
pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There 
is a shorter cut downwards for the Jews and Chris- 
tians. 

22. 
And keep that portion of his creed. 

'Page 112, line 63. 
A vulgar error : the Koran allots at least a third 
paradise to well-behaved women ; but by far the 
greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text 
their own way, and exclude their moieties from 
heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot 
discern " any fitness of things " in the souls of the 
other sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the 
Houris. 

23. 
The young pomegranate's blossoms strew. 

Page 112, line 69. 
An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though 
fairly stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Arabie." 

24. 
Her hair in hyacinthine flow. 

Page 112, line 71. 
Hyacinthine, in Arabic, " Sunbul ; " as common 
a thought in the eastern poets, as it was amoDg the 
Greeks. 

25. 
The loveliest bird of Franguestan. 

Page 112, line 81. 
"Franguestan," Circassia. 

26. 
Bismillah! now the per iV s past. 

Page 113, line 92. 



Bismillah — " In the name of God ; " the com- 
mencement of all the chapters of the Koran but 
one, and of prayer and thanksgiving. 

27. 
Then curl'd his very beard with ire. 

Page 113, line 37. 
A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry 
Mussulman. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whis- 
kers, at a diplomatic audience, were no less lively 
with indignation than a tiger cat's, to the horror of 
all the dragomans ; the portentous mustachios 
twisted, they stood erect of then - own accord, and 
were expected every moment to change their color, 
but at last condescended to subside, which, proba- 
bly, saved more heads than they contained hairs. 

28. 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun. 

Page 113, line 47. 
"Amaun," quarter, pardon. 

29. 
/ knoic him by the evil eye. 

Page 113, line 56. 
The "evil eye," a common superstition in the 
Levant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet 
very singular, on those who conceive themselves af- 
fected. 

30. 
A fragment of his palampore. 

Page 113, line 111. 
The flowered shawls, generally worn by persons 
of rank. 

31. 
His calpac rent — his caftan red. 

Page 114, line 29. 
The " calpac " is the solid cap or centre part of 
the head-dress ; the shawl is wound round it, and 
forms the turban. 

32. 
A turban carved in coarsest stone. 

Page 114, line 36. 
The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate 
the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the ceme- 
tery or the wilderness. In the mountains you fre- 
quently pass similar mementos ; and, on inquiry, 
you are informed, that they record some victim of 
rebellion, plunder, or revenge. 

33. 
At solemn sound of " Alia Hu ! " 

Page 114, line 47. 
" Aila Hu ! " the concluding words of the Muez- 
zin's call to prayer from the highest gallery on the 
exterior of the minaret. On a still evening, when 
the Muezzin has a fine voice, which is frequently 
the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond 
all the bells in Christendom. 

34. 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave. 
Page 114, line 56. 
The following is part of a battle-song of the 
Turks : — " I see — I see a dark-eyed girl of paradise, 
ana she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; 
and cries aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee," 
etc. 

35. 
Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe. 

Page 114, line 62. 
Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, 
before whom the corpse undergoes a slight novitiate 
and preparatory training for damnation. If the an- 
swers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a 
scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace till 
properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary pro- 
bations. The office of these angels is no sinecure ; 
there are but two, and the number of orthodox de- 
ceased being in a small proportion to the remainder, 
their hands are always full. 



NOTES TO THE GIAOUR. 



121 



36. 



To wander round lost Eblis' -throne. 

Page 114, line 64. 
Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 

37. 
But first, on earth, as vampire sent. 

Page 114, line 69. 

The Vampire superstition is still general in the 
Levant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which 
Mr. Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about 
these " Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Ro 
maic term is " Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole 
family being terrified by the scream of a child 
which they imagined must proceed from such a visi- 
tation. The Greeks never mention the word with- 
out horror. I find that " Broucolokas " is an old 
legitimate Hellenic appellation — at least is so ap- 
plied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, 
was after his death animated by the Devil. — The 
moderns, however, use the word I mention. 

38. 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. 

Page 114, line 95 

The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the 
lip with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vani 
pire. The stories told in Hungary and Greece of 
these foul feeders are singular, and some of them 
most incredibly attested. 

39. 
It is as if the desert-bird. 

Page 116, line 7- 
The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by 
the imputation of feeding her chickens with her 
blood. 

40. 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear. 

Page 116, line 129. 

This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never 
met with downright second-sight in the east) fell 
once under my own observation. — On my third 
journey to Cape Colonna early in 1811, as we passed 
through the defile that leads from the hamlet be- 
tween Keratiar and Colonna, I observed Dervish 
Tahiri riding rather out of the path, and leaning 
his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode up 
and inquired. " We are in peril," he answered. 
" What peril ? we are not now in Albania, nor in 
the passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto; 
there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates 
have not courage to be thieves." — " True, Affendi, 
but nevertheless the shot is ringing in my ears." 
"The shot! not a tophaike has been fired this 
morning." — " I hear it notwithstanding — Bom — 
Bom — as plainly as I hear your voice." — "Pshaw." 
" As you please, Affendi ; if it is written, so will it 
be." — I left this quick-eared prcdestinarian, and 
rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot, whose 
ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means rel- 
ished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, 
remained some hours, and returned leisurely, say- 
ing a variety of brilliant things, in more languages 
than spoiled the building of Babel, upon the mis- 
taken seer ; Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, 
and English were all exercised, in various conceits, 
upon the unfortunate Mussulman. While we were 
contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was 
occupied about the columns. I thought he was de- 
ranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had 
become a ' Palaocastro ' man : " No," said he, " but 
these pillars will be useful in making a stand;" 
and added other remarks, which at least evinced his 
own belief in his troublesome faculty of fore-hearing •. 
On out return to Athens, we heard from Leone (a 
prisoner set ashore some days after) of the intended 
attack of the Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause 
of its not taking place, in the notes to Childe 
16 



Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some pains to question 
the man, and he described the dresses, arms, and 
marks of the horses of our party so accurately, that, 
with other circumstances, we could not doubt of his 
having been in " villainous company," and our- 
selves in a bad neighborhood. Dervish became a 
soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing 
more musketry than ever will be fired, to the great 
refreshment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his na- 
tive mountains. — I shall mention one trait more of 
this singular race. In March, 1811, a remarkably 
stout and active Arnaout came (I believe the tenth 
on the same errand) to oiler himself as an attend- 
ant, which was declined: " Well, Affendi," quoth 
he, " may you live ! — you would have found me use- 
ful. I shall leave the town for the hills to-morrow, 
in the winter I return, perhaps you will then receive 
me." — Dervish, who was present, remarked, as a 
thing of course, and of no consequence, " In the 
mean time he will join the Klephtes," (robbers,) 
which was true to the letter. — If not cut off, they 
come down in the winter, and pass it unmolested 
in some town, where they are often as well known 
as their exploits. 

41. 
Looks not to priesthood for relief. 

Page 117, line 126. 
The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have 
had so little effect upon the patient, that it could 
have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient 
to say, that it was of a customary length (as may 
be perceived) from the interruptions and uneasiness 
of the penitent,) and was delivered in the nasal 
tone of all orthodox preachers. 

42. 
And shining in her white symar. 

Page 118, line 59. 

" Symar " — shroud. 

43. 
Page 118, line 121. 

The circumstance to which the above story re- 
lates was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few 
years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to 
his father of his son's supposed infidelity ; he asked 
with whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a 
list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. 
They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drown- 
ed in the lake the same night ! One of the guards 
who was present informed me, that not one of the 
victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of ter- 
ror at so sudden a " wrench from all we know, from 
all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of 
this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and 
Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told 
of a young Venetian many years ago, and now 
nearly forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by 
one of the coffee-house story-tellers who abound in 
the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. 
The additions and interpolations by the translator 
will be easily distinguished from the rest by the 
want of Eastern imagery ; and I regret that my 
memory has retained so few fragments of the origi- 
nal. 

For the contents of some the notes I am indebted 
partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most east- 
ern, and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, " sublime 
tale," the " Caliph Vathek." I do not know from 
what source the author of that singular volume 
may have drawn his materials; some of his inci- 
dents are to be found in the " Bibliotheque Orien- 
tale; but for correctness of costume, beauty of 
description, and power of imagination, it far sur- 
passes all European imitations ; and bears such 
marks of originality, that those who have visited 
the East, will find some difficulty in believing it to 
be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, 
even Rasselas must bow before it; his "Happy 
Valley " will not bear a comparison with the " Hall 
of Eblis." 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS; 

A TURKISH TALE. 



Had we never loveil so kindly, 
Hud we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-lieart-'d. 

BURNS. 



THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD HOLLAND, 

THIS TALE IS INSCKIBED, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED 
AND SINCERE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



CANTO I. 



I. 



Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
"Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever 

shine ; 
"Where the light wings of Zephyr, opprcss'd with 

perfume, 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul 1 in her bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have 

done ? 2 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which 

they tell. 

II. 

Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
Awaiting each his lord's behest 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 



Old Giaffir sat in his Divan : 
Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 

And though the face of Mussulman 
Not oft betrays to standers by 

The mind within, well skill'd to hide 

All but unconquerable pride, 

His pensive cheek and pondering brow 

Did more than he was wont avow. 

III. 

" Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train disap- 
pear'd — 

" Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." 
With Giaffir is none but his only son, 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 

" Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 

Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 

(Wo to the head whose eye beheld 

My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) 

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 

Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 

Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 

By me alone be duty taught !" 

" Pacha! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way, 
But here young Selim silence brake, 
First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



123 



And downcast look'd and gently spake, 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 

" Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide, 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That — let the old and weary sleep — 
I could not ; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
With none to listen and reply 
To thoughts with whiclfmy heart beat high 
Were irksome — for whate'er my mood, 
In sooth I love not solitude ; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 

And, as thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the Haram's grating key, 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown, 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own. 
There linger'd we, beguiled too long 
With Mej noun's tale, or Sadi's song ; 3 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour 4 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
To thee, and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower." 

IV. 
" Son of a slave ! " — the Pacha said — 
"From unbelieving mother bred, 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, 
Thou, -Greek in soul if not in creed, 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire, 
Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
Assume the distaff — not the brand. 
But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
And hark — of thine own head take heed— 
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
Thou seest yon bow — it hath a string ! " 

V. 

No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 

At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

" Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear ! 

Those gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire ? " 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career ; 



And glances even of more than ire 
Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 

Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
And started ; for within his eye 

He read how much his wrath hath done ; 

He saw rebellion there begun : 

" Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 

I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 

But there be deeds thou dar'st not do . 

But if thy beard had manlier length, 

And if thy hand had skill and strength, 

I'd joy to see thee break a lance, 

Albeit against my own perchance." 

As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim's eye he fiercply gazed : 

That eye return'd him glance for glance, 
And proudly to his sire's was raised, 

Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance — 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
" Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy : 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
Far less would venture into strife 
Whei-e man contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or tone ; 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no more — 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab 5 to my sight, 
Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice : 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! ,more than ev'n her mother dear, 
With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet as the desert-fountain's wave 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now ! 

VI. 

Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 

When on that dread yet lovely serpent s-miling, 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 

But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendant vision 

To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 

And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven ; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above ; 
Was she — the daughter of this rude old chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of loveliness ? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 



124 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The light of love, the purity of grace, 
The mind, the music breathing from her face, 6 
The heai". whose softness harmonized the whole— 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul ! 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently budding breast ; 

At one kind word those arms extending 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child caressing and carest, 
Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
His purpose half within him melt : 
Not that against her fancied weal 
His heart though stern could ever feel ; 
Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

VII. 
" Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress, 

In losing what I love so well, 

To bid thee with another dwell : 

Another ! and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet the line of Carasman 7 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan. 
And teach the messenger 8 what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou know'st thy father's will ; 

All that thy sex hath need to know : 
'Twas mine to teach obedience still — 

The way to love thy lord may show." 

VIII. 
In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was fill'd with tears, 
That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, 

And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped, 

What could such be but maiden fears ? 
So bright the tear in beauty's eye, 

Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So sweet the blush of bashfulness, 

Even pity scarce can wish it less ! 
Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
Or if remember'd, mark'd it not : 
Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed, 9 

Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouke, 10 
And mounting featly for the mead, 
' With Maugrabee " and Mamaluke, 

His way amffi. his Delis took, 12 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, and blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch'd well the Haram's massy doors. 



IX. 



His head was leant upon his hand, 

His eye look'd o'er the dark-blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded felt 13 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 
Nor heard their Ollahs u wild and loud — 
He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter . 



No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
But little from his aspect learn'd : 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame, 
But yet that heart alarm'd or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 
" How strange he thus should turn away ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 

And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd ; 

She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's 15 perfume, 
And sprinkled all its odors o'er 
The pictured roof 16 and marble floor : 
The drops, that through his glittering vest 
The playful girl's appeal addrest, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
" What, sullen yet ? it must not be — 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of Eastern land — 
" He loved them once ; may touch them yet, 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breath'd 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed; 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul n bears ; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

XL 

" What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 

And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? 
Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest? 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
And I will kiss thee into rest, 
Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 
Even from my fabled nigtingale. 



v «■ 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



125 



I knew our sire at times was stern, 
But this from thee had yet to learn : 
Too well I know he loves thee not ; 
But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan — 
This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
I'erhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step admit her vow, 
"Without thy free consent, command, 
The Sultan should not have my hand ! 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 
Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side, 
Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 
Years have not seen, time shall not see 
The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
Even Azrael IS from his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom for ever 

Our hearts to undivided dust ! " 

XII. 

He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt ; 
He raised the maid from where she knelt ; 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
As the stream late conceal'd 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes reveal'd 

In the light of its billows ; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

From the black cloud that bound it, 
Flash'd the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife, 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, 
And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
" Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done; 
That vow hath saved more heads than one : 
But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
That cluster round thy forehead fair, 
For all the treasures buried far 
Within the caves of Istakar. 19 
This morning clouds upon me lower' d, 
Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
And Giaffir almost called me coward ! 
Now I have motive to be brave ; 
The son of his neglected slave, 
Nay, start not 'twas the term he gave, 
May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee, 
Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
But let our plighted secret vow 
Be only known to cs as now. 



I know the wretch who dares demand 

From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 

More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 

Holds not a Musselims 20 control : 

AVas he not bred in Egripo ? 21 

A viler race let Israel show ! 

But let that pass — to none be told 

Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 

To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 

I've partisans for peril's day : 

Think not I am what I appear ; 

I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near ' 

XIII. 

" Think not thou art what thou appcarest ; 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. 
My love thou surely knew'st before, 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 

And hate the night I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but by day ; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
Like this — and this — no more than this ; 
For, Alia ! sure thy lips are flame : 

"What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 
My own have nearly caught the same, 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
To sooth thy sickness, watch thy health, 
Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring b) r , 
And lighten half thy poverty ; 
Do all but close thy dying eye, 
For that I could not live to try ; 
To these alone my thoughts aspire : 
More can I do ? or thou require ? 
But, Selim, thou must answer why 
We see so much of mystery ? 
The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
But be it, since thou say'st 'tis well ; 
Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms ' and ' friends 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee ; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in mc, 
To be what I have ever been ? 
"What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour ? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy ? 
These cherish'd thoughts with life begun, 

Say, why must I no more avow ? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth ; my pride, and thine till now ? 
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will repine: 
No ! happier made by that decree ! 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld: 



126 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good : 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And why, I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime, 

And such it feels while lurking here ; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar, 22 
My father leaves the mimic war ; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why : " 

XIV. 
" Zulcika! to thy tower's retreat 
Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet ; 
And now with him I fain must prate 
Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 
There's fearful news from Danube's bank, 
Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 
For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 
Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
Such costly triumph to repay. 
But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selim come ; 
Then softly from the Haram creep 
Where we may wander by the deep : 
Our garden-battlements are steep*; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
Thou know'st I hold a Haram key." 

" Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
Did word like this — " 

" Delay not thou ; 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
I am not, love ! what I appear." 



CANTO II. 



I. 



The winds are high on Helle's wave, 

As on that night of stormy water, 

When Love, who sent, forgot to save 

The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 



He could not see, he would not hear 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
His eye but saw that light of love, 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
"Ye waves, divide not lovers long ! " — 
That tale is old, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 

II. 

The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 

And night's descending shadows hide 
That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 

The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 

All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 

The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle : 

III. 
Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore ; 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes, 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own "broad Hellespont " S3 still dashes, 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

IV. 
The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Amnion's 24 son ran proudly rouna 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd. 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how nairow ; 
Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that was beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone , 
But thou — thy very dust is gone ! 



Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear ; 

Till then no beacon on the cliff 

May shape the course of struggling skiff; 

The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay. 

All, one by one, have died away ; 

The only lamp of this lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower ; 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; 25 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget ?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet, 26 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the next; 
And by her comboloio ^ lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



127 



And many a bright eniblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould ; 
The richest work of Iran's loom, 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
"What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 

VI. 

Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
To guard from winds of heaven the breast 

As heaven itself to Selim dear, 
With cautious steps the thicket threading, 
v And starting oft, as through the glade 

The gust its hollow moanings made, 
Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
More free her timid bosom beat, 

The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
And though her terror urged retreat, 

How could she quit her Selim's side ? 

How teach her tender lips to chide ? 

VII. 
They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature but enlarged by art, 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her prophet had disdained to show ; 
But Selim's mansion was secure, 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss, 
Without her, most beloved in this ! 
Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell ? / 
What Houri sooth him half so well ? 

VIII. 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within the grot : 

It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light : 

That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue ; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were piled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 

And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 

Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 

What may this mean ? she turn'd to see 

Her Selim — " Oh ! can this be he ? " 

IX. 

His robe of pride was thrown aside, 
His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 

But in its stead a shawl of red, 
Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore : 



That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem, 
No longer glitter'd at his waist, 
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced; 
And from his belt a sabre swung, 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote : 
Beneath — his golden-plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee. 28 

X. 

" I said I was not what I seem'd : 
And now thou seest my words were true 

I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 
If sooth — its truth must others rue. 

My story now 'twere vain to hide; 

I must not see thee Osman's bride; 

But had not thine own lips declared 

How much of that young heart I shared, 

I could not, must not, yet have shown 

The darker secret of my own. 

In this I speak not now of love ; 

That, let time, truth, and peril prove : 

But first — Oh ! never wed another — 

Zuleika ! I am not thy brother !" 

XL 

" Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
But know me all I was before, 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou has cause for vengeance, see 
My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe ; 
And I alas ! am Giaffir's child, 
For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. 
If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
My life, Oh ! bid me be thy slave !" 

XII. 
" My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine ; 

But, gentle love, this transport calm : 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran 29 verse display'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widen'd, not divided, 

Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 



128 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



My father was to Giaffir all 

That Selim late was decm'd to thee ; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And hill'd me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
He rear'd me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain j 30 
He watched me like a lion's whelp, 

That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take : 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, belov'd Zuleika ! hear 
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII. 
" How first their strife to rancor grew, 

If love or envy made them foes, 
It matters little if I knew : 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 
And Paswan's 3l rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest ; 
His death is all I need relate, 
The stern effect of Giaffir's hate; 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 

XIV. 
" When Paswan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life, 
In AVidin's walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
Nor last nor least in high command 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
They gave their horsetails 32 to the wind, 

And, mustering in Sophia's plain, 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd; 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
What need of words ? the deadly bowl, 

By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath, 

He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught, "8 nor needed more ! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

XV. 

" The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalick was gain'd : — 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah's honors were obtain'd 
By him a brother's murder stain'd; 
'Tis true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
Would'st question whence ? Survey the waste, 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broiling brow ! — 



"Why me the stern usurper spared, 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant's force ; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none* 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 
Preserved me thus ; but not in peace 
He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XVI. 

" Within thy father's house are foes ; 

Not all who break his bread are true 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few : 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew 

This talc, whose close is almost nigh : 
He in Abdallah's palace grew, 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here — he saw him die : 
But what could single slavery do ? 
Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate r 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, 
He led me helpless to his gate, 

And not in vain it seems essay'd 

To save the life for which he pray'd. 
The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from me ; 
Thus Giaffir's safety was insured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side, 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains, 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals : 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 

XVII. 

" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er, my tongue thy softness wounds, 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn, 

And long must wear : this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 

Is leader of those pirate hordes, 

Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale ; 
Those arms thou see'st my band have brought; 
The hands that wield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fill'd — once quaff 'd, they ne'er repine ; 
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 

They're only infidels in wine. 

XVIII. 
" What could I be ? Proscribed at home-, 
And taunted to a wish to roam ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



129 



And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 

Denied the courser and the spear — 

Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft !— 

In full Divan the despot scoff'd, 

As if my weak unwilling hand 

Refused tlie bridle or the brand : 

He ever went to war alone, 

And pent me here untried, unknown ; 

To Haroun's care with women left, 

By hope unblcst, of fame bereft, 

While thou — whose softness long endear'd, 

Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer'd — 

To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 

Awaited'st there the field's event. 

Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
'Tis vain — my tongue cannot impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 
"When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
The World — nay — Heaven itself was mine ! 

XIX. 

" The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 
I long'd to sec the isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
I sought by turns, and saw them all ; 34 

But. when and where I join'd the crew 
With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall, 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 

XX. 

" 'Tis true, they are a lawless brood, 
But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
And every creed, and every race, 
With them hath found — may find a place . 
But open speech, and ready hand, 
Obedience to their chief's command ; 
A soul for every enterprise, 
That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than even my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, 
But chiefly to my counsel call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire, ^ 

The last of Lambro's 33 patriot's there 

Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes debate, 
To snatch the Rayahs 30 from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew: 
I have a love for freedom too. 

17 



Ah ! let me like the ocean patriarch 37 roam, 

Or only know on land the Tartar's home ! 3s 

My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 

Are more than cities and serais to me : 

Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 

A«ross the desert, or before the gale. 

Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow! 

But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou ! 

Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 

The dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 

Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 

Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 

The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 

And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 

Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 

To pilgrim's pure and prostrate at his call : 

Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 

That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 

Dear — as his native song to exile's ears, 

Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 

For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 

Blooming as Aden 39 in its earliest hour. 

A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand 

Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! 

Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 

The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 

The Haram's languid years of listless ease 

Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these: 

Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 

Unnumber'd perils — but one only love ! 

Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 

Though fortune frowns, or falser friends betray. 

How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 

Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 

Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown ; 

To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 

To sooth each sorrow, share in each delight, 

Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 

Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide ; 

Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 

Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 

By fatal nature to man's warring kind : 

Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease . 

lie makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 

I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, 

But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 

Power sways but by division — her resource 

The blest alternative of fraud or force ; 

Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come, 

When cities cage us in a social home : 

There even thy soul might err — how oft the heart 

Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 

And woman, more than man, when death or wo, 

Or even disgrace would lay her lover low, 

Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — 

Away suspicion ! not Zuleika's name : 

But life is hazard at the best; and here 

No more remains to win, and much to fear ; 

Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 

By Osman's power and Giaffir's stern decree. 

That dread shall vanish with the favoring gale, 

Which love to-night hath promised to my sail : 

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 

Thefr steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms ; 

Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! 

Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 

So that those arms cling closer round my neck, 

The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 



130 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 

The war of elements no fears impart 

To love, whose deadliest bane is human art : 

There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 

Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shap^ ! 

This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 

Few words remain of mine my tale to close : 

Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 

Yea — foes — to mc will Giaffir's hate decline ? 

A-nd is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 

XXI. 

" His head and faith from doubt and death 

Return'd in time my guard to save ; 

Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while : 
And since, though parted from my band, 
Too seldom now I leave the land, 
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, 
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil. 
But now too long I've held thine ear ; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain ; 
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance Ms life who gave thee thine, 
With me this hour away — away ! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head ! " 

XXII. 

Zuleika, mute and motionless, 

Stood like that statue of distress, 

When, her last hope for ever gone, 

The mother harden'd into stone ; 

All in the maid that eye could see 

Was but a younger Niobe. 

But ere her lip, or even her eye, 

Essay'd to speak, or look reply, 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far flashed on high a blazing torch ! 

Another — and another — and another — 

" Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than 

brother ! " 
Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
And last of all, his sabre waving, 
Stern Giffiar in his fury raving : 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless he stood — " 'tis come — soon past — 
One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last : 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash : 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash : 

No matter — yet one effort more." 



Forth to the cavern mouth he stept ; 

His pistol's echo rang on high ; 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye !— 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 'tis but to see me die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes morjs nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar ; 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 

Yet stay within — here linger safe, 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
Fear'st thou for him ? — may I expire, 
If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
No — ■though by him that poison pour'd ; 
No — though again he call me coward ! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No — as each crest save his may feel ! " 

XXIV. 
One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 

His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
His comrades strain with desperate strength- 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bay, 
Theh sabres glitter through the spray ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
They come ! — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best blood is on the water. 

XXV. 

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 
Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, 
To where the strand and billows met : 
There as his last step left the land, 
And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray : 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
" So may the foes of Giaffir fall ! " 
Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang ? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang, 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
'Tis thine — Abdallah's murderer ! 
The father slowly rued thy hate, 
The son hath found a quicker fate : 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
If aught his lips essay'd to groan, 
The rushing billows chok'd the tone ! 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



131 



XXVI. 

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; 

Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear, 
And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; 
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 
May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 
A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
'Tis rent in twain — one dark red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 

But where is he who wore ? 
Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep, 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burden round Sigseum's steep, 

And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 
That hand, whose motion is not life, 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 

Then levell'd with the wave — 
"What recks it, though that corse shall lie 

Within a living grave ? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
And mourned above his turban-stone, 40 
That heart hath burst — that eye was closed- 
Yea — closed before his own ! 



XXVII. 

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale : 
Zulieka ! last of Giaffir's race, 

Thy destined lord is come too late ; 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 

Can he not hear 
The loud Wul-wulleh 41 warn his distant ear ? 

Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 

The Koran-chaunters of the hymn of fate, 

The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 

Tell him thy tale ! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 

That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 
He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — 

And that last thought on him thou couldst not save 
Sufficed to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still. 

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 
Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 
That grief — though deep — though fatal — was thy 

first! 
Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 
And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies ! 
The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 



Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, 
That winds around and tears the quivering heart ! 
Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 
Wo to thee, rash and unrelenting chief ! 
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread : 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief ; 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 
Thy daughter's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. 
What quench'd its ray ? — the blood that thou hast 

shed ! 
Hark ! to the hurried question of despair : 
"Where is my child?" — an echo answers — 
" Where ?"« 

XXVIII. 
Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms, 
And withers not, though branch and leaf 
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Even in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
It looks as planted by despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than winter sky 
May wring it from the stem — in vain — 
To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
And "buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower., 

Not woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entrancing note ! 
It were the bulbul ; but his throat, 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve, 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholy spell, 
And longer yet w-ould weep and wake, 

He sings so wild and well ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high 
Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 
And harsh be they that blame) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable its sound 
Into Zuleika's name. 43 



132 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



'Tis from her cypress' summit heard, 
That melts in air the liquid word ; 
'Tis from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone ; 
Eve saw it placed — the morrow gone ! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore : 
For there, as Helle's legends tell, 
Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell, 



Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 

Denied his bones a holier grave : 
And there by night, reclined, 'tis said, 
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
And hence extended by the billow, 
'Tis named the " Pirate phantom's pillow ! 
Where first it lay that mourning flower 
Hath fiourish'd ; flourisheth this hour, 

Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 

As weeping beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale ! 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



i. 

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom. 
Page 122, line 8. 
" Gul," the rose. 

2. 

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 
Page 122, line 17. 

•'Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, 
With whom revenge is virtue. — Young's Revenge. 



With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's so?ig. 

Page 123, line 23. 
Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the 
East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 



Till I, icho heard the deep ta?nbour. 

Page 123, line 24. 

Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, 
noon, and twilight. 

5. 
lie is an Arab to my siqht. 

Page 123, line 95. 
The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the com- 
pliment a hundred fold), even more than they hate 
the Christians. 

6. 
The mind, the music breathing from her face. 
'Page 124, line 2. 
This expression has" met with objections. I will 
not refer to " him who hath not music in his soul," 
but merely request the reader to recollect, for ten 
seconds, the features of the woman whom he be- 
lieves to be the most beautiful ; and if he then 
does not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed 
in the above line, I shall be sorry for us both. For 
an eloquent passage in the latest work of the first 
female writer of this, perhaps of any age, on the 
analogy (and the immediate comparison excited by 
that analogy), between " painting and music," see 
vol. iii. cap. 10. De l'Allemagne. And is not this 
connexion still stronger with the original than the 
copy 2 With the coloring of nature than of art ? 



After all, this is rather to be felt than described ; 
still I think there are some who will understand it, 
at least they would have done, had they beheld the 
countenance whose speaking harmony suggested the 
idea ; for this passage is not drawn from imagina- 
tion, but memory, that mirror which affliction 
dashes to the earth, and looking down upon the 
fragments, only beholds the reflection multiplied. 



But yet the line of Carasman. 

Page 124, line 24. 

Carasman Oglou, or Cara Osman Oglou, is the 
principal landholder in Turkey : he governs Mag- 
nesia : those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, pos- 
sess land on condition of service, are called Tima- 
riots : they serve as Spahis, according to the extent 
of territory, and bring a certain number into the 
field, generally cavalry. 

8. 
And teach the messenger what fate. 

Page 124, line 36. 

When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the 
single messenger, who is always the first bearer of 
the order for his death, is strangled instead, and 
sometimes five or six, one after the other, on the 
same errand, by command of the refractory patient ; 
if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, 
kisses the Sultan's respectable signature, and is 
bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, seve- 
ral of these presents were exhibited in the niche of 
the Seraglio gate; among others, the head of the 
Pacha of Bagdat, a brave young man, cut oft' by 
treachery, after a desperate resistance. 



Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call' d his steed. 
Page 124, line 55. 

Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The 
Turks hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and 
they have no bells. 

10. 
Besign'd his gem-adorn' d chibouque. 

Page 124, line 56. 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



133 



Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber 
mouth-piece and sometimes the ball which contains 
the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in pos- 
session of the wealthier orders. 

11. 

With Maugrdbee and Mamaluke. 

Page 124, line 53. 
Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. 

12. 
His wag amid his Delis took. 

Page 124, line 59. 
Deli, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the 
cavalry, and always begin the action. 

13. 
Careering cleave the folded felt. 

Page "124, line 71. 
A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice 
by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut 
through it at a single stroke : sometimes a tough 
turban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed 
is a game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. 

14. 
Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud. 

Page 124, line 74. 
"Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the "Leilies," as the 
Spanish poets call them, the sound is Ollah ; a cry 
of which the Turks, for a silent people, are some- 
what profuse, particularly during the jerreed, or in 
the chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation 
in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their 
pipes and comboloios form an amusing contrast. 

15. 
The Persian Atar-guVs perfume. 

Page 124, line 93. 
" Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the 
finest. 

16. 
The pictured roof and marble floor . 

Page 124, line 95 
The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the 
Mussulman apartments are generally painted, in 
great houses, with one eternal and highly colored 
view of Constantinople, wherein the principal 
feature is a noble contempt of perspective ; below, 
arms, scimitars, &c., are in general fancifully and 
not inelegantly disposed. 

17. 

A message from the Bulbul bears. 

Page 124, line 111 
It has been much doubted whether the notes of 
this "Lover of the rose," are sad or merry; and 
Mr. Fox's remarks on the subject have provoked 
some learned controversy as to the opinions of the 
ancients on the subject. I dare not venture a con- 
jecture on the point, though a little inclined to the 
"errare mallem," &c, if Mr. Fox was mistaken. 

18. 
Even Azrael, from his deadly quiver. - 

Page 125, line 19. 
"Azrael" — the angel of death. 

19. 
Within the caves of Istakar. 

Page 125, line 54. 
The treasures of the Pre-Adamite Sultans. See 
D'Herbelot, article Iskatar. 

20. 
Holds not a Musselim's control. 

Page 125, line 70. 
Musselim, a governor, the next in rank after a 



Pacha ; a Waywode is the third ; and then come 
the Agas. 

21. 
Was he not bred in Eqripo ? 

Page 125, line 71. 
Egripo — the Negropont, — According to the prov- 
erb the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and 
the Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their respec- 
tive races. 

22. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar. 

Page 126, line 13. 
"Tchocadar" — one of the attendants who pie- 
cedes a man of authority." 

23. 
Thine own " broad Hellespont " still dashes. 
Page 126, line 83. 
The wrangling about this epithet " the broad 
Hellespont" or the "boundless Hellespont," 
whether it means one or the other, or what it means 
at all, has been beyond all possibility of detail. I 
have even heard it disputed on the spot ; and, not 
foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the controversy, 
amused myself with swimming across it in the mean- 
time, and probably may again before the point is 
settled. Indeed, the question as to the truth of 
" the tale of Troy divine " still continues, much of 
it resting upon the talismanic word " ancipus ; " 
probably Homer had the same notion of distance 
that a coquette has of time, and when he talks of 
boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by a 
like figure, when she says eternal attachment, sim- 
ply specifies three weeks. 

24. 
Which Amnion's son ran proudly round. 

Page 126, line 94. 
Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the al- 
tar with laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated 
by Caracallain his race. It is believed that the last 
also poisoned a friend, named Festus, for the sake 
of new Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep 
feeding on the tombs of iEsietes and Antilochus ; 
the first is in the centre of the plain. 

25. 
O'er which her fairy fingers ran. 

Page 126, line 113. 
When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a per- 
fume, which is slight but not disagreeable. 

26. 
Her mother's sainted amulet. 

Page 126, line 116. 
The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or en- 
closed in gold boxes, containing scraps from the Ko- 
ran worn round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still uni- 
versal in the East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in 
the second chapter of the Koran describes the at- 
tributes of the Most High, and is engraved in this 
manner, and worn by the pious, as the most esteem- 
ed and sublime of all sentences. 

27. 
And by her Comboloio lies. 

Page 126, line 119. 
_ " Comboloio " — a Turkish rosary. The MSS. par 
ticularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned 
and illuminated. The Greek females are kept in 
utter ignorance ; but many of the Turkish girls are 
highly accomplished, though not actually qualified 
for a Christian coterie ; perhaps some of our own 
" blues " might not be the worse for bleaching. 

28. 
In him zoas some young Galionqee 

Page 127, line 77. 
"Galiongee" — or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a 



134 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Turkish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks 
work the guns. Their dress is picturesque ; and I 
have seen the Capitan Pacha more than once wear- 
ing it as a kind of incog. Their legs, however, are 
generally naked. The buskins described in the 
text as sheathed behind with silver, are those of an 
Arnaut robber, who was my host, (he had quitted 
the profession,) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the 
Morea ; they were plated in scales one over the 
other, like the back of an armadillo. 

29. 
So may the Koran verse display' d. 

Page 127, line 116. 
The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain 
sometimes the name of the place of their man- 
ufacture, but more generally a text from the Ko- 
ran, in letters of gold. Among those in my pos- 
session, is one with a blade of singular construction ; 
it is very broad, and the edge notched into serpen- 
tine curves like the ripple of water, or the wavering 
of flame. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what 
possible use such a figure could add : he said, in 
Italian, that he did not know ; but the Mussulmans 
had an idea that those of this form gave a severer 
wound; and liked it because it was " piu feroce." 
I did not much admire the reason, but bought it for 
its peculiarity. 

30. 
But like the nephew of a Cain. 

Page 128, line 8. 
It is to be observed, that every allusion to any- 
thing or personage in the Old Testament, such as 
the Ark, or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mus- 
sulman and Jew : indeed, the former profess to be.- 
much better acquainted with the lives, true and fab- 
ulous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted by our 
own sacred writ, and not content with Adam, they 
have a biography of Pre-Adamites. Solomon is the 
monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet 
inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is 
the Persian name of Potiphar's wife, and her 
amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest 
poems in the language. It is therefore no violation 
of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, into 
the mouth of a Moslem. 

31. 
And Paswan's rebel hordes attest. 

Page 128, line 24. 
Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the 
last years of his life, set the whole power of the 
Porte at defiance. 

32. 
They gave their horsetails to the wind. 

Page 128, line 36. 
Horsetail, the standard of a Pacha. 

33. 

He drank one draught, nor needed more. 

Page 128, line 49. 
Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am 
not sure which, was actually taken off by the Alba- 
nian Ali, in the manner described in the text. Ali 
Pacha, while I was in the country, married the 
daughter of his victim, some years after the event 
had taken place, at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. 
The poison was mixed in the cup of coffee, which is 
presented before the sherbet by the bath-keeper, after 
dressing. 

34. 
I sought by turns and saw them all. 

Page 129, line 35. 
The Turkish notions of almost all islands are con- 
fined to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 

35. 
The last of Lambro's patriots there. 

Page 129, line 58. 
Jjambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts 



in 1789-90 for the independence of his country; 
abandoned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and 
the Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. 
He is said to be still alive at Petersburgh. He and 
Riga are the two most celebrated of the Greek 
revolutionists. 

36. 
To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. 

Page 129, line 62. 
" Rayahs" all who pay the capitation tax, called 
the " Haratch." 

37. 
Ay ! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. 

Page 129, line 66. 
The first of voyages is one of the few with which 
the Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 

38. 
Or only knoio on land the Tartar's home. 

Page 129, line 67. 
The wandering life of the. Arabs, Tartars, and 
Turkomans, will be found #ell detailed in any' book 
of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm pe- 
culiar to itself cannot be denied. A young French 
renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that lie never 
found himself alone, galloping in the desert, with- 
out a sensation approaching to rapture, which was 
indescribable. 

39. 
Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 

Page 129, line 87. 
" Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the 
Mussulman Paradise. 

40. 
And mourn'' d above his turban-stone. 

Page 131, line 36. 
A turban is carved in stone above the graves of 
men only. 

41. 

The loud Vi ul-ivulleh warn his distant ear. 
Page 131, line 45. 
The death-song of the Turkish women. The 
"silent slaves " are tne men whose notions of de- 
corum forbid complaint in public. 

42. 
" Where is my child t " — an echo answers — " Where f" 
Page 131, line 81. 

" I came to the place of my birth and cried, ' the 
friends of my youth, where are they ? ' and an Echo 
answered, 'Where are they?' " — From an Arabic 
MS. 

The above quotation (from which the idea in the 
text is taken) must be already familiar to every 
reader — it is given in the first annotation, page 67, 
of " The Pleasures of Memory " a poem so well 
known as to render a reference almost superfluous ; 
but to whose pages all will be delighted to recur. 

43. 
Into Zuleika's name. 

Page 131, line 129. 

11 And airy tongues that syllable mrn's nam's." 

Millon. 

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the 
form of birds, we need not travel to the east. Lord 
Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Dutchess 
of Kendal that George I. flew into her window in 
the shape of a raven, (see Orford's Reminiscences,) 
and many other instances, bring this superstition 
nearer home. The most singular was the whim of 
a Worcester lady, who, believing her daughter to 
exist in the shape of a singing bird, literally fur- 
nished her pew in the Cathedral with cages-full of 
the kind = and as she was rich, and a benefactress 
in beautifying the church, no objection was made to 
her harmless folly. For this anecdote see Orford's 
Letters. 



THE CORSAIR; 

A TALE. 



-I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno." 

TASSO, Canto decimo,Gerusalemme Liberala. 



TO 



THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 



My deab. Moore, — 

I dedicate to you the last production with which 
I shall trespass on public patience, and your indul- 
gence, for some years ; and I own that I feel anx- 
ious to avail myself of this latest and only opportu- 
nity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated | 
by unshaken public principle, and the most un- 
doubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks 
you among the firmest of her patriots ; while you 
stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation 
and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit 
one, whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, 
has been the years he had lost before it commenced, 
to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, 
to the voice of more than one nation. It will at 
least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the 
gratification derived from your society, nor aban- 
doned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your 
leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your 
friends for too long an absence. It is said, among 
those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged m 
the composition of a poem whose scene will be laid 
in the East ; none can do those scenes so much 
justice. The wrongs of your own country, the mag- 
nificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and 
feeling of her daughters, may there be found; and 
Collins, when he,denominated his Oriental his Irish 
Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a 
part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a 
warmer sun, and less clouded sky ; but wildness, 
tenderness, and originality are part of your national 
claim of oriental descent, to which you have already 
thus far proved your title more clearly than the most 
zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all 
men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable ? 
—Self. I have written much, and published more 
than enough to demand a longer silence than I now 
meditate ; but for some years to come, it is my in- 



tention to tempt no further the award of "gods, 
men, nor columns." In the present composition I 
have attempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, 
the? best adapted measure to our language, the good 
old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza 
of Spenser is, perhaps, too slow and dignified for 
narrative ; though, I confess, it is the measure most 
after my own heart ; Scott alone, of the present 
generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over 
the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this 
is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty gen- 
ius: in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our 
dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the 
deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock 
on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is 
not the most popular measure certainly ; but as I 
did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without 
further apology, and take my chance once more with 
that versification, in which I have hitherto published 
nothing but compositions whose former circulation is 
part of my present, and will be of my future regret. 
With regard to my story, and stories in general, 
I should have been glad to have rendered my per- 
sonages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inas- 
much as I have been sometimes criticised, and con- 
sidered no less responsible for their deeds and qual- 
ities than if all had been personal. Be it so— if I 
have deviated into the gloomy vanity of "drawing 
from self," the pictures are probably like, since they 
are unfavorable ; and if not, those who know me 
are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little 
interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire 
that any but my acquaintance should think the 
author better than the beings of his imagining ; but 
I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amuse- 
ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present 
instance, when I see several bards, (far more de- 
serving, I allow,) in very reputable plight, and 
quite exempted from all participation in the faults 
of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might he found 
with little more morality than "The Giaour, and 
perhaps-but no-I must admit Childe Harold tc 



136 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



be a very repulsive personage ; and as to his iden- 
tity, those who like it must give him whatever 
" alias " they please. 

If, however, it were worth while to remove the 
impression, it might be of some service to me, that 
the man who is alike the delight of his readers and 
his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of 
his own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe 
myself, 

Most truly, 

And affectionately, 

His obedient servant, 

BYRON. 
January 2, 1814. 



CANTO I. 



: ncsstin magfpor dolore, 

Che ricordarst del tempo felice 



I. 

" O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows faam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell ! not thou, luxurious slave ! 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave : 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot please — 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
Its hope awaken and its spirits soar ? 
No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 
When lost — what recks it— by disease or strife ? 
Let him who crawls enamor'd of decay 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 
Onrs with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
When those who win at length divide the prey, 
And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now ! " 



II. 



Such were the notes that from the pirate's isle 

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while ; 

Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 

And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 

In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 

They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand ; 

Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 

And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 

Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 

While others straggling muse along the shore ; 

For the wild bird the busy springes set, 

Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 

Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 

With all the thirsting eye of enterprize ; 

Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 

And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 

No matter where — their chief's allotment this ; 

Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But who that Chief ? His name on every shorp 

Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 

With these he mingles not but to command ; 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 

But they forgive his silence for success. 

Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup tb ey fill, 

That goblet passes him untasted still — 

And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 

Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too ; 

Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots 

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 

His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 

" Steer to that shore ! " — they sail. " Do this ! "- 

'tis done : 
" Now form and follow me ! " — the spoil is won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

III. 
" A sail ! — a sail ! " — a promised prize to hope ; 
Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 
No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 
Already doubled is the cape — our bay 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray 
How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck-^ 
To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 

IV. 

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings, 
And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 
Tis mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand, 
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly speech ! 
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 
The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 
And the heart's promise of festivity ! 



THE CORSAIR. 



137 



The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd ; 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear 

word : 
" Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless ? 
From where the battle roars — the bilows chafe — 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe ? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes." 

VI. 

" "Where is our chief ? for him we bear report — 

And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short ; 

Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief; 

But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 

Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return, 

And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 

Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 

To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 

By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 

And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 

Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, 

Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 

From crag to cliff they mount— Near yonder cave, 

What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 

In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 

Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand ? 

" 'Tis he — 'tis Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 

On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 

The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 

His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 

We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, 

When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 

VII. 
Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — 
He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 
These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
" These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy 
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
Whate'er his tidings we can well report, 
Much that " — " Peace, peace ! " — he cuts their 

prating short. 
Wondering they turn, abashed, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech: 
They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — "My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo ? " 

" In the anchor'd bark." 

"There let him stay — to him this order bear — 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 

" To-night, Lord Conrad ? " 

"Ay ! at set of sun: 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding brand, 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
18 



This let the Armc rer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
To tell us when the hour of stay's expired." 

VIII. 
They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides, 
And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
What should it be, that thus their fate can bind ? 
The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill. 
That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
Wields with then - hands, but, still to these unknown, 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun, 
The many still must labor for the one ! 
'Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 

Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 

In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 

Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire : 

Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 

Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 

They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Sunburnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 

The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien. 

Still seems there something he would not have seen ; 

His features' deepening lines and varying hue 

At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 

As if within that murkiness of mind 

Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 

Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 

Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 

There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 

The full encounter of his searching eye : 

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 

At once the observer's purpose to espy, 

And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day 

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 

That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 

Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell ! 

X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
Within — within — 'twas there the spirit wrought ! 



138 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 
Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien, 
He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 
Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow, 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 

XL 

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 

To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — 

His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 

Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 

Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 

In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 

Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 

Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 

He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 

And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 

Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 

Had left him joy, and means to live again. 

Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her 

force, 
He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loathed him, crouch'd and dreaded 

too. 
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all affection and from all contempt : 
His name could sadden, and kis acts surprise ; 
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 
The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 
And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! 
v 
XII. 
None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 
One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 
And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 
Y"es, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 
Felt but for one from whom he never ranged; 
Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 
He shunn'd nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; 



Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 
Tried in temptation, strengthened by distress, 
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 
And yet — Oh more than all ! — untired by time ; 
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness par^ 
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove— 
If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 
He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
On him — but not the passion, nor its power. 
Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 

XIII. 

He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
" Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, 
Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 
We'll furnish mourners for our funeral-pile. 
Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 
Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze !) 
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
Now to M.cdora — Oh ! my sinking heart, 
Long may her own be lighter than/thou art ! 
Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave ! 
Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
This common courage which with brutes we share, 
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 
Small merit claims — but 'twas my nobler hope 
To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
Long have I led them — uot to vainly bleed : 
No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 
So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 
But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
My lot hath long had little of my care, 
But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 
Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 
Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 

XIV. 

Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill : 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : - 



1. 

" Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 

Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
Then trembles into silence as before. 




"Fanny Geefs 



;[b©[f3a„ 



THE CORSAIR. 



139 



"There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 

Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
Though vain its ray as it had never been. 



" Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there recline : 

The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 



" My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear — 
Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove ; 

Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 
The first — last — sole reward of so much love ! " 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore, 
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er ; 
" My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 

' In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 
Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute ! 
Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind, 
And dcem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
Though, soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
That mourn' d thee floating on the savage surge ; 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
At length — 'twas noon — I hail'd and bless the mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it past ! 
Another came — Oh God ! 'twas thine at last ! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam ; 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will ! " 

Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been 
changed ; 
Worm-like 'twas trampled — adder-like avenged, 
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
My very love to thee is hate to them, 
So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
I cease to lovevthee when I love mankind : 
Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
Assures the future that my love will last ; 
But — Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentle heart, 
This hour again — but not for long — we part." 



" This hour we part ! — my heart foreboded this ; 

Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 

This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 

Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay : 

Her consort still is absent, and her crew 

Have need of rest before they toil anew: 

My love ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldst 

steel 
My breast before the time when it must feci ; 
But trifle now no more with my distress, 
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and share 
The feast these hands delighted to prepare , 
Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, 
And where not sure, perplexed, butpleas'd, I guess'd 
At such as seem'd the fairest : thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears : 
Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
Is trimni'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp : 
Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
Shall sooth or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 
We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told,^ 
Of fan- Olympia loved and left of old. 1 
Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile. 
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 
And thus half sportive, half in fear, I said, 
Lest Time should raise that doubt to more tharj 

dread, 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 
And he deceived me — for — he came again ! " 

" Again — again — and oft again — my love ! 

If there be life below, and hope above, 

He will return — but now, the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wing : 

The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 

Since all must end in that wild word — farewell ! 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 

Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 

And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet, 

Security shall make repose more sweet. 

List ! — 'tis the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 

One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu ! " 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace. 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt ! 



140 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly press' d, 
Which mutually clasp'd, imploringly caress'd! 
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
Felt — tluvt for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone ? 

XV. 
" And is he gone ? " — on sudden solitude 
How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 
" 'Twas but an instant past — and here he stood ! 
And now " — without the portal's porch she rush'd, 
And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd; 
Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 
But still her lips refused to send — "Farewell ! " 
For in that w r ord — that fatal word — howe'er 
We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. 
O'er every feature of that still, pale face, 
Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase : 
The tender blue of that large loving eye 
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 
Till — Oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him, 
And then it flow'd — and frenzied seem'd to swim 
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes 

dew'd 
With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
"He's gone!" — against her heart that hand is 

driven, 
Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven ; 
She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
The white sail set — she dared not look again ; » 
But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
" It is no dream — and I am desolate ! " 

XVI. 
From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; 
But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 
His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 
That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep : 
And she — the dim and melancholy star, 
Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 
On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 
There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink ; 
Yet, once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 
His fate to chance, his projects to the w r ave ; 
But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 
And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 
Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 
The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 
As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, 
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 
He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
He feels of all his former self possest ; 
He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, 
There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 



Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 
For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 
That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen ; 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 
That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
All these he wielded to command assent : 
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent, 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 
And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
When echo'd to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; 
The evil passions of his youth had made 
Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard, 
Before him Juan stands — " Are all prepared ? " 

" They are — nay more — embark'd: the latest boat 

Waits but my chief " 

" My sword, and my capote." 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
" Call Pedro here ! " He comes — and Conrad bends, 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
" Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thirre ! " 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
Around the waves' phosporic 2 brightness broke ; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands — 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 
To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile : 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
And anchor' d where his ambush meant to lie ; 



THE CORSAIR. 



141 



Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
And calmly talked — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 



CANTO II. 



' Conosceste i JuUosi dcsiri ? 



In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night ■ 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home ; 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word, 
His summon'd prows collect along the coast, 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast 
Already shared the captives and the prize, 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valor on the Greek ; 
How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave — 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay, 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 

II. 
High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff, 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice 3 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; 
The long Chibouque's 4 dissolving cloud supply, 
While dance the Almas 5 to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark : 
And revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep ; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 

III. 

With cautious reverence from the outer gate, 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 



Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor, 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
" A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 6 
Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest." 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
Around his form his loose long robe was throwii, 
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone ; 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 

IV. 
" "Whence com'st thou, Dervise ? " 

" From the outlaw's den, 
A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when ? " 

" From Scalanovo's poit to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight : 
I seized the hour and find my safety here — 
With thee — most mighty Pacha ! who can fear ? " 

" How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared 
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard : 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed ? " 

" Pacha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, 
That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 
I only heard the reckless waters roar, 
Those waves that would not bear me from the shore ; 
I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 
Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 
And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape. 
They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
The careless guard that did not see me fly 
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
Pacha ! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 
With all around ! — now grant repose — release." 

" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring : 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting : 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 

'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
i Nor show'd high relish for the banquet prest, 
' And less respect for every fellow guest. 



142 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



'Twas but a moment's peevish hectic past 
Along his check, and tranquillized as fast : 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Mcthinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 

" What ails thee, Dervise ? eat — dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge, 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight ! " 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order's 7 laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

" Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 
Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 
The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 
Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 
Some villian spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now!' ; 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight: 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
His close but flittering casque, and sable plume, 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom; 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
Whose demon death-blow left n.o hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high and torches from below ; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell, 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
They sieze that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 8 
He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 
He saw their terror — from his baldric chew 
His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
'Tis answer'd — " well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
And deem design hath left me single here ? " 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
Completes his fury, what their fear begun, 
And makes the many basely quail to one. 



The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
And scarce an arm dare raise to guard its head : 
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, with rage, sur- 
prise, 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight; 9 
For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 
And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 
Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling throws 
The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
" 'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — 
Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ? " 

V. 

Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 

And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 

A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 

But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 

Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 

Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 

" Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 

One female form — remember — we have wives. 

On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 

Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 

But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 

Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 

If at my word the helpless cease to live : 

Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 

Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 

He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 

Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 

His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke, 

But still from room to room his way he broke. 

They search — they find — they save : with lusty arms, 

Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 

Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 

With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 

So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 

And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 

But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 

From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 

Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ? 

The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd ! 

YI. 
Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,' 
Few words to reassure the trembling fair ; 
For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war, 
The foe before retiring, fast and far, 
With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 
This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few 
Compared with his the Corsair's roving crew, 
And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — 
Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 



THE CORSAIR. 



143 



And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 
The tide of triumphs ebbs that flow'd too well — 
When wrath returns to renovated strife, 
And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 
Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 
" One effort — one — to break the circling host ! " 
They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost ! 
Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 
Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 
Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled o'er ; 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
And sinks outwcaried rather than o'ercome, 
His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 
Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 

VII. 

But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed, 
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 
And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 
Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
That smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 
'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 
Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright, 
As if his homage were a woman's right. 
" The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain : 
Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
The life — my loving lord remember'd not! " 

VIII. 

And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
But gathcr'd breathing from the happier dead ; 
Far from his band, and battling with a host 
That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, 
And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain, 
And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 
But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 
Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw, 
When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 
'Tis he indeed — disarm'd but undepress'd, 
His sole regret the life he still possess'd; 
His wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 
Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could 

kill. 
Oh were there none, of all the many given, 
To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 
Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
Who more than all had striven and struck for death ? 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 
For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 
He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 



Still in his stem and self-collected mien 
A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, 
Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, 
But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 
Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 
Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 
The better warriors who beheld him near, 
Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 
And the grim guards that to his durance led. 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

IX. 
The Leech was sent — but not in mercy —there, 
To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
While famished vultures flit around the stake. 
" Oh ! water — water ! " — smiling Hate denies 
The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 
This was his doom : — the Leech, the guard, were 

gone, 
And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 

# X. 

'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 

It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 

There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 

When all its elements convulsed — combined — 

Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 

And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 

That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 

But cries " I warn'd thee ! " when the deed is o'er. 

Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 

May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 

Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 

And, to itself, all — all that self reveals, 

No single passion, and no ruling thought 

That leaves the rest at once unseen, unsought ; 

But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 

All rushing through their thousand avenues, 

Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 

Endanger'd glory, life itself beset ; 

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 

'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate ; 

The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 

Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 

Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not 

So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 

Things light or lovely in their acted time, 

But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 

The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 

Xot cankering less because the more conceal'd — 

All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 

That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 

Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 

To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 

Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 

All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 

Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 

The only hypocrite deserving praise : 

Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies : 

But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 



144 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 

He half-way meets him should he menace near ! 

XI. 

In the high chamber of his highest tower 
Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 
Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
His foe, if vanquished, had but shared the same : — 
Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 
One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 
" Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ? " 
Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised, 
And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed ; 
But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd relief, 
And smiled in self-dcrision of his grief, 
" And now come torture when it will — or may, 
More need of rest to nerve me for the day ! " 
This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done ; 
And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 
Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — con- 

demn'd— 
A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 

XII. 

He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 
Was hush'd so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 
He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends : 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 
With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, 
That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 
Through guards and dunnest night how came it 

there ? 
Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 
Whom youth and pity lead like tbee, Gulnare ! 
She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 
And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door, 
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more : 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 

XIII. 

She gazed in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep, 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
And mire in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 



True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe, 
And me and mine he spared from worse than wo : 
'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes ! " 

He raised his head — and dazzled with the light, 
His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright: 
He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
" What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
Methinks, my jailor's face shows wond'rous fair ! " 

" Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 
I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — 
Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 

"If so kind lady ! thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight : 

Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 

But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! " 

Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 

Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 

That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 

And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 

And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 

Till even the scaffold " echoes with their jest ! 

Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 

It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 

Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 

A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 

And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 

As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 

Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, 

Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 

XIV. 

" Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power 

To sooth the Pacha in his weaker hour. 

Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee 

now, 
But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow 
But all I can, I will : at least delay 
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 
The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 

"Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 

Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 

Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope 

Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 

Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanlv fly, 

The one of all my band that would" not die ? 

Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 

Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 

My sole resources in the path I trod 

Were these — my bark — my sword — my love — nij 

God! 
The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 
And man but works his will to lay me low. 
I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; 
It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
That might have better kept so true a brand : 



THE CORSAIR. 



145 



My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
And blight a form — till thine, appear'd, Gulnare ! 
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 

" Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose. 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions such as mine hath wrought." 

" Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

" My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — No — No — not my 

love — 
Yet much this he,art, that strives no more, once 

strove 
To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 
I am a slave, a favor'd slave at best, 
To share his splendor, and seem very blest ! 
Oft must my soul the question undergo, 
Of — ' Dost thou love ? ' and burn to answer, ' No ! ' 
Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
Its pulse not check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold : 
And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate. 
No warmth these lips return by his impress'd, 
And chin' d remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 
And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
Or when reflection comes — and come it must — 
I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust ; 
I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 
Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
Or seek another and give mine release, 
But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 
Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, 
Remember — captive ! 'tis to break thy chain ; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
To give thee back to all endear'd below, 
Who share such love as I can never know. 
Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 
'Twill cost me dear — but dread no death to-day ! " 

XV. 

She prcss'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here ? and is he now alone ? 

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain ? 

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, 

That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's mine, 

Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 

Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
19 



That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 

To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : 

Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven, 

By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! 

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 

And seal their own to spare some wanton's wo. 

XVI. 

'Tis morn — and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thing 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing : 
By his closed eye, unheeded and unfelt, 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffen'd limb 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 



CANTO III. 



' Come vedi — uncor r 



i. 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
On old iEgina's rock, and Idra's isle, 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine ; 
Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian cliff* he sinks to sleep. 
On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's I2 latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
But ere he sank below Cithneron's head, 
The cup of wo was quaff 'd — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
AVho liv'd and died, as none can live or die ! 

But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 13 



146 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



No murky vapor, herald of the storm, 

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 

With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 

There the white column greets her grateful ray, 

And, bright around with quivering beams beset, 

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 

The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 

Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 

The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 

The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk, 14 

And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 

Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm. 

All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye— 

And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the JEgean, heard no more afar, 

Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war : 

Again his waves in milder tints unfold 

Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 

Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle, 

That frown— where gentler ocean seems to smile. 15 

II. 
Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee ? 
Oh ! who can look along thy native sea. 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, V 
Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget ? 
Not he— whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
His Corsair's isle was ouce thine own domain — 
Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 

III. 

The Sun hath sunk— and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height, 
Medora's heart — the third day's come and gone: — 
With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
The wind was fair though light ; and storms were 

none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale, 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 
The night-breeze freshens — she that day had past 
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she wander'd heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away ; 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense ! 

It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 
Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 
To trust then- accents to Medora's ear. 
She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot ; 
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 
That deem'd not till they found their energy. 



While yet was Hope — they ' soften'd — fluttcr'd— 

wept — 

All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength w : hich said, 
With nothing left to love — there's nought to 

dread." 
'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

" Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
AVhat — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well- 
Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 

" Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; 

But here is one denies that he is dead : 

He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 

She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — 
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with- 
stood ; 
Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave : 
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 

IV. 
In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange. 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Wo to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 



Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate ; 

His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 

Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell; 

Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 

Surveys his brow — would sooth his gloom of mind 

While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 

Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 

His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, 16 

But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 

" Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits triumph— Conrad taken— fall'n the rest ! 
His doom is fix'd— he dies : and well his fate 
Was earn'd— yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard— 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray— 
Watch'd — follow'd— he %vere then an easier prey ; 
But once cut off— the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 

" Gulnare ! — if for each drop of blood a gem 
Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem; 



THE CORSAIR. 



147 



If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 

It had not now redeem'd a single hour ; 

But that I know him fetter'd in my power ; 

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

" Nay, Scyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free : 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

"His capture could? — and shall I then resign 

One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 

Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — thine 

Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 

My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 

I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 

I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 

Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 

Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 

Say — wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 

Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, 

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 

Then lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 

'Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! 

Another word and — nay — I need no more. 

Accursed was the moment when he bore 

Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no — 

I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's wo — 

Now 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! 

Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? 

In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 

Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
Rage in his eye, and threats in his adieu : 
Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare ! 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 
She was a slave — from such may captives claim ■ 
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 
Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes 



VI. 

Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 
Roll'd day and night — his soul could never tame — 
This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
When every hour might doom him worse than dead 
When every step that echo'd by the gate 
Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 
When every voice that grated on his ear 
Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 



'Twas worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 

That conflict deadlier far than all before : 

The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, , 

Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 

But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, 

To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 

To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 

Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 

Too late the last to shun — the first to mend—' 

To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 

With not a friend to animate, and tell 

To other ears that death became thee well : 

Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 

And blot life's latest scene with calumny ; 

Before the tortures, which the soul can dare, 

Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear ; 

But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 

To valor's praise thy last and dearest claim ; 

The life thou leav'st below, denied above 

By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 

And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 

Of earthly hope— thy loved one from thee riven. 

Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 

And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 

And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill ? 

Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 

VII. 
The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare — 
The second — third — and still she came not there ; 
But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done, 
Or else he had not seen another sun. 
The fourth day roll'd along and with the night, 
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might : 
Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
Roused by the roar of his own element ! 
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 
And now its clashing echo'd on his ear, 
A long known voice — alas ! too vainly near ! 
Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 
And flashed the lightning by the latticed bar, 
To him more genial than the midnight star : 
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain.. 
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 
His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 
Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! 

VIII. 

The midnight pass'd-— and to the massy door 
A light step came — it paiised — it moved once more ; 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
Which spoke before her accents — " thou must die 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 



148 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaimed they — Conrad still the same : 
Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear ? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the need 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 

"Why should I seek ? because — Oh ! didst thou not 
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 
Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind ? 
And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved 
It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd — 

loved : 
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If thou hast courage still, and would'st be free, 
Receive this poniard — rise— and follow me ! " 

" Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head ! 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ? " 

" Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, 

Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 

A single word of mine removes that chain : 

Without some aid how here could I remain ? 

Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 

If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 

The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 

That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 

I see thee shudder — but say soul is changed — 

Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 

Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 

Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 

Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 

I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 

But he has said it — and the jealous well, 

Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 

Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 

I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 

Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 

I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said, 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

'Twas false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens Insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will ; 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! 

What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 

If but to show how sn-ateful is a slave. 



But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife,) 

I still had saved thee— but the Pacna spared. 

Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 

Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — 

Oh ! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would'st 

not start, 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 
'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Maniote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor 

Seyd ! " 

" Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 

My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low. 

Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 

From earth with ruthless but with open hand, 

And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 

To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 

Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 

Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — 

Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 

Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! 

Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest ! " 

"Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 

And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 

I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life — my love — my hatred — all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair ! 'tis but a blow ! 

Without it flight were idle — how evade 

His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 

My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

I'll try the firmness of a female hand ; 

The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er— 

Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 

IX. 
She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 
But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; 
And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 
Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 
He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 
That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 
He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 
Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 
Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 
He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 
Gleamed the last star of night, the clearing sky : 
Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 
From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 
Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 
With hasty step a figure outward past, 
Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'tis She at 

last! 

No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — [kill ! " 
Thanks to that softening heart — she could not 



THE CORSAIR. 



149 



Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 

That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 

As if she late had bent her leaning head 

Above some object of her doubt or dread. 

They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 

Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 

Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis blood ! 

X. 

He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 
He had been tempted — chastened — and the chain 
Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 
But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 
From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 
As now they froze before that purple stain. 
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but then 
It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men. 

XI. 
" 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair ! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
"When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 

XII. 

She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Mocr ; 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ; 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd : 
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew — 

How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 

Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 

Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 

Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the time, 

Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 

As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 

He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past ; 

He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 

His fleeting triumph, and his failing hand ; 

He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 

He turn'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide ! 

XIV. 

She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Fell quench' d in tears, too late to shed or dry. 



She knelt beside him, and his hand she prest : 
" Thou may'st forgive though Alla's self detest ; 
But for that deed of darkness, what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — but not yet — Oh ! spare me now ! 
I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
Jily brain bewiklcr'd — do not madden quite ! 
if I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt ' 

XV. 

She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 

Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made ; 

But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 

They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 

Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 

The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 

Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 

A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 

Their little bark her men of watch descry, 

And ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; 

She bears her down majestically near, 

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier. 

A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 

Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 

Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 

A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 

" 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again — 

I am not all deserted on the main ! " 

They own the signal, answer to the hail, 

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 

" 'Tis Conrad ! Conrad! " shouting from the deck, 

Command nor duty could their transport check ! 

With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 

They view him mount once more his vessel's side, 

A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 

Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 

He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 

Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 

Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, 

And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 

XVI. 
These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 
They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had tliey 

known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare : 
And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
"Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 

XVII. 

This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ?— 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
What she has done no tears can wash away, 
And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 
But it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, 
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt ., 



150 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
And now he tiirn'd him to that dark-ey'd slave 
"Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 
"Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and 

meek, 
But varying oft the color of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
He clasped that hand — it trembled — and his own 
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
" Gulnare ! " — but she replied not — " dear Gulnare !" 
She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
If he had driven her from that resting-place, 
His had been more or less than mortal heart, 
But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath, 
To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling, 
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 

XVIII. 

They gain by twilight's hour then- lonely isle : 

To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 

The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 

The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 

The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 

And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 

Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 

Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 

Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? 

XIX. 
The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
And midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : 
He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark, 
Amid so many, her's alone is dark. 
'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 
Nor now, perchance, extinguished, only veil'd. 
"With the first boat descends he for the shore, 
And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 
Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 
With the first pause the resting rowers gave, 
He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 
Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and 

high 
Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
He knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 'tis a well-known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, 
A.nd fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; 



He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all- 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray- 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — vet foretold ! 



XX. 

He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his 

look, 

And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
In life itself she was so still and fair, 
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
A.nd the cold flowers 17 her colder hand contain'd, 
In the last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
A.s if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 
And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
The long dark lashes fringed her lids^of snow, 
And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd 

below — 
Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the bafiied wreath that strove to bind ; 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier — 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 

XXI. 
He ask'd no question — all were answer' d now 
By the first glance on that still marble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? 
The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
The only living thing he couid not hate, 
Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore, 
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar 
The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 
Then- joy, and find this earth enough for wo, 
Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
But who in patience parts with all. delight ? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

XXII. 
By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks for all the refuge found in none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
For Truth denies all eloquence to Wo. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lulled it into rest : 
So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept ; 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



151 



It was the very weakness of his brain, 
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim : 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
On Grief's vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 

XXIII. 

His heart was formed for softness — warp'd to wrong ; 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
Within the grot ; like that had harden'd too ; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, 
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved till now. 
The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth : 



The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell, 
And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! 

XXIV. 

'Tis morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : 
Another morn — another bids them seek, 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
''Tis idle all — moons roll on moons away, 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn 

beside ; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
For him they raise not the recording stone — 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 18 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



The time in this poem may seem too short for 
the occurrences, but the whole of the .^gean isles 
are within a few hours' sail of the continent, and 
the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as 
I have often found it. 

1. 

Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 
J Page 139, line 90. 

Orlando, Canto 10. 

2, 

Around the wo.ves phosphoric brightness broke. 
Page 140, line 100. 

By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every 
stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, 
is followed by a slight flash like sheet lightning 
from the water. 

3. 

Though to the rest the sober berry's juice. 

Page 141, line 39. 
Coffee. 

4. 

The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply. 
Page 141, line 41. 
Pipe. 



While dance the Almas to wild minstretsy. 

Page 141, line 42. 
Dancing girls. 

6. 
A captive Demise, from the Pirate's nest. 

Page 141, line 55. 
It has been objected that Conrad's entering dis- 
guised as a spy is out of nature. — Perhaps so. I 
find something not unlike it in history. 

" Anxious to explore w^th his own eyes the state 
of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising 
the color of his hair, to visit Carthage in the char- 
acter of his own ambassador ; and Gcnseric was 
afterwards mortified by the discovery, that he had 
entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Ro- 
mans. Such an anecdote may be rejected as an 
improbable fiction ; but it is a fiction which would 
not have been imagined unless in the life of a 
hero." — Gibbon, D. and F., vol. VI. p. ISO. 

That Conrad is a character not altogether out of 
nature I shall attempt to prove by some historical 
coincidences which I have met with since writing 
" The Corsair." 

" Eccelin prisonnicr," dit Rolandini, " s'enfer- 



152 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



moit dans un silence menacant, il fixoit sur la terre 
son visage feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa 
profonde indignation. — De toutes parts cependant 
les soldats et les peuples accouroient ; ils vouloient 
voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie univer- 
selle eclatoit de toutes parts. 

****** 

" Eccelin etoit d'une petite taillie ; mais tout l'as- 
pect de sa personne, tous ses mouvemens, indiquoi- 
ent un soldat. — Son langage etoit amer, son deporte- 
ment superbe — et par son seul egard, il i'aisoit 
trembler les plus hardis." Sismondi, tome ill. page 
219, 220. 

" Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the 
conqueror of both Carthage and Rome) statura 
mediocris, et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, 
sermone rarus, luxurise contcmptor, ira turbidus, 
habendi cupidus, ad solicitandas gentes providen- 
tissimus," &c, &c. Jornandcs de Rebus Geticis, 
c. 33. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep 
in countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 



And my stem row and order's law oppose. 

Page 142, line 17. 
The dervises are in colleges, and of different or- 
ders, as the monks. 

8. 
They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 
Page 142, line 52. 
Satan. 

9. 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight. 
Page 142, line 73. 
A common and not very novel effect of Mussul- 
man anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 
24. " The Seraskier received a wound in the thigh ; 
he plucked up his beard by the roots, because he 
was obliged to quit the field." 

10. 
Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnarc. 
Page 142, line 117. 
Gulnare, a female name ; it means, literally, the 
flower of the pomegranate. 

11. 
Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest ! 
Page 114, line 87. 
In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, 
and Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when grasping her 
neck, she remarked that it "was too slender to 
trouble the headsman much." During one part of 
the French Revolution, it became a fashion to leave 
some "mot" as a legacy ; and the quantity of fa- 
cetious last words spoken during that period would 
form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size. 

12. 
That closed their murder'' d sage's latest dag. 
Page 145, line 100. 
Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before 
sunset, (the hour of execution,) notwithstanding 
the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun 
went down. 

13. 

The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 

Page 145, line 112. 
The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
own country : the days in winter are longer, but in 
summer of shorter duration. 

14. 

The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk. 

Page 146, line 10. 



The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house : the palm 
is without the present walls of Athens, not far from 
the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree 
the wall intervenes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed 
scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all. 

15. 
That frown * — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 
Page 146, line 20. 
The opening lines as far as Section II. have, per- 
haps, little business here, and were annexed to an 
unpublished (though printed) poem ; but they were 
written on the spot in the spring of 1811, and — I 
scarce know why — the reader must excuse their ap- 
pearance here if he can. 

1G. 
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads. 

Page 146, line 104. 
The Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads 
are in number ninety-nine. 

17. 
And tlie cold flowers her colder hand contained. 
Page 150, line 75. 
In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on 
the bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young 
persons to place a nosegay. 

18. 

Link'd with otie virtue, and a thousand crimes. 
Page 151, line 43. 

That the point of honor which is represented in 
one instance of Conrad's character has not been 
carried beyond the bounds of probability may per- 
haps be in some degree confirmed by the following 
anecdote of a brother Buccaneer in the year 1814. 

Our readers have all seen the account of the en- 
terprise against the pirates of Barrataria ; but few, 
we believe, were informed of the situation, history, 
or nature of that establishment. For the informa- 
tion of such as were unacquainted with it, we have 
procured from a friend the following interesting 
narrative of the main facts, of which he has per- 
sonal knowledge, and which cannot fail to interest 
some of our readers. 

Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the Gulf of 
Mexico : it runs through a rich but very flat country 
until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi 
River fifteen miles below the city of New Orleans! 
The bay has branches almost innumerable, in which 
persons can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. 
It communicates with three lakes which lie on the 
southwest side, and these, with the lake of the 
same name, and which lies contiguous to the sea, 
where there is an island formed by the two arms of 
this lake and the sea. The east and west points of 
this island were fortified, in the year 1811, by a band 
of pirates under the command of one Monsieur La 
Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws are of 
that class of the population of the State of Louisi- 
ana who fled from the Island of St. Domingo dur- 
ing the troubles there, and took refuge in the 
Island of Cuba: and when the last war between 
France and Spain commenced, they were com- 
pelled to leave that island with the short notice 
of a few days. Without ceremony, they entered 
the United States, the most of them "the State 
of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had pos- 
sessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Gover- 
nor of that State of the clause in the constitution 
which forbade the importation of slaves ; but, at the 
same time, received the assurance of the Governor 
that he would obtain, if possible, the approbation 
of the General Government for their retaining this 
property. 

The Island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



153 



29 de". 15 min. Ion. 92. 30. and is as remarkable for 
its health, as for the superior scale and shell-fish 
with which its waters abound. The chief of this 
horde, like Charles de Moor, had mixed with his 
many vices some virtues. In the year 1813, this 
party had from its turpitude and boldness, claimed 
the attention of the Governor of Louisiana ; and to 
break up the establishment, he thought proper to 
strike at the head. He therefore offered a reward 
of five hundred dollars for the head of Monsieur La 
Fitte who was well known to the inhabitants of the 
city of New Orleans, from his immediate connexion, 
and his once having been a fencing-master in that 
city of great reputation, which art he learnt in 
Bonaparte's army, where he was captain. The re- 
ward which was offered by the Governor for the 
head of La Fitte was answered by the offer of a re- 
ward from the latter of fifteen thousand for the head 
of the Governor. The Governor ordered out a com- 
pany to march from the city to La Fitte's island, 
and to burn and destroy all the property, and to 
bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. 
This company, under the command of a man who 
had been the intimate associate of this bold Cap- 
tain, approached very near to the fortified island, 
before he saw a man, or heard a sound, until he 
heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. 
Then it was he found himself surrounded by armed 
men who had emerged from the secret avenues 
which led into Bayou. Here it was that the mod- 
ern Charles de Moor developed his few noble traits ; 
for to this man, who had come to destroy his life 
and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his 
life, but offered him that which would have made 
the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his 
days, which was indignantly refused. He then, 
with the approbation of his captor, returned to the 
city. This circumstance, and some concomitant 
events, proved that this band of pirates was not to 
be taken by land. Our naval force having always 
been small in that quarter, exertions for the destruc- 
tion of this illicit establishment could not be ex- 
pected from them until augmented ; for an officer 
of the navy, with most of the gunboats on that 
that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming 
force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation 
of the navy authorized an attack, one was made ; 
the overthrow of this banditti has been the result ; 
and now this almost invulnerable point and key to 
New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped 
the government will hold it by a strong military 
force. — From an American Newspaper. 

In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographi- 
cal History, there is a singular passage in his ac- 
count of Archbishop Blackbourne, and as in some 
20 



measure connected with the profession of the hero 
of the foregoing poem, I cannot resist the tempta- 
tion of extracting it. 

"There is something mysterious in the history 
and character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is 
but imperfectly known ; and report has even as- 
serted he was a buccaneer; and that one of his 
brethren in that profession having asked, on his ar- 
rival in England, what had become of his old chum, 
Blackbourne, was answered, he is archbishop of 
York. We are informed, that Blackbourne was in- 
stalled sub-dean of Exeter, in 1694, which office he 
resigned in 1702 ; but after his successor Lewis Bar- 
net's death, in 1704, he regained it. In the follow- 
ing year he became dean : and, in 1714, held with it 
the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was consecrated 
bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; and translated 
to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, accord- 
ing to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the 
Duchess of Minister. This, however, appears to 
have been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop 
he behaved with great prudence, and was equally 
respectable as the guardian of the revenues of the 
see. Rumor whispered he retained the vices of his 
youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed an 
item in the list of his weaknesses ; but so far from 
being convicted by seventy witnesses, he does not 
appear to have been directly criminated by one. In 
short, I look upon these aspersions as the effects of 
mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should 
have been so good a scholar as Blackbourne cer- 
tainly was ? he who had so perfect a knowledge of 
the classics, (particularly of the Greek tragedians,) 
as to be able to read them with the same ease as he 
could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains to 
acquire the learned languages ; and have had both 
leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly 
educated at Christchurch College, Oxford. He is 
allowed to have been a pleasant man : this, how- 
ever, was turned against him, by its being said, 'he 
gained more hearts than souls.' " 



" The only voice that could soothe the passions 
of the savage, (Alphonso III.) was that of an amia- 
ble and virtuous wife, the sole object of his love ; 
the voice of Donna Isabella, the daughter of the 
Duke-of Savoy, and the grand-daughter of Philip II. 
King of Spain. — Her dying words sunk deep into 
his memory ; his fierce spirit melted into tears ; and 
after the last embrace, Alphonso retired into his 
chamber to bewail his irreparable loss, and to medi- 
tate on the vanity of human life. — Miscellaneous 
Works of Gibbon, New Edition. Svo. vol. iii. page 
473. / 



LARA; 

A TALE. 



CANTO I. 



I. 



The Serfs arc glad through Lara's wide domain, 

And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain : 

He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 

The long self-exiled chieftain is restored ; 

There be bright faces in the busy hall, 

Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 

Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 

The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; 

And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 

With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 

II. 

The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself; — that heritage of wo, 
Tha\ fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
Then, when he most required commandment, then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 

III. 

And Lara left in youth his father-land ; 

But from the hour he waved his parting hand 

Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 

Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 

His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 

'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 

Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 

Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 

His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 

His portrait darkens in its fading frame, 

Another chief consoled his destined bride, 

The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 

" Yet doth he live ! " exclaims the impatient heir, 

And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 



A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace, 
The Lara's last and longest dwelling-place : 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 

He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 

And whence they know not, why they need not guess , 

They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er, 

Not that he came, but came not long before : 

No train is his beyond a single page, 

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 

Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away 

To those that wander as to those that stay ; 

But lack of tidings from another clime 

Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 

They see, they recognize, yet almost deem 

The present dubious, or the past a dream 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, 
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by 

time ; 
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins , 
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 



And they indeed were changed — 'tis quickly seen, 
Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been : 
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 
And spake of passions, but of passion past : 
The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 
A high demeanor, and a glance that took 
Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 
And that sarcastic levity of tongue,. 
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 



LARA. 



155 



That darts in seeming playfulness around, 

And makes those feel that will not own the wound 

Ul these s-eem'd his, and something more beneath 

'han glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 

Vmbition, glory, love, the common aim, 

i'hat some can conquer, and that all would claim, 

.Vithin his breast appear'd no more to strive, 

L'ct seem'd as lately they had been alive ; 

\nd some deep feeling it were vain to trace 

At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 

VI. 

Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And — as himself would have it seem — unknown : 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man : 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 

VII. 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command, 
He mingled with the Magnates of his land, 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away ; 
But still he only saw, and did not share 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued 
With hope still baffled still to be renew'd : 
Nor shadowy honor, nor substantial gain, 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
Upon his eye sate something of reproof, 
That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
And things more timid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear ; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confest 
They deem'd him better than his air exprest. 

VIII. 

"Ewas strange — in youth all action and all life, 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, 
And found his recompense in joy or wo, 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
The tempest-of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart hath look'd on high, 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
Cluiin'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 

IX. 

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day 
From all communion he would start away ; 



And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, 
Through night's long hours would sound his hurried 

tread 
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
In rude but antique portraiture around : 
They heard, but whisper'd — " that must not be 

known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should have 

been. 
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead. 
That still beside his open'd volume lay, 
As if to startle all save him away ? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest 
Why heard no music, and receive no guest ? 
All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong ? 
Some knew perchance — but 'twere a tale too long : 
And such besides were too discreetly wise, 
To more than hint their knowledge in sumise ; 
But if they would — they could " — around the board 
Thus Lara's vassals prattled to their Lord. 

X. 

It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars are studding, each with imaged beam ; 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 

And yet they glide like happiness away ; 

Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky , 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 

And Innocence would offer to her love : 

These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there; 

Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 

But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now— « 

No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his 

XI. 
He turn'd within his solitary hall, 
And his high shadow shot along the wall ; 
There were the painted forms of other times, 
'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults , 
And half a column of the pompous page, 
That speeds the specious tale from age to age, 
Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 



156 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 
And the wide waving of his shaken plume, 
Glanc'd like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

XII. 

'Twas midnight — all was slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and tremulously brave, 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 

XIII. 

Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 

Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 

Was Lara stretch'd : his half-drawn sabre near, 

Dropp'd as it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 

Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 

Aud still defiance knit his gathcr'd brow ; 

Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 

There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 

Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died, 

Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 

His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook, 

Even in its trance the gladiator's look, 

That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 

And now was fixed in horrible repose. 

They raise him — bear, him; — hush! he breathes, he 

speaks, 
The swarthy blush recolers in his cheeks, 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land, 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear ! 

XIV. 
His page approach' d, and he alone appear'd 
To know the import of the words they heard ; 
And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
They were not such as Lara should avow, 
Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes. 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 
And in that tongue that seem'd his own replied, 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To soothe away the horrors of his dream ; 
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
A breast that needed not ideal wo. 

XV. 

Whate'er his frenzy dream' d or eye beheld, 

If yet remembcr'd ne'er to be reveal'd, 

Rests at his heart : the custom'd morning came, 

And breathed new vigor in his shaken frame ; 

And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 

And soon the same in movement and in speech 

As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, 

Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers, 

Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 

Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 



He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze ; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 

XVI. 

Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 

Came not again, or Lara could assume 

A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 

His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 

Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored ? 

Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 

Betray'd a feeling that recall' d to these 

That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 

Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 

Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 

Their slumber ? his the oppress'd, o'erlabor'd heart 

That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ? 

Could he who thus had suffer'd, so forget, 

When such as saw that suffering shudder yet ? 

Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 

Too deep for words, indellible, unmix'd 

In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 

The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 

Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 

Nor common gazers could discern the growth 

Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told: 

They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 

XVII. 
In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 
Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot : 
His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 
They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know 

his fate. 
What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
But own'd, that smile if oft observed and near, 
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer ; 
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by 
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
But once perceived, his spirit seemed to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
And stecl'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem, 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest : 
In vigilance of grief that would compel 
The soul to hate for having loved too well. 

XVIII. 
There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 
He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 



LARA. 



157 



But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 

His mind would half exult and half regret : 

With more capacity for love than earth 

Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 

His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 

And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 

With thought of years in phantom chase misspent, 

And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 

And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 

In hurried desolation o'er his path, 

And left the better feelings all at strife 

In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 

But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 

He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 

And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 

She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 

Till he at last confounded good and ill, 

And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 

Too high for common selfishness, he could 

At times resign his own for others' good, 

But not in pity, not because he ought, 

But in some strange perversity of thought, 

That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 

To do what few or none would do beside ; 

And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 

Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 

So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath 

The men with whom he felt condemned to breathe ; 

And long'd by good or ill to separate 

Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 

His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 

Far from the world, in regions of her own : 

Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 

His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 

Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 

But ever in that icy smoothness flowed ! 

'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd, 

And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 

Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 

His madness was not of the head, but heart ; 

And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 

His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 

XIX. 

With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought ; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain, 
And once beheld, wonld ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake remember'd well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 
If greeted once ; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all unwilling interest : 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 

XX. 

There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims, 



Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest, 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest, 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well-according bands ; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to Youth, 
And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth, 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXI. 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, 

His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 

And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair 

Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there 

He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, 

With folded arms and long attentive eye, 

Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 

111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 

At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown, 

But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 

Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 

Who still till now had gazed on him unseen ; 

At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 

Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 

On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 

As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 

Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern, 

Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 

XXII. 

" 'Tis he ! " the stranger cried, and those that heard, 

Reechoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 

" 'Tis he ! " — " Tis who ? " they question far and 

near, 
Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
The general marvel, or that single look ; 
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surpriso 
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised, 
Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger 

gazed ; 
And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
" 'Tis he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth he 

here ? " 

XXIII. 
It were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such questions, so repeated fierce and high , 
With look collected, but with accent cold, 
More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
" My name is Lara ! — when thine own is known,* 
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 
'Tis Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 
I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 

" Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would 

shun ? 
And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt 
Eternity forbids thee to forget." 



158 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
" A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
If false, 'tis case to disprove the word — 
But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 
Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 

" Whate'cr I be, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee 
I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be exprcst." 
And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
" Whate'cr there be between you undisclosed, 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
Though like Count Lara now return'd alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth, 
I augur right of courage and of worth, 
He will not that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 

" To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 

" And here our several worth and truth be tried. 

I gage my life, my falchion to attest 

My words, so may I mingle with the blest ' " 

What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 

His soul in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 

The words of many, and the eyes of all 

That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 

But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 

In far forgetfulness away — away — 

Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 

Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 

" To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow ! " further word 
Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 
Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 
From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
YeFtherc was something fix'd in that low tone, 
Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. 
He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 
And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 
And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 
VVith which that chieftain's brow would bear him 

down : 
ft was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 
But that of one in his own heart secure 
Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the good ? 
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 



Alas ! too like in confidence .are each, 
For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 
From deeds, and deeds alone may he discern, 
Truths which it wrings theunpractised heart to learn. 

XXV. 
And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
His only follower from those climes afar, 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home; 
Those accents as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear, 
Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall, 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all: 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVI. 

Light was his form, and darkly delicate 

That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 

But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 

The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone 

through ; 
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would 

show 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
Hut 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment f'ever'd there ; 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringo 
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet Less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
Or if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share ; 
And pleased not him the sports that please his age. 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
He seem'd like him he served, to live apart 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

XXVII. 
If aught be loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown 
His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 
In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 
Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 
Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 
A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 
His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 
In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 
As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire 
That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 
Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 
To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 



LARA. 



159 



To tune his lute, or if he will'd it more, 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 

But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew : 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek, 

But for his garb, afnd something in his gaze, 

More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame : 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 

But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 

Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore 

Another ere he left his mountain-shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 

That name repeated loud without reply, 

As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 

Start to the sound as but remember'd then ; 

Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake, 

For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

XXVIII. 
He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 
And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 
And when the crowd around and near him told 
Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, 
Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 
The color of young Kaled went and came, 
The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 
And o'er his brow the dampening heart-chops threw 
The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 
That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
Yes — there be things which we must dream and dare, 
And execute ere thought be half aware : 
Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
To seal his lip, but agonize his brow. 
He gazed on Ezzelin, till Lara cast 
That sidelong smile upon the knight he past ; 
When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 
As if from something recognized right well ; 
His memory read in such a meaning more 
Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 
Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 
And all within that halt seem'd left alone ; 
Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 
All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, 
That when his long dark shadow through the porch 
No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 
Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 
Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 
Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 
With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 
But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired 
He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
The courteous host, and all-approving guest ; 



Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
And man, o'erlabor'd with his being's strife, 
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, 
Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile ; 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
What better name may slumber's bed become ? 
Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 
Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 
Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath, 
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills incrcast, 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 



CANTO II. 



Nigjt wanes — the vapors round the mountains 

curl'd 
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
Man has another day to swell the past, 
And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 
And cry, exulting inly, " they are thine ! " 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden' d eye may see ; 
A morrow comes when they are not for thee ; 
And grieve what may above thv senseless bier, 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 

II. 
'Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 
'Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
Why comes he not ? Such truths to be divulged, 
Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

III. 

The hour is past, and Lara too is there 
With self-confiding coldly patient air : 
Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow o'ercast. 
" I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
My halls from such a guest had honor gain'd, 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to-day; 



160 



BYRON'S WORKS 



The word 1 pledged for his I pledge again, 

Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 

He ceased — and Lara answer'd " I am here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 

Whose words already might my heart have wrung, 

But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, 

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

I know him not — but me it seems he knew 

In lands where — but I must not trifle too : 

Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 

Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew : 
" The last alternative befits me best, 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

However near his own or other's tomb ; 

With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 

Its grasp well used to deal the sabre-stroke : 

With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 

Bid Lara too his willing weapon bare. 

In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 

For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 

And from his lips those words of insult fell — 

His sword is good who can maintain them well. 

IV. 

Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 

Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 

He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound, 

Stretched by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 

" Bemand thy life ! " He answer'd not : and then 

From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, 

For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 

Almost to blackness fh its demon hue ; 

And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 

Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow ; 

Then all was stern collectedness and art, 

Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 

So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 

That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld. 

He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those, 

Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 

But to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 

Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 

As if to search how far the wound he gave 

Had sent his victim onward to his grave. 



They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
The others met within a neighboring hall, 
And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took, 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 

VI. 

But where was he ? that meteor of a night, 
Who menaced but to disappear with light ? 
Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 



He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distrest: 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath ; 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne, 
Nor gout of biood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
When agonized hands, that cease to guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd, 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 

VII. 

Bays roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 

But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd: 

He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 

The friend of all who sought to work him wo, 

And from his country's justice now demands 

Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 

Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 

His presence ? who had made him disappear, 

If not the man on whom his menaced charge 

Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 

The general rumor ignorantly loud, 

The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 

The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 

To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 

The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, 

The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 

Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 

Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ? 

For it was not the blind capricious rage 

A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 

But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 

With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 

Such as long power and overgorged success 

Concentrates into all that's merciless : 

These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 

Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 

'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 

Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 

And he must answer for the absent head 

Of one who haunts him still, alive or dead. 

VIII. 

Within that land was many a malcontent, 

Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 

That soil full many a wringing despot saw, 

Who work'd his wantonness in form of law ; 

Long war without and frequent broil within 

Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 

That waited but a signal to begin 

New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 

Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends ; 



LARA. 



161 



Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 

In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 

Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 

And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 

But that long absence from his native clime 

Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 

And now diverted by his milder sway, 

All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 

The menials felt their usual awe alone, 

But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 

They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 

Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst, 

And each long restless night, and silent mood, 

"Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 

And though his lonely habits threw of late 

Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate; 

For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 

For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 

Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 

The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 

Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof, 

They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 

And they who watch'd might mark that day by day 

Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 

But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, 

He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 

Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 

Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 

Whate'er his view, his favor more obtains 

With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 

If this were policy, so far 'twas sound, 

The million judged but of him as they found ; 

From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 

They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 

By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, 

And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 

With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 

With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 

Youth, present cheer, and promised recompense 

Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence: 

To hate he offer'd, with the coming change, 

The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 

To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 

The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 

All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 

That slavery nothing which was still a name. 

The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 

Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 

His summons found the destined criminal 

Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 

Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 

Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 

That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves 

Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 

Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 

Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right : 

Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 

A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 

Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 

That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed ! 



IX. 

Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd; 
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 
The Serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both : 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound ; 



By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 
The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 
And is again ; he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 
But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate. 
And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 
He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
But man and destiny beset him there : 
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
But, dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
A leader not unequal to the feud ; 
In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 

X. 

What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 

The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 

The varying fortune of each separate field, 

The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? 

The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 

In this the struggle was the same with all ; 

Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 

In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 

None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 

The captive died upon the battle-plain : 

In either cause, one rage alone possest 

The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 

And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 

Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay. 

It was too late to check the wasting brand, 

And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 

And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 

XI. 

Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung. 

The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 

But that vain victory hath ruin'd all, 

They form no longer to their leader's call ; 

In blind confusion on the foe they press, 

And think to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, 

Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 

In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 

To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 

In vain their stubborn ardor he would tame, 

The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame ; 

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, 

And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 



162 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, 
The long privation, and the hoped supply, 
The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 
The stubborn wall that marks the leaguer's art, 
And palls the patience of his baffled heart, 
Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 
They could encounter as a veteran may ; 
But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 
And present death, to hourly suffering life : 
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
His numbers melting fast from their array ; 
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, 
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent : 
But few remain to aid his voice and hand ; 
And thoxisands dwindled to a scanty band 
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 
And thence they may escape from native war ; 
And bear within them to the neighboring state 
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 
Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 
But harder still to perish or submit. 

XII. 

It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight ; 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
Away ! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear ? 
'Tis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height ? 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 

XIII. 

A moment's pause, 'tis but to breathe their band, 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by the border-stream their march oppose, 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
However link'd to baffle such design. • 

" The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed ; 
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
How many shall but hear the voice of death. 

XIY. 

His blade is bared, in him there is an air 

As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 

A something of indifference more than then 

Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men — 

He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 

And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 

Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight threw 

Along his aspect an unwonted hue 

Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint exprest 

The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 

This Lara mark'd and laid his hand on his ; 

It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 

His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 

His eye alone proclaim'd, " We will not part ! 



Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 

Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee ! " 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, 

Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven, 

Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 

And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 

Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 

Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 

And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 

Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 

XY. 

Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
Where foe appenr'd to press, or friend to fall, 
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 
But those that waver turn to smite again, 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest ? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast ! 
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, 
And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ' 
But yet the sword instinctively retains, 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins ; 
These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
Teo mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 

XVI. 

Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
Then- limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
But yet they reach the stream and bend to taste : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause ? No further thirst have they to slake— 
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
It was an agony — but now forgot ! 

XVII. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
Where but for him that strife had never been, 
A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away : 
His follower once, and now his only guide, 
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 
And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush, 
With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 



LARA. 



163 



And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 

In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow ;• 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

And clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XVIII. 

The foe arrive*, who long had search'd the field, 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain, 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state ; he answers not, 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
And turns to Kaled ; — each remaining word, 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
To which some strarfge remembrance wildly clung. 
They speak of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone : 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To share between themselves some separate fate, 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 

XIX. 

Their words though faint were many — from the'tone 
Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's 

death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near, 
But from his visage little could we guess, 
So unrepentant, dark and passionless, 
Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
And once as Kaled's answering accents ceast, 
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
Where (as then the breaking sun from high 
Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
Or that 'twas chance, or some remember'd s»ene, 
That raised his arm to point where such had been, 
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 
As if his heart abhorr.'d that coming day, 
And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 
To look 'on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 
Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss ; 
For when one near display'd the absolving cross, 
And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
Of which his parting soul might own the need, 
* He look'd upon it with an eye profane, 
And smiled — Heaven pardqn ! if 'twere with disdain ; 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 



As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, 
Nor seem'd to know his life but then began,, 
That life of Immortality, secure 
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

XX. 

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 

His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd 

o'er 
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 
He press'd the hand.he held upon his heart — 
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 
For thaf faint throb which answers not again. 
" It beats ! " — away, thou dreamer ! he is gone — 
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 

XXI. 
He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 
The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 
And those around have roused him from his trance, 
But cannot tear from thence fcis fixed glance ; 
And when in raising him from where he bore, 
Within his arms the form that felt no more, 
He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 
Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 
He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 
But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 
Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well, 
Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 
The breast of man such trusty love may breathe. 
That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
The secret long and yet but half-conceal'd ; 
In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confest ; 
And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 

XXII. 

And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
But where he died his grave was dug as deep, 
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
Though priest nor bless'd nor marble deck'd the 

mound, 
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past. 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
She told nor whence, n.or why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be still — 
Is human love the growth of human will ? 
To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links, that form'd the chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain, 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 

XXIII. 

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 



164 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life, 
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 

XXIV. 

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale, 
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burden at his saddle-bow ; 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger' course, 
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burden which he bore, 
Heaved up the bank, and dashed it from the shore, 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to 

watch, 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
And slung them with a more than common care. 
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest, 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
It rose again but indistinct to view, 
And left the waters of a purple hue, 
Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed, 
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised; 



Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
His face was mask'd— the features of the dead, 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, . . 

Sueh is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul ! 
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
And charity upon the hope would dwell, 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 



XXV. 

And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone, 
Alike without their monumental stone ! 
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
But furious would you tear her from the spot 
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not 
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire, 
But left to waste her weary moments there, 
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 
And she would sit beneath the very tree 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
And fold, and press it gently to the ground, 
As if she staunched anew some phantom's wound. 
Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 
Or trace strange characters along the sand — 
This could not last — she lies by him she loved ; 
Her tale untold — her truth too clearly proved. 



NOTE TO LARA. 



Thk event in section xxiv. Canto II. was su 
gested by the description of tht death or rather 
burial of the Duke of Gandia. 

The most interesting and particular account of 
this mysterious event is given by Burchard, and is 
in substance as follows : " On the eighth day of 
June, the Cardinal of Valenza, and the Duke of 
Gandia, sons of the Pope, supped with their mother, 
Vanozza, near the church of S. Pietro ad vinculo, ; 
several other persons being present at the entertain- 
ment. A late hour approaching, and the cardinal 
having reminded his brother, that it was time to 
return to the apostolic palace, they mounted their 
horses or mules, with only a few attendants, and 
proceeded together as far as the palace of the Car- 
dinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the 
cardinal, that before he returned home, he had to 
pay a visit of pleasure. Dismissing therefore all 
his attendants except his staffiero, or footman, and 
a person in a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst 
at supper, and who, during the space of a month or 
thereabouts, previous to this time, had called upon 
him almost daily, at the apostolic palace, he took 
this person behind him on his mule, and proceeded 
to the street of the Jews, where he quitted his ser- 
vant, directing him to remain there until a certain 
hour ; when, if he did not return, he might repair 
to the palace. The duke then seated the person in 
the mask behind him, and rode, I know not whither ; 
but in that night he was assassinated, and thrown 
into the river. The servant, after having been 
dismissed, was also assaulted and mortally wound- 
ed ; and although he was attended with great care, 
yet such was his situation, that he could give no in- 
telligible account of what had befallen his master. 
In the morning, the duke not having returned to 
the palace, his servants began to be alarmed ; and 
one of them informed the pontiff of the evening 
excursion of his sons, and that the duke had not 
yet made his appearance. This gave the pope no 
small anxiety ; but he conjectured that the duke 
had been attracted by some courtesan to pass the 
night with her, and not choosing to quit the house 
in open day, had waited till the following evening 
to return home. When, however, the evening ar- 
rived, and he found himself disappointed in his ex- 
pectations, he became deeply afflicted, and began to 
make inquiries from different persons, whom he or- 
dered to attend him for that purpose. Among 
these was a man named Giorgio Schiavoni, who, 
having discharged some timber from a bark in the 
river, had remained on board the vessel to watch it, 
and being interrogated whether he had seen any 
one thrown into the river on the night preceding, 



he replied, that he saw two men on foot, who cair.e 
down the street, and looked diligently about, to 
observe whether any person was passing. That 
seeing no one, they returned, and a short time af- 
terwards two others came, and looked around in the 
same manner as the former : no person still appear- 
ing, they gave a sign to their companions, when a 
man came, mounted on a white horse, having be- 
hind him a dead body, the head and arms of which 
hung on one side, and the feet on the other side of 
the horse; the two persons on foot supporting the 
body, to prevent its falling. They thus proceeded 
towards that part where the filth of the city is usu- 
ally discharged into the river, and turning the horse, 
with his tail towards the water, the two persons 
took the dead body by the arms and feet, and with 
all their strength flung it into the river. The per- 
son on horseback then asked if they had thrown it 
in, to which they replied, Siynor, si (yes, Sir.) He 
then looked towards the river, and seeing a mantle 
floating on the stream, he inquired what it was that 
appeared black, to which they answered, it was a 
mantle ; and one of them threw stones upon it, in 
consequence of which it sunk. The attendants of 
the pontiff then inquired from Giorgio, why he had 
not revealed this to the governor of the city ; to 
which he replied, that he had seen in his time a 
hundred dead bodies thrown into the river at the 
same place, without any inquiry being made respect- 
ing them, and that he had not therefore, consider- 
ed it as a matter of any importance. The fisher- 
men and seamen were then collected, and ordered 
to search the river, where, on the following eve- 
ning, they found the body of the duke, with his 
habit entire, and thirty ducats in his purse. He 
was pierced with nine wounds, one of which was in 
his throat, the others in his head, body, and Kmbs. 
No sooner was the pontiff informed of the death of 
his son, and that he had been thrown, like filth, 
into the river, than, giving way to his grief, he 
shut himself up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. 
The Cardinal of Segovia, and other attendants on 
the pope, went to the door, and after many hours 
spent in persuasions and exhortations, prevailed 
upon him to admit them. From the evening qt 
Wednesday, till the following Saturday, the pope 
took no food; nor did he sleep from Thursday morn- 
ing till the same hour on the ensuing day. At 
length, however, giving way to the entreaties of his 
attendants, he began to restrain his sorrow, and to 
consider the injury which his own health might sus- 
tain, by the further indulgence of his grief." — Ros- 
coe's Leo Tenth, vol. i. page 265. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 



JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. 



THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, 
BY HIS 



January 22, 1816. 



FRIENP 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The grand army of the Turks, (in 1715,) under 
the Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into 
the heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of 
Napoli di Romania, the most considerable place in 
all that country,* thought it best in the first place 
to attack Corinth, upon which they made several 
storms. The garrison being weakened, and the 
governor seeing it was impossible to hold out 
against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat 
a parley : but while they were treating about the 
articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, 
wherein they had six hundred barrels of powder, 
blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hundred 
men were killed ; which so enraged the infidels, that 
they would not grant any capitulation, but stormed 
the place with so much fury, that they took it, and 
put most of the garrison, with Signior Minotti, the 
governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio 
Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made pris- 
oners of war." — History of the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 

1. 
Many a vanish'd year and age, 
And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 
Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands 
A fortress form'd to Freedom's hand. 



• Napoli di Romania is Dot now the most considerable place in the Morea, 
but Tripolitza, where the Pacha resides, and maintains his government. 
Napoli is near Argos. I visited all three in 1810-11; and in the course of 
journeying through the country from my first arrival in 1809, I crossed the 
Isthmus eight times in my way from Attica to the Morea, over the mountains, 
or in the other direction, when passing from the Gulf of Athens to that of 
Lepanto. Both the routes are picturesque and beautiful, though very differ- 
ent : that by sea has more sameness, but the voyage being always within 
Bight of land, and often very near it, presents many attractive views of the 
islands Salamis, .Egina, Poro, &c, and the coast of the continent. 



The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock. 

Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, 

The key-stone of a land, which still, 

Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 

The landmark to the double tide 

That purpling rolls on either side, 

As if their waters chafed to meet, 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her Feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timolean's brother bled, 

Or baffled Persian's despot fled, 

Arise from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank, 

That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below : 

Or could the bones of all the slain, 

"Who perish'd there, be piled again, 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 

Than yon tower-capt Acropolis, 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 

II. 

On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears 
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd, 1 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



167 



And there the volleying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
"Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
And from that wall the foe replies, 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and well 
The summons of the Infidel. 

III. 

But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall, 
With deeper skill in war's black art 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, and deed to deed, 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable, 
Alighting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fire, 
The first and freshest of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
To guide the follower o'er the field, 
To point the tube, the lance to wield, 
Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 

IV. 
From Venice — once a race of worth 
His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 
But late an exile from her shore, 
Against his countrymen he bore 
The arms they taught to bear ; and now 
The turban girt his shaven brow. 
Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 
With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 
And here, before her walls, with those 
To Greece and Venice equal foes, 
He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
Which young and fiery converts feel, 
Within whose heated bosom throngs 
The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
To him had Venice ceased to be 
Her ancient civic boast — " the Free ; " 
And in the palace of St. Mark 
Unnamed accusers in the dark 
Within the " Lion's mouth " had placed 
A charge against him uneffaced ; 
He fled in time, and saved his life, 
To waste his future years in strife, 
That taught his land how great her loss 
In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 
'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high, 
And battled to avenge or die. 



Coumourgi 2 — he whose closing scene 
Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
When on Carlowitz' bloody plain 
The last and mightiest of the slain, 
He sank, regretting not to die, 
But curst the Christian's victory — 



Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 
That latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
A hundred years have roll'd away 
Since he refused the Moslem's sway, 
And now he led the Mussulman, 
And gave the guidance of the van 
To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
By cities levell'd with the dust ; 
And proved, by many a deed of death, 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 

VI. 

The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 

Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 

With unabating fury sent 

From battery to battlement ; 

And thunder-like the pealing din 

Rose from each heated culverin ; 

And here and there some crackling dome 

Was fired before the exploding bomb : 

And as the fabric sank beneath 

The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 

In red and wreathing columns flash'd 

The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 

Or into countless meteors driven, 

Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 

Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun. 

Impervious to the hidden sun, 

With volumcd smoke that slowly grew 

To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 

VII. 
But not for vengeance, long delay'd, 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win without consent 
Of that inexorable sire, 
Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 
Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
In happier mood, and earlier time, 
While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 
Gayest in gondola or hall, 
He glittcr'd through the Carnival ; 
And tuned the softest serenade 
That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
At midnight to Italian maid. 

VIII. 
And many deem'd her heart was won . 
For sought by numbers, given to none, 
Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
Still by the church's bonds unchain'd : 
And when the Adriatic bore 
Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 
Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
And pensive wax'd the maid and pale ; 
More constant at confessional, 
More rare at masque and festival ; 
Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, 
Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize ; 
With listless look she seems to gaze, 
With humbler care her form arrays ; 
Her voice less lively in the song, 
Her step, though light, less fleet among 



168 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 
Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 

IX. 

Sent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
While Sobieski tamed his pride 
By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
From Patra to Euboca's bay,) 
Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
The Doge's delegated powers, 
While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece : 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke. 
With him his gentle daughter came, 
Nor there, since Menelaus' diime 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love, 
Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 

X. 

The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assault. 
The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
The full of hope, misnamed "forlorn," 
Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
And win their way with falchion's force, 
Or pave the path with many a corse, 
O'er which the following brave may rise, 
Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 

XI. 

'Tis midnight : on the mountains brown 
The cold round moon shines deeply down ; 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads, like an ocean hung on high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
And turn'd to earth without repining, 
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on cither shore lay there 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 
But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
The banners droop'd along their staves, 
And, as they fell around them furling, 
Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
And that deep silence was unbroke, 
Save where the watch his signal spoke, 
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 
And echo answer'd from the hill, 
And the wide hum of that wild host 
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, 
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 



And take a long unmeasured tone, 

To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 

It seem'd to those within the wall 

A cry prophetic of their fall : 

It struck even the besieger's ear 

With something ominous and drear, 

An undefined and sudden thrill, 

Which makes the heart a moment still, 

Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 

Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 

Such as a sudden passing-bell 

Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 

XII. 

The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 

The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er ; 

The watch was set, the night-round made, 

All mandates issued and obey'd : 

"lis but another anxious night, 

His pains the morrow may requite 

With all revenge and love can pay, 

In guerdon of their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 

Of slaughter ; but within his soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 

He stood alone among the host ; 

Not his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 

Or risk a life with little loss, 

Secure in paradise to be 

By Houris loved immortally : 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 

The stern exaltedness of zeal, 

Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 

When battling on the parent soil. 

He stood alone — a renegade 

Against the country he betray'd ; 

He stood alone amidst his band, 

Without a trusted heart or hand ; 

They follow'd him, for he was brave, 

And great the spoil he got and gave ; 

They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 

To warp and wield the vulgar will ; 

But still his Christian origin 

With them was little less than sin. 

They envied even the faithless fame 

He earn'd beneath a Moslem name ; 

Since he, their mightiest chief had been 

In youth a bitter Nazarene. 

They did not know how pride can stoop, 

When baffled feelings withering droop ; 

They did not know how hate can burn 

In hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 

Nor all the false and fatal zeal 

The convert of revenge can feel. 

He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 

By ever daring to be first : 

So lions o'er the jackal sway ; 

The jackal points, he fells the prey, 

Then on the vulgar yelling press, 

To gorge the relics of success. 

XIII. 

His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
The quick successive throbs convulse ; 
In vain from side to side he throws 
His form, in courtship of repose ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



169 



Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
Without or couch or canopy, 
Except a rougher field and sky 
Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 
Than now along the heaven was spread ; 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day, 
But walk'd him forth along the sand, 
Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 
What pillow'd them ? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be, 
Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

XIV. 

He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky though calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
Behind, the camp — b* fore him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto's gulf ; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime ; 
It will not melt, like man, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
In texture like a hovering shroud, 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled, 
And linger'd on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh, still her step at moments falters 
O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token. 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remember'd rays 
Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 

XV. 

Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 
And through this night, as on he wander'd, 
And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
And thought upon the glorious dead 
Who there in better cause had bled, 
He felt how faint and feebly dim 
The fame that could accrue to him, 
Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 
A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 
22 



And led them to the lawless siege, 

Whose best success were sacrilege. 

Not so had those his fancy number'd, 

The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd ; 

Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 

Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 

They fell devoted, but undying ; 

The very gale their names seem'd sighing : 

The waters murmur'd of their name ; 

The woods were peopled with their fame ; 

The silent pillar, lone and gray, 

Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 

Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 

Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 

The meanest rill, the mightiest river 

Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. 

Despite of every yoke she bears, 

That land is glory's still and theirs ! 

Tis still a watchword to the earth: 

When man would do a deed of worth, 

He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 

So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head : 

He looks to her, and rushes on 

Where life is lost, or freedom won. 

XVI. 

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 

And woo'd the freshness Night diffused. 

There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea, 3 

Which changeless rolls eternally ; 

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, 

Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood; 

And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 

Heedless if she come or go : 

Calm or high, in main or bay, 

On their course she hath no sway. 

The rock unworn its base doth bare, 

And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 

And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 

On the line that it left long ages ago : 

A smooth short space of yellow sand 

Between it and the greener land. 

He wander'd on, along the beach, 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach 

Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 

Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 

Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd 

cold? 

I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
That flank'dthe seaward gate of the town; 
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
The sullen words of the sentinel, 
As his measured step on the stone below 
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead then- carnival, 
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
They were too busy to bark at him ! 
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
And their white tusks craunch'd o'er the whiter 

skull,* 
As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge 

grew dull, 



170 



BYRON'S WORKb'. 



As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
When they scarce could rise from the spot where 

they fed ; 
So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the 

sand, 
The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair : 5 
All the rest was shaven and bare. 
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 
There sat a vulture Happing a wolf, 
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay 
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

XVII. 

Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight : 

Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 

But he better could brook to behold the dying, 

Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 

Scorch'dwith the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 

Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 

There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 

Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; 

For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 

And Honor's eye on daring.deeds ! 

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 

O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 

And see worms of the earth and fowls of the air, 

Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 

All regarding man as their prey, 

All rejoicing at his decay, 

XVIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 

Fashion'd by long forgotten hands ; 

Two or three columns, and many a stone, 

Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 

Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 

Of the things to come than the things before ! 

Out upon Time ! who for ever will leave 

But enough of the past for the future to grieve 

O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which 

must be : 
"What we have seen our sons shall see ; 
Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 

XIX. 

He sate him down at a pillar's base, 
And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 
Like one in dreary musing mood, 
Declining was his attitude ; 
His head was drooping on his breast, 
Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest ; 
And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 
Oft his beating fingers went, 
Hurriedly, as you may see 
Your own run over the ivory key, 
Ere the measured tone is taken 
By the chords you would awaken. 
There he sate all heavily, 
As he heard the night-wind sigh. 



Was it the wind, through some hollow stone, 8 

Sent than soft and tender moan ? 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 

But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade 

How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 

He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 

So did the leaves on Cithaeron's hill, 

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 

What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 

He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight < 

There sate a lady, youthful and bright ? 

XX. 

He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers ! what is here ? 

Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament ? 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem'd no more divine : 

He had resumed it in that hour, 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Francesca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride ! 

The rose was yet upon her cheek, 

But mellow'd with a tenderer streak : 

Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 

Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 

The ocean's calm within their view, 

Beside her eye had less of blue ; 

But like that cold wave it stood still, 

And its glance, though clear, was chill ; 

Around her form a thin robe twining, 

Nought conceal'd her bosom shining ; 

Through the parting of her hair, 

Floating darkly downward there, 

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 

And ere yet she made reply, 

Once she raised her hand on high : 

It was so wan and transparent of hue, 

You might have seen the moon shine through. 

XXI. 

" I come from my rest to him I love best, 
That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 
I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall, 
Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
Tis said the lion will turn and flee 
From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 
And the Power on high, that can shield the gooa 
Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 
Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
I come — and if I come in vain, 
Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
Thou hast done a fearful deed 
In falling away from thy father's creed : 
But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine 
Wring the black drop from thy heart, 
And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 

' And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



171 



For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame, 

The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 

None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 

Shall be left upon the morn : 

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 

Where our hands shall be joined, and our sorrow 

forgot. 
There thou yet shalt be my bride, 
When once again I've quell'd the pride 
Of Venice ; and her hated race 
Have felt the arm they would debase, 
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 

And shot a dullness to his heart, 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 

As those thin fingers, long and white, 

Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue 

So deeply changed from what he knew ; 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death, 

And her words came forth without her breath, 

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 

And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell, 

Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 

And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 

With aught of change, as the eyes may seem, 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 

Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 

Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, 

So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come 

down 
From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; 
Fearfully flitting to and fro, 
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 

" If not for love of me be given 

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 

Again I say — that turban tear 

From off thy faithless brow, and swear 

Thine injured country's sons to spare, 

Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see 

Not earth — that's past — but heaven or me. 

If this thou dost accord, albeit 

A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 

That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 

And mercy's gate may receive thee within : 

But pause one moment more, and take 

The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 

And look once more to heaven, and see 

Its love for ever shut from thee. 

There is a light cloud by the moon — 7 

'Tis passing, and will pass full soon — 

If, by the time its vapory sail 

Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 



Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are both avenged ; 
Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside 

By deep, interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breast 

Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 

By wild words of a timid maid ! 

He, wrong' d by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 

No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 

And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 

He look'd upon it earnestly, 

Without an accent of reply ; 

He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 

Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 

And thus he spake — " Whate'er my fate, 

I am no changeling— 'tis too late : 

The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 

Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 

What Venice made me, I must be, 

Her foe in all, save love to thee : 

But thou art safe : oh, fly with me ! " 

He turn'd, but she is gone ! 

Nothing is there but the column stone. 

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air f 

He saw not, he knew not ; but nothing is there 

XXII. 

The night is past, and shines the sun 

As if that morn were a jocund one. 

Lightly and brightly breaks away 

The Morning from her mantle gray, 

And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 

Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
And the flap of the banners that flit as they're borne, 
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
And the clash, and the shout, " they come, they 

come ! " 
The horsetails 8 are pluck'd from the ground, and 

the sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait foi 

the word. 
Tartar, and Spain, and Turcoman, 
Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
That the fugitive may flee in vain, 
When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 
And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 
Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 
So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 
The vizier himself at the head of the host. 



i72 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 

Leave not in Corinth a living one — 

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 

God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 

" There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to 

scale ; 
And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye 

fail? 
He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have ! " 
Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire ; 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 

XXIII. 
As the wolves, that headlong go 
On the stately buffalo, 
Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 
And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 
He tramples on the earth, or tosses on high 
The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die, 
Thus against the wall they went, 
Thus the first were backward bent ; 
Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass, 
Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 
Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 
The ground whereon they moved no more ; 
Even as they fell, in files they lay, 
Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 
"When his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 
Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 

XXIV. 

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 

From the cliffs invading dash 

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaeeless flow, 

Till white and thundering down they go, 

Like the avalanche's snow, 

On the Alpine vales below ; 

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 

Corinth's sons were downward borne 

By the long and oft renew'd 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. 

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 

Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, 

Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 

Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 

Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 

For quarter, or for victory, 

Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 

Which makes the distant cities wonder 

How the sounding battle goes, 

If with them, or for their foes ; 

If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In that annihilating voice, 

Which pierces the deep hills through and through 

With an echo dread and new : 

You might have heard it, on that day, 

O'er Salamis and Megara; 

(We have heard the hearers say,) 

Even unto Piraeus bay. 

XXV. 

From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 
Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 



But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 

And all but the after carnage done. 

Shriller shrieks now mingling come 

From within the plunder'd dome : 

Hark to the haste of flying feet, 

That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 

But here and there, where 'vantage ground 

Against the foe may still be found, 

Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 

Make a pause, and turn again — 

With banded backs against the wall, 

Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man — his hairs were white, 

But his veteran arm was full of might : 

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 

The dead before him, on that day, 

In a semicircle lay ; 

Still he combated unwounded, 

Though retreating, unsurrounded. 

Many a scar of former fight 

Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright ; 

But every wound his body bore, 

Each and all had been ta'en before : 

Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 

Few of our youth could cope with him ; 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 

Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver gray. 

From right to left his sabre swept : 

Many an Othman mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 

His weapon first in Moslem gore, 

Ere his years could count a score. 

Of all he might have been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ire : 

For, sonless left long years ago, 

His wrath made many a childless foe ; 

And since the day, when in the strait 9 

His only boy had met his fate, 

His parent's iron hand did doom 

More than a human hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Than his, Minotti's son who died 

Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 

Buried he lay where, thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore ; 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves ; 
But they live in the verse that immortality saves. 

XXVI. 
Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 
Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand ; 
Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 
Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
Thus in the fight is he ever known ; 
Others a gaudier garb may show, 
To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 
Many a hand's on a richer hilt, 
But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 
Many a loftier turban may wear, 
. Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 
Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis there ; 
There is not a standard on that shore 
So well advanced the ranks before ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



173 



There is not a banner in Moslem war 
Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 
It glances like a falling star ! 
Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 
The bravest be, or late have been ; 
There the craven cries for quarter 
Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
Or the hero, silent lying, 
Scorns 'to yield a groan in dying ; 
Mustering his last feeble blow 
'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 
Though faint beneath the mutual wound,, 
Grappling on the gory ground. 

XXVII. 

Still the old man stood erect, 
And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
" Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take 
For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 

" Never, renegado, never ! 

Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 

" Francesca ! — Oh my promised bride ! 
Must she too perish by thy pride ? " 

" She is safe." — " Where ? where ?" — "In heaven 
From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 
Far from thee, and undefiled." 
Grimly then Minotti smiled, 
As he saw Alp staggering bow 
Before his words, as with a blow. 

" Oh God ! when died she ? " — " Yesternight — 

Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 

None of my pure race shall be 

Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 

Come on ! " — That challenge is in vain — 

Alp's already with the slain ! 

While Minotti's words were wreaking 

More revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion's point had found, 

Had the time allow'd to wound, 

From within the neighboring porch 

Of a long defended church, 

Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing fight renew, 

The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground ; 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 

Round he spun, and down he fell ; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 

And then eternal darkness sunk 

Through all the palpitating trunk ; 

Nought of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slightly shivering : 

They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 

And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 

And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 

From its deep veins lately loosed ; 

But in his pulse there was no throb, 

Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 

Heralded his way to death : 

Ere his very thought could pray, 

Unanell'd he pass'd away, 

Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 

To the last a renegade. 



XXVIII. 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers and his foes ; 

These in joy, in fury those ; 

Then again in conflict mixing, 

Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, 

Interchanged the blow and thrust 

Hurling warriors in the dust. 

Street by street, and foot by foot, 

Still Minotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land 

Left beneath his high command ; 

With him, aiding heart and hand, 

The remnant of his gallant bund. 

Still the church is tenable, 
Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city's fall, 

When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 

Thither bending sternly back, 

They leave before a bloody track ; 

And, with their faces to the foe, 

Dealing wounds with every blow, 

The chief, and his retreating train, 

Join to those within the fane ; 

There they yet may breathe awhile, 

Shelter'd by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd host, 

With adding ranks and raging boast, 

Press onwards with such strength and heat, 

Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 

For narrow the way that led to the spot 

Where still the Christians yielded not ; 

And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 

Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 

They perforce must do or die. 

They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still ; 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still renew'd attacks : 

And now the Othman's gain the gate ; 

Still resists its iron weight, 

And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 

From every crevice comes the shot ; 

From every shatter'd window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurous shower : 

But the portal wavering grows and weak — 

The iron yields, the hinges creak — 

It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 

Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 
Madonna's face upon him shone, 
Painted in heavenly hues above, 
With eyes of light and looks of love ; 
And placed upon that holy shrine 
To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
When pictured there, we kneeling see 
Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 
Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 
Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 



174 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Minotti lifted his aged eye, 
And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 
And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 
Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 

Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 

Their names were on the graven floor, 

But now illegible with gore ; 

The carved crests, and curious hues, 

The varied marble's veins diffuse, 

Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and strown 

With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a coffin'd row ; 

You might see them piled in sable state, 

By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 

But War had enter'd their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the fleshless dead : 

Here, throughout the siege, had been 

The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 

To these a late-form'd train now led, 

Minotti's last and stern resource 

Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 

XXXII. 

The foe came on, and few remain 

To strive, and those must strive in vain : 

For lack of further lives, to slake 

The thirst of vengeance now awake, 

With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 

And lop the already lifeless head, 

And fell the statues from their niche, 

And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 

And from each other's rude hands wrest 

The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 

To the high altar on they go ; 

Oh, but it made a glorious show ! 

On its table still behold 

The cup of consecrated gold ; 

Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 

Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 

That morn it held the holy wine, 

Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 

Which his worshippers drank at the break of day 

To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 

Still a few drops within it lay ; 

And round the sacred table glow 

Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 

From the purest metal cast ; 

A spoil — the richest, and the last. 

XXXIII. 

So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touch'd with the torch the train — 

'Tis fired ! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 



The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down — 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below : 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
Down the ashes shower like rain; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 
With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
Let their mothers see and say ! 
When in cradled rest they lav, 
And each nursing mother smiled 
On the sweet sleep of her child, 
Little deem'd she such a day 
Would rend those tender limbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more ; 
That one moment left no trace 
More of human form or face, 
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
And down came blazing rafters, strown 
Around, and many a falling stone, 
Deeply dinted in the clay, 
All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd ; 
The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
And howling left the unburied dead ; 
The camels from their keepers broke ; 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
The bullfrog's note, from out the marsh, 
Deepmouth'd arose, and doubly harsh 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill, 
Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry, 1 " 
Bay'd from afar complainingly, 
With a mix'd and mournful sound, 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 
The eagle left his rocky nest, 
And mounted nearer to the sun, 
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 

Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 



NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



i. 

The Turcoman hath left his herd. 

Page 166, line 38. 

The life of the Turcomans is wandering and pa- 
triarchal : they dwell in tents. 



Coumourgi — he whose closing scene. 

Page 167, line 57. 

Ali Coumourgi, the favorite of three sultans, and 
Grand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Pelo- 
ponnesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was 
mortally wounded in the next, against the Ger- 
mans, at the battle of Peterwaradin, (in the plain 
of Carlowitz.) in Hungary, endeavoring to rally his 
guards. He died of his wounds, next day. His 
last order was the decapitation of General Breuner, 
and some other German prisoners : and his last 
words, " Oh that I could thus serve all the Chris- 
tian dogs ! " a speech and act not unlike one of 
Caligula. He was a young man of great ambition 
and unbounded presumption : on being told that 
Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, "was a great 
general," he said, " I shall become a greater, and 
at his expense." 



There shrinks no ebb in th«t titleless sea. 

Page 169, line 91. 

The reader need hardly be reminded that there 
axe no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 



And their white tusks craunch'd o'er the whiter skull. 
.Page 170, line 8. 

This spectacle I have seen, such as described, be- 
neath the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, 
in the little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the 
rock, a narrow terrace of which projects between 
the wall and the water. I think the fact is also 
mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies 
were probably those of some refractory Janizaries. 



And each svalp nad a single long tuft of hair. 
Page 170, line 60. 

This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition 
that Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. 



Was it the wind, through some holloio stone. 
Page 169, line 37. 
I must here acknowledge a close, though unin- 
tentional, resemblance in these twelve lines to a 
passage in an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, 
called " Christabel." It was not till after these 
lines were written that I heard that wild and singu- 
larly original and beautiful poem recited ; and the 
MS. of that production I never saw till very recent- 
ly, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, 
I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful 
plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains 
to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed 
above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope 
that he will not longer delay the publication of a 
production, of which I can only add my mite of ap- 
probation to the applause of far more competent 
judges. 

7. 
There is a light cloud by the moon. 

Page 171, line 61. 
I have been told that the idea expressed from 
lines 588 to 603 has been admired by those whose 
approbation is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is 
not orignal — at least not mine ; it may be found 
much better expressed jn pages 182-3-4 of the Eng- 
lish version of " Vathek," (I forget the precise page 
of the French,) a work to which I have before re- 
ferred, and never recur to, or read, without a re- 
newal of gratification. 

8. 
The horsetails are pluck 'd from the ground, and the 
sword. Page 171, line 106. 

The horsetail fixed upon a lance, a Pacha's stand- 
ard. 

9. 
And since the dag tvhen in the strait. 

Page 172, line 98. 
In the naval battle, at the mouth of the Darda- 
nelles between the Venetians and the Turks. 

10. 
The jackal's troop, in gather 'd cry. 

Page 174, line 109. 
I believe I have taken a poetical license to trans- 
plant the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw 
nor heard these animals ; but among the ruins of 
Ephesus I have heard them by hundreds. They 
haunt ruins, and follow armies. 



PARISINA. 



SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. 

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED, 

BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP 

January 22, 1816. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The following poem is grounded on a circum- 
stance mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the 
House of Brunswick." — I am aware, that in modern 
times the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader 
may deem such subjects unfit for the purposes of 
poetry. The Greek dramatists, and some of the 
best of our old English writers, were of a different 
opinion : as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, 
more recently, upon the continent. The following 
extract will explain the facts on which the story is 
founded. The name of Azo is substituted for 
Nicholas, as more metrical. 

" Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was 
polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony 
of an attendant, and his own observation, the Mar- 
quis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his 
wife Parisini, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful 
and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the 
castle by the sentence of a father and husband, who 
published his shame, and survived their execution. 
He was unfortunate, if they were guilty ; if they 
were innocent, he was still more unfortunate; nor 
is there any possible situation in which I can sin- 
cerely approve the last act of justice of a parent." — 
Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470, new 
edition. 



It is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard ; 

It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word : 

And gentle winds, and waters near, 

Make music to the lonely ear. 



Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 

And in the sky the stars are met, 

And on the wave is deeper blue, 

And on the leaf a browner hue, 

And in the heaven that clear obscure, 

So softly dark, aiyl darkly pure, 

"Which follows the decline of day, 

As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 

II. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall, 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 

And if she sits in Este's bower, 

'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 

She listens — but not for the nightingale — 

Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 

There glides a step through the foliage thick, 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats 

quick. 
There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves 
And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 
A moment more — and they shall meet — 
'Tis past — her lover's at her feet. 



III. 

And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide ? 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
As if all else had passed away, 

They oqjy for each other breathe ; 



PARISINA. 



177 



Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it not decay, 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
Who that have felt that passion's power, 
Or paused or fear'd in such an hour ? 
Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
But yet — they are already past ! 
Alas ! we must awake before 
We know such vision comes no more. 

IV. 

With'many a lingering look they leave 

The spot of guilty gladness past ; 
And though they hope, and vow, they grieve 

As if that parting were the last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 

The lip that there would cling for ever, 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place ; 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart, 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 

To covet there another's bride ; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fever'd in her sleep she seems, 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 

And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away : 
And he to that embrace awakes, 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless ; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 

VI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 

And listen'd to each broken word : 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 

As if th£ Archangel's voice he heard ? 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease : 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more,— 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
23 



And whose that name ? 'tis Hugo's, — his — 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this !— 
'Tis Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth, 
When he betrayed Bianca's truth, 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 

VII. 

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 

But sheath'd it ere the point was bare— 
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could net slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not smiling — sleeping — there — 
Nay more : — he did not wake her then, 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Which, had she roused her from her trance, 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber'd — 
While, in his thought, her days are number'd. 

VIII. 

And with the morn he sought, and found, 
In many a tale from those around, 
The proof of all he fear'd to know, 
Theh present guilt, his future wo : 
The long-conniving damsels seek 
To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her : 
Concealment is no more — they speak 
All circumstance which may compel 
Full credence to the tale they tell : 
And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
Have nothing more to feel or hear. 

IX. 

He was not one who brook'd delay : 
Within the chamber of his state, 

The chief of Este's ancient sway 
Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 

His nobles and his guards are there,— 

Before him is the sinful pair ; 

Both young — and one how passing fair ! 

With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand, 

Oh, Christ ! that such a son should stand 
Before a father's face ! 

Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 

And hear the sentence of his ire, 

The tale of his disgrace ! 

And yet he seems not overcome, 

Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 



And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eye 

Glanced gladness round the glittering rooa 
Where high-born men were proud to wait- 
Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 

Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
And gather from her air and gait 
The graces of its queen : 
Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 
And made her quarrel all their own. 



178 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Now, — what is she ? and what are they ? 

Can she command, or these obey ? 

All silent and unheeding now, 

With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 

And folded arms, and freezing air, 

And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 

Her knights, and dames, her court — is there. 

And he, the chosen one, whose lance 

Had yet been couch'd before her glanct-, 

Who — were his arm a moment free — 

Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 

The minion of his father's bride, — 

He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 

Nor sees her swollen and full eye swim 

Less for her own despair than him : 

Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 

Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 

Shining through the smoothest white 

That e'er did softest kiss invite — 

Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 

To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 

Which glance so heavily, and fill, 

As tear on tear grows gathering still. 

XI. 

And he for her had also w r ept, 

But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 

Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd, 
He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
But yet he dared not look on her : 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 
His earthly, his eternal fate — 
And her's, oh, her's ! — he dared not throw 
One look upon that deathlike brow ! 
Else had his rising heart betray'd 
Remorse for all the wreck it made. 



XII. 

And Azo spake : — " But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son ; 
That dream this morning pass'd away, 

Ere day delines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone ! 
Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 
Who would not do as I have done : 
Those ties are broken — not by me ; 

Let that too pass ; — The doom's prepared ! 
Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 

And then — thy crime's reward ! 
Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 

Before its evening stars are met — 
L^arn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 

Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
But here, upon the earth beneath, 

There is no spot where thou and I 
Together, for an hour, could breathe : 

Farewell ! I will not see thee die — 
But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head — 

Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 

Go ! woman of the wanton breast, 
Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 
Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
And joy thee in the life I give." 



XIII. 

And here stern Azo hid his face — 
For on his brow the swelling vein 
Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 
The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again ; 

And therefore bow'd he for a space, 

And pass'd his shaking hand along 

His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 

While Hugo raised his chained hands, 

And for a brief delay demands 

His father's ear : the silent sire 

Forbids not what his words require. 

" It is not that I dread the death — 
For thou hast seen me by thy side 
All redly through the battle ride, 
And that not once a useless brand 
Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, 
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 

Theu gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, 
A gift for which I thank thee not : 
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
Her slighted love and ruin'd name, 
Her offspring's heritage of shame ; 
But she is in the grave, where he, 
Her son, thy rival, soon shall be, 
Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 
Shall witness for thee from the dead 
How trusty and how tender were 
Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
'Tis true, that I have done thee wrong — 

But wrong for wrong : — this, deem'd thy bride, 

The other victim of thy pride, 
Thou know'st for me was destined long. 
Thou saw'st, and covetedst her charms — 

And with thy very crime — my birth, 

Thou tauntedst me — as little worth ; 
A match ignoble for her arms, 
Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
The lawful heirship of thy name, 
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 

Yet, were a few short summers mine, 

My name should more than Este's shine 
With honors all my own. 
I had a sword — and have a breast 
That should have won as haught 2 a crest 
As ever waved along the line • 
Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
Not always knightly spurs are worn 
The brightest by the better born ; 
And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 
When charging to the cheering cry 
Of ' Este and of Victory ! ' . 

I will not plead the cause of crime, 
Nor sue thee to* redeem from time 
A few brief hours or days that must 
At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 
Such maddening moments as my past, 
They could not and they did not, last — 
Albeit my birth and name be base, 
And thy nobility of race 
Disdain'd to deck a thing like me — 

Yet in my lineaments they trace 

Some features of my father's face, 
And in my spirit — all of thee. 
From thee — this tamelessness of heart — 
From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start ? — 



PARISINA. 



179 



From thee in all their vigor came 

My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 

Thou didst not give me life alone, 

But all that made me more thine own. 

See what thy guilty love hath done ! 

Repaid thee with too like a son ! 

I am no bastard in my soul, 

For that, like thine, abhorr'd control ; 

And for my breath, that hasty boon 

Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 

I valued it no more than thou, 

When rose thy casque above thy brow, 

And we, all side by side, have striven, 

And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 

The past is nothing — and at last 

The future can but be the past ; 

Yet would I that I then had died : 

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father still ; 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die in shame, 
My life begun and ends the same : 
As err'd the she, so err'd the son, 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worst to human view, 
But God must judge between us too ! " 



XIV. 

He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd, 
When those dull chains in meeting clank'd, 
Till Parisina's fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye — 
Would she thus hear him doom'd to die ! 
She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
Not once had turn'd to either side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather'd slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
And those who saw, it did surprise, 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling throat, 
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
And to the earth she fell like stone 
Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
More like a thing that ne'er had life — 
A monument of Azo's wife, — 
Than her, that living guilty thing, » 

Whose every passion was a sting, 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guilt's detection and despair. 



But yet she lived — and all too soon 

Recover'd from that death-like swoon — 

But scarce to reason — every sense 

Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 

And each frail fibre of her brain 

(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 

The erring arrows launch aside) 

Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 

The past a blank, the future black, 

With glimpses of a dreary track, 

Like lightning on the desert path, 

When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 

She fear'd — she felt that something ill 

Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 

That there was sin and shame she knew ; 

That some one was to die — but who ? 

She had forgotten ; — did she breathe ? 

Could this be still the earth beneath, 

The sky above, and men around ; 

Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 

On one, before whose eyes each eye 

Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 

All was confused and undefined 

To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 

A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 

And now in laughter, now in tears, 

Biit madly still in each extreme, 

She strove with that convulsive dream ; 

For so it seem'd on her to break ; 

Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 

XV. 

The Convent bells are ringing, 

But mournfully and slow ; 
In the gray square turret swinging, 

With a deep sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go ! 
Hark ! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below, 

Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
For a departing being's soul 

The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll: 
He is near his mortal goal ; 
Kneeling at the Friar's knee ; 
Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 
With the block before and the guards around — 
And the headsman with his bare arm ready, 
That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
Since he set its edge anew : 
While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father 1 

XVI. 

It is a lovely hour as yet 

Before the summer sun shall set, 

Which rose upon that heavy day, 

And mock'd it with his steadiest ray ; 

And his evening beams are shed 

Full on Hugo's fated head, 

As his last confession pouring 

To the monk, his doom deploring 

In penitential holiness, 

He bends to hear his accents bless 

With absolution such as may 

Wipe our mortal stains away. 

That high sun on his head did glisten, 

As he there did bow and listen— 



180 

And the rings of chestnut hair 
Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 
But brighter still the beam was thrown 
Upon the axe which near him shone 

With a clear and ghastly glitter 

Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe : 
Dark the crime, and just the law- 
Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 

XVII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 

Of that false son — and daring lover ! 

His beads and sins are all recounted, 

His hours to their last minute mounted — 

His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 

His bright brown locks must now be ciipp'd : 

'Tis done — all closely are they shorn — 

The vest which till this moment worn — 

The scarf which Parisina gave — 

Must not adorn him to the grave. 

Even that must now be thrown aside, 

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 

But no — that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 

All feelings seemingly subdued, 

In deep disdain were half renew'd, 

When headsman's hands prepared to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blind ; 

As if they dared not look on death. 

"No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 

These hands are chain'd — but let me die 

At least with an unshackled eye — 

Strike : " — and as the word he said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke — 

" Strike " — and flashing fell the stroke — 

Roll'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 

Back the stain'd and heaving trunk 

In the dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 

His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 

Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 

He died as erring man should die, 

Without display, without parade ; 

Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 

As not disdaining priestly aid, 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the Prior kneeling, 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling ; 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour ? 
No more reproach — no more despair ; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayer — 
Save the few which from him broke, 
When, bared to meet the headsman's stroke, 
He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
His sole adieu to those around. 

XVIII. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 
Each gazer's bosom held his breath ; 
But yet, afar, from man to man, 
A cold electric shiver ran, 
As down the deadly blow descended 
On him whose life and love thus ended, 
And with a hushing sound comprest, 
A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But no more thrilling noise rose there 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, 

Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill, so passing wild ? 

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow, 

To the sky these accents go, 

Like a soul's in endless wo. 

Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 

But sound and sight alike are gone ! 

It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 

In madlier accents rose despair ; 

And those who heard it, as it past, 

In mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 

Like words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azo's voice by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son ; 

No tomb — no memory had they ; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day, 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 

Whether in convent she abode, 

And won to heaven her dreary road, 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 

For that dark love she dared to feel ; 

Or if, upon the moment smote, 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block, 

With heart that shared the headsman's shock, 

In quicken'd brokenness that came, 

In pity, o'er her shatter' d frame, 

None knew — and none can ever know : 

But whatsoe'er its end below, 

Her life began and closed in wo ! 3 

XX. 

And Azo found another bride, 

And goodly sons grew by his side ; 

But none so lovely and so brave 

As him who wither'd in the grave ; 

Or if they were — on his cold eye 

Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 

Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 

But never tear his cheek descended, 

And never smile his brow unbended, 

And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 

The intersected lines of thought ; 

Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was pass'd all mirth or wo : 

Nothing more remain'd below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 



NOTES TO PARISINA. 



181 



A heart which shunn'd itself— and yet 
That would not yield— nor could forget, 
Which when it least appear'd to melt, 
Intensely thought— intensely felt : 
The deepest ice which ever froze 
Can only o'er the surface close — 
The living stream lies quick below, 
And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 
Still was his seal'd- x up bosom haunted 
By thoughts which Nature hath implanted ; 
Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
Howe'er our stifled tears we banish : 
When, struggling as they rise to start, 
We check those waters of the heart, 
They are not dried — those tears unshed 
But flow back to the fountain head, 
And resting in their spring more pure, 
For ever in its depth endure, 
Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd, 



And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 
With inward starts of feeling left, 
To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 
Without the power to fill again 
The desert gap which made his pain ; 
Without the hope to meet them where 
United souls shall gladness share, 
With all the consciousness that he 
Had only pass'd a just decree ; 
That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 
Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
The tainted branches of the tree, 

If lopp'd with care a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveals. 



NOTES TO PARISINA. 



i. 

As twilight melts beneath the moon aioay. 

Page 176, line 14. 

The lines contained in Section I. were printed 
as set to music some time since ; but belonged to 
the poem where they now appear, the greater part 
of which was composed prior to " Lara," and other 
compositions since published. 

2. 

That should have won as haught, a crest. 

Page 178, line 108. 

Haught — haughty — " Away, haught man, thou 
art insulting me " — Shakspeare, Richard II. 



Her life began and closed in wo. 

Page 180, line 109. 

" This turned out a calamitous year for the people 
of Ferrara, for there occurred a very tragical event 
in the court of their sovereign. Our annals, both 
printed and in manuscript, with the exception of 
the unpolished and negligent work of Sardi, and 
one other, have given the following relation of it, 
from which, however, are rejected many details, and 
especially the narrative of Bandelli, who wrote a 
century afterwards, and who does not accord with 
the contemporary historians. 

" By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, 
the Marquis, in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, 



a beautiful and ingenious youth. Parisina Malates 
ta, second wife of Niccolo, like the generality of 
step-mothers, treated him with little kindness, to 
the infinite regret of the Marquis, who regarded 
him with fond partiality. One day she asked leave 
of her husband to undertake a certain journey, to 
which he consented, but upon condition that Ugo 
should bear her company ; for he hoped by these* 
means to induce her, in the end, to lay aside the 
obstinate aversion which she had conceived against 
him. And indeed his intent was accomplished but 
too well, since, during the journey, she not only di- 
vested herself of all her hatred, but fell into the 
opposite extreme. After their return, the Marquis 
had no longer any occasion to renew his former re- 
proofs. It happened one day that a servant of the 
Marquis, named Zoese, or, as some call him, Gior- 
gio, passing before the apartments of Parisina, saw 
going out from them one of her chambermaids, all 
terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, she told 
him that her mistress, for some slight offence, had 
been beating her ; and, giving vent to her rage, she 
added, that she could easily be revenged, if she 
chose to make known the criminal familiarity which 
subsisted between Parisina and her step-son. The 
servant took note of the words, and related them to 
his master. He was astounded thereat, but scarce- 
ly believing his ears, he assured himself of the 
fact, alas ! too clearly, on the 18th of May, by 
looking through a hole made in the ceiling of his 
wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into a furious 
rage, and arrested both of them, together with Al- 
dobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, 
and also, as some say, two of the women of her 



182 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



chamber, as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered 
them to be brought to a hasty trial, desiring the 
judges to pronounce sentence, in the accustomed 
forms, upon the culprits. This sentence was death. 
Some there were that bestirred themselves in favor 
of the delinquents, and, among others, Ugoccion 
Contrario, who was all powerful with Niccolo, and 
also his aged and much deserving minister, Alberto 
dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flowing down 
their cheeks, and upon their knees, implored him 
for mercy : adducing whatever reasons they could 
suggest for sparing the offenders, besides those mo- 
tives of honor and decency which might persuade 
him to conceal from the public so scandalous a deed. 
But his rage made him inflexible, and, on the in- 
stant, he commanded that the sentence should be 
put in execution. 

" It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and 
exactly in those frightful dungeons which are seen 
at this day beneath the chamber called the Aurora, 
at the foot of the Lion's tower, at the top of the 
street Giovecca, that on the night of the 21st of 
May were beheaded, first Ugo, and afterwards Pari- 
sina. Zoese, he that accused her, conducted the 
latter under his arm to the place of punishment. 
She, all along, fancied that she was to be thrown 
into a pit, and asked at every step, whether 
she was yet come to the spot? She was told 
that her punishment was the axe. She inquired 
what was become of Ugo, and received for answer, 
that he was already dead ; at the which, sighing 
grievously, she exclaimed, ' Now, then, I wish not 
myself to live ; ' and, being come to the block, she 
stripped herself with her own hands of all her orna- 
ments, and wrapping a cloth around her head, sub- 
mitted to the fatal stroke, which terminated the 
cruel scene. The same was d one w i tn Rangoni, 
who, together with the others, according to two 
calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was buried 
in the cemetery of that convent. Nothing else is 
known respecting the women. 



"The Marquis kept watch the whole of that 
dreadful night, and, as he was walking backwards 
and forwards, inquired of the captain of the castle 
if Ugo was dead yet ? who answered him, Yes. He 
then gave himself up to the most desperate lamen- 
tations, exclaiming, ' Oh ! that I too were dead, 
since I have been hurried on to resolve thus against 
my own Ugo ! ' And then, gnawing with his teeth 
a cane which he had in his hand, he passed the rest 
of the night in sighs and in tears, calling frequently 
upon his own dear Ugo. On the following day, 
calling to mind that it would be necessary to make 
public his justification, seeing that the transaction 
could not be kept secret, he ordered the narrative 
to be drawn out upon paper, and sent it to all the 
courts of Italy. 

" On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, 
Francesco Foscari, gave orders, but without pub- 
lishing his reasons, that stop should be put to the 
preparations for a tournament, which, under the 
auspices of the Marquis, and at the expense of the 
city of Padua, was about to take place, in the 
square of St. Mark, in order to celebrate his ad- 
vancement to the ducal chair. 

" The Marquis, in addition to what he had already 
done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, 
commanded that as many of the married women as 
were well known to him to be faithless, like his 
Parisina, should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst 
others, Barberina, or, as some call her, Laodamia 
Romei, wife of the court judge, underwent this sen- 
tence, at the usual place of execution, that is to 
say, in the quarter of St. Giacomo, opposite the 
present fortress, beyond St. Paul's. It cannot be 
told how strange appeared this proceeding in a 
prince, who, considering his own disposition, sbould, 
as it seemed, have been in such ■ cases most indul- 
gent. Some, however, there were, who did not fail 
to commend him." * 



•Frizzi — History of Fcrrara. 






THE PRISONER OF CHILLON; 

A FABLE. 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 

For there thy habitation is the heart— 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard ! ' — May none those marks efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



My hair is gray, but not with years. 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 2 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
"We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd : 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



II. 

There are seven pillars of gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp ; 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died,* 
And I lay living by his side. 



III. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight, 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 
A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be ; 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



184 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IV. 



I was the eldest of the three, 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
And truly might it be distrest 
To. see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
("When day was beautiful to me 
As to young, eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun ; 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' ills, 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the wo 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind, 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls ; 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 3 

Which round about the wave enthralls ; 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high, 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 



For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den : 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb, 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant, 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 

VIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
His mother's image in fair face, 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural and inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 
To see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood : — 
I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
But these were horrors — this was wo 
Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow ; 
He faded, and so calm and meek, 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 
And grieved for those he left behind : 
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
Whose tints as gently sunk away 
As a departing rainbow's ray — 
An eye of most transparent light, 
That almost made the dungeon bright, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



185 



And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot,— 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

I listen'd, but I could not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear : 

I knew 'twas hopeless, bnt my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him ; — I found him not, 

J only stirr'd in this black spot, 

I only lived — I only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew : 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe ; 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befel me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew — 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray : 
It was not night — it was not day, 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness— without a place ; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no crime — 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track ; 
24 



I saw the dungeon walls and floor 

Close slowly round me as before, 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done, 

But through the crevice where it came 

That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ; 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought ! tke while 
Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brothers soul come down to me : 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, ^ 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XL 

A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate, 
I know not what had made them so, 
They were inured to sights of wo, 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 
And up and down, and then athwart, 
And tread it over/every part ; 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed, 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 

I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all, 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me ; 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery ; 



186 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I thought of this, and I was glad, 

For thought of them had made me mad ; 

But I was curious to ascend 

To my barr'd windows, and to bend 

Once more, upon the mountains high, 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII. 

I saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame ; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isle, 4 
Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I f afc troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 



The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, 
And yet my glance, too much opprest, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 



XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus when they appear'd at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



i. 

By Bonnivard ! — may none those marks efface ! 
Page 183, line 13. 

Francois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonni- 
vard, originaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, 
naquit en 1496 ; il fit ses etudes a Turin : en 1510 
Jean Aime de Bonnivard, son oncle, lui resigna le 
Prieure de St. Victor, qui aboutissoit aux murs de 
Geneve, et qui formoit un ben< fice considerable. 

Ce grand homme (Bonnivard merite ce titre par 
la force de son ame, la droiture de son cceur, la no- 
blesse de ses intentions, la sagesse de'ses conseils, 
le courage de ses demarches, l'etendue de ses con- 
naissances et la vivacite de son esprit,) ce grand 
homme, qui excitera l'admiration de tous ceux 
qu'une vertu herol'que peut encore emouvoir, inspi- 



rera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans les 
cceurs des Genevois qui aiment Gentve. Bonnivard 
en fut toujours un des plus fermes appuis : pour as- 
surer la liberte de notre Rtpublique, il ne craignit 
pas de perdre souvent la sienne ; il oublia son repos ; 
il moprisa ses richesses ; il ne nogligea rien pour 
affermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de son 
choix : des ce moment il la cherit comme le plus 
zrlee, de ses citoyens ; il la servit avec l'intrepidite 
d'un heros, et il ecrivit son Histoire avec la naivete 
d'un philosophe et la chaleur d'un patriote. 

II dit dans le commencement de son histoire de 
Geneve, que, des qu'il eut commence de lire V histoire 
des nations, il se sentit entrain* parson goid pour les 
Republiques, dont il dpousa toujours les inttrets : 
c'est ce gout pour la liberte que lui fit sans doute 
adopter Geneve pour sa patrie. 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



187 



Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annonca hautement 
comme le d^fenseur de Geneve contre le Due de 
Savoye et l'Eveque. 

En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa 
patrie. Le Due de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve 
avec cino cent hommes, Bonnivard craint le ressenti- 
ment du Due ; il voulut se retirer a Fribourg pour 
en eviter les suites ; mais il fut trahi par deux hom- 
mes qui l'accompagnoient, et conduit par ordre du 
Prince a Grolce ou il resta prisonnier pendant deux 
ans. Bonnivard etoit malheureux dans ses voyages : 
comme ses malheurs n'avoient point ralenti son z'le 
pour Geneve, il etoit toujoursun ennemi redoutable 
pour ceux qui la menacoient, et par consequent il 
devoit Otre expose a leurs coups. II fut rencontre 
en 1-539 sur le Jura par des voleurs, qui le depouil- 
lrent, et qui le mirent encore entre les mains du 
Due de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer dans le 
Chateau de Chillon, on il resta sans etre interroge 
jusques en 1536 ; il fut alors delivre par les Ber- 
nois, qui s'emparerent du Pays de Vaud. 

Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, eut le plaisir 
de trouver Geneve libre et reibrm.ee ; la Republique 
s'empressa de lui trmoigner sa reconnaissance et de 
le ds'dommager des maux qu'il avoit souffcrts ; elle 
le recut Bourgeois de la ville aii mois de Juin 1536 ; 
elle lui donna la maison habitee autrefois par le 
Vicaire-General. et elle lui assigna une pension de 
200 ecus d'or tant qu'il sejourneroit a Geneve. II 
fut admis dans le Conseil de Deux-Cent en 1537. 

Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : appres avoir 
travaille a rendre Geneve libre, il reussita la rendre 
tolerante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil a accorder 
aux Ecclesiastiques et aux paysans un tems suffi- 
sant pour examiner les propositions qu'on leur 
faisoit : il reussit par sa douceur: on preche tou- 
jours le Christianisme avec succes quand on le 
prrche avec charite. 

Bonnivard fut savant ; ses manuscrits, qui sont 
dans la Biblotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avoit 
bien lu les auteurs classiques latins, et qu'il avoit 
approfondi la theologie et l'histoire. Ce grand 
homme aimoit les sciences, et il croyoit qu'elles 
pouvoient faire la gloire de Geneve ; aussi il ne 
negligea rien pour les fixer dans cette ville nais- 
sante ; en 1551 il donna sa bibliotheque au public ; 
elle fut le commencement de notre bibliotheque pub- 
lique ; et ces livres sont en partie les rares et belles 
editions du quinzieme siecle qu'on voit dans notre 
collection. Enfin, pendant la meme annee, ce bon 
patriote institua la Republique son heritiere a con- 
dition qu'elle employeroit ses biens a entretnir le 
college dont on projettoit la fondation. 

II paroit que Bonnivard mourut en 1570 ; mais 
on ne peut l'assurer, parce qu'il y a une lacune dans 
le Ntcrologe depuis le mois de Juillet 1570 jusques 
en 1571. 

2. 

In a single night. 

Page 183, line 17. 



Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is as- 
serted of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI. 
though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said 
to have the same effect : to such, and not to fear, 
this change in hers was to be attributed. * 



From Chillon' 's snoio-ivhite battlement. 

Page 184, line 43. 

The Chateau de Chillon is situated between 
Clarens and Villencuve, which last is at one ex- 
tremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the 
entrances of the Rhone, and opposite are the heights 
of Meillerie and the range of Alps above Bovcret 
and St. Gingo. 

Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent ; below it, 
washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to 
the depth of eight hundred feet, (French measure ;) 
within it are a range of dungeons, in which the 
early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of state, 
were confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam 
black with age, on which we were informed that 
the condemned were formerly executed. In the 
cells are seven pillars, or rather, eight, one being 
half merged in the wall ; in some of these are rings 
for the fetters and the fettered: in the pavement 
the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces — he 
was confined here several years. 

It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the 
catastrophe of his Heloise, in the rescue of one of 
her children by Jftlie from the water ; the shock of 
which, and the illness produced by the immersion 
is the cause of her death. 

The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for 
a great distance. The walls are white. 



And then there teas a little isle. 

Page 186, line 16. 

Between the entrances of the Rhone and Ville 
neuve, not far from Chillon, is a very small island ; 
the only one I could perceive, in my voyage round 
and over the lake, within its circumference. It 
contains a few trees, (I think not above three,) and 
from its singleness and diminutive size has a pecu- 
liar effect upon the view. 

When the foregoing poem was composed I was 
not sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, 
or I should have endeavored to dignify the subject 
by an attempt to celebrate his courage and his vir- 
tues. Some account of his life will be found in a 
note appended to the "Sonnet on Chillon," with 
which I have been furnished by the kindness of a 
citizen of that Republic, which is still proud of the 
memory of a man worthy of the best age of ancient 
freedom." 



BEPPO ; 

A VENETIAN STORY. 



Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller ; Look you lisp, and wear strange suits : disable all the benefits of your 
own country ; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are ; or 1 
will scarce think that you have swam in a Goniola. — As You Like It, Act IV. Sc. I. 

Annotation of the Commentators. 
That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was then what 
Paris is now — the seat of all dissoluteness. — S. A. 



'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout 
All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 

Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 
The people take their fill of recreation, 

And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
However high their rank, or low their station, 

With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, 

And other things which may be had for asking. 

II. 

The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
The skies, (and the more duskily the better,) 

The time less liked by husbands, than by lovers 
Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 

And gayety on restless tiptoe hovers, 

Giggling with all the gallants who beset her ; 

And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, 

Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 

III. 

And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 

And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 
Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 

All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, 
All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, 

But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, 

Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge ye. 

IV. 

You'd better walk about begirt with briers, 
Instead of coat and small-clothes, than put on 

A single stitch reflecting upon friars, 
Although you swore it only was in fun ; 

They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
Of Phlegethon with every mother's son. 

Nor say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 

That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double. 



V. 

But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 

Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair 
"Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 

And even in Italy such places are, 
With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 

For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 

No place that's call'd " Piazzi" in Great Britain, 

VI. 

This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
Interpreted, implies " farewell to flesh : " 

So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing, 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. 

But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
Is more than I can tell, although I guess 

'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting, 

In the stage-coach or packet just at starting. 

VII. 

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts, 

To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes, 
Because they have no sauces to their stews, 

A thing which causes many " poohs " and " pishes," 
And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse) 

From travellers accustomed from a boy 

To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 

VIII. 
And therefore humbly I would recommend 

"The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, 

Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross, 
(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 

By any means least liable to loss,) 
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve ye; 



BEPPO. 



18& 



IX. 

That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 
And you at Rome would do as Romans do, 

According to the proverb, — although no man, 
If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 

If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman, 
Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 

Dine and be d — d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 

But that's the penalty, to say no worse. 



Of all the places where the Carnival 
"Was most facetious in the days of yore, 

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, 
And masque, and mine, and mystery, and more 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore, 

And at the moment when I fix my story 

That seaborn city was in all her glory. 

XI. 

They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions 
still ; 

Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill ; 

And like so many Venuses of Titian's, 
(The best's at Florence — see it, if ye will,) 

They look when leaning over the balcony, 

Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 

XII. 

Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 

And when you to Manfrini's palace go, 
That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 

Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; 
It may perhaps be also to your zest, 

And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so ; 
'Tis but the portait of his son, and wife, 
And self; but such a woman ! love in life. 

XIII. 

Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 

But something better still, so very real, 
That the sweet model must have been the same ; 

A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
Wer't not impossible, besides a shame : 

The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain, 

You once have seen but ne'er will see again ; 

XIV. 

One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 

And, Oh ! the loveliness at times we see 
In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 

The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, 
In many a nameless being we retrace, 

Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know, 

Like the lost Pleiad ' seen no more below. 

XV. 

I said that like a picture by Giorgione 
Venetian women were, and so they are, 

Particularly seen from a balcony, 

(For beauty's sometimes best set off afar,) 

And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 

They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar ; 

And truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, 

And rather like to show it, more's the pity ! 



XVI. 

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 

Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 

Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 
Who do such things because they know no better 

And then, God knows, what mischief may arise, 
When love links two young people in one fetter, 

Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, 

Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 

, XVII. 
Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 

As very fair, but yet suspect in fame, 
And to this day from Venice to Verona 

Such matters may be probably the same, 
Except that since those times was never known a 

Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 
Because she had a " cavalier servente." 

XVIII. 
Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's, 

Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 

When weary of the matrimonial tether, 
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
But takes at once another, or another's 

XIX. 

Didst ever see a gondola ? For fear 

You should not, I'll describe it you exactly : 

'Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here, 
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, 

Row'd by two rowers, each call'd " Gondolier," 
It glides along the water looking blackly, 

Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 

Where none can make out what you say or do. 

XX. 

And up and down the long canals they go, 

And under the Rialto shoot along, 
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, 

And round the theatres, a sable throng, 
They wait in their dusk livery of wo, 

But not to them do woful things belong, 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
Like mourning coaches when the funeral's done. 

XXI. 

But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago, 
It may be thirty, forty, more or less, 

The carnival was at its height, and so 
Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 

A certain lady went to see the show, 

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 

And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, 

Because it slips into my verse with ease. 

XXII. 

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
Which certain people call a " certain age" 

Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 
Because I never heard, nor could engage 

A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 
To name, define by speech, or write on page, 

The period meant precisely by that word, — 

Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 



190 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXIII. 

Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and time rcturn'd the compliment, 

And treated her genteelly, so that, drest, 
She look'd extremely well where'er she went : 

A pretty woman is a welcome guest, 

And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent, 

Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 

Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 

XXIV. 

She was a married woman ; 'tis convenient, 
Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 

To view their little slips with eyes more lenient, 
Whereas, if single ladies play the fool, 

(Unless within the period intervenient 
A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 

I don't know how they ever can get over it, • 

Except they manage never to discover it. 

XXV. 

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 

And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 

And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 
(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease,) 

His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 
For thence she could discern the ship with case : 

lie was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 

His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. 2 

XXVI. 

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt with (ravel, yet a portly figure; 

Though color'd, as it were, within a tanyard, 
He was a person both of sense and vigor — 

A better seaman never yet did man yard : 
And she, although her manners show'd no rigor, 

Was dcem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXVII. 

But several years elapsed since they had met ; 

Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
That lie had somehow blunder'd into debt, 

And did not like the thought of steering home 
And there were several offer'd any bet, 

Or that he would, or that he would not come, 
For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 

XXVIII. 

'Tis said that their last parting was pathetic, 
As partings often are, or ought to be, 

And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
That they should never more each other see, 

(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 
Which I have known occur in two or three,) 

When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 

He left his Adriatic Ariadne. 

XXIX. 

And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 

And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; 

She almost lost all appetite for victual, 

And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 

She dcem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 
Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, 

And so she thought it prudent to connect her 

With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her. 



XXX. 

She chose, (and what is there they will not choose 
If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 

Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, 
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 

A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 

A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 

And in his pleasures of great liberality. 

XXXI. 

And then he was a count, and then he knew 

Music, and dancing, fiddling, French, and Tuscan ; 

The last, not easy, be it known to you, 
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too, 

And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatura " 

XXXII. 

His "bravo " was decisive, for that sound 
Hush'd " academic " sigh'd in silent awe ; 

The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 
For fear of some false note's detected flaw ; 

The " prima donna's " tuneful heart would bound, 
Dreading the deep damnation of his "bah ! " 

Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 

Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 

XXXIII. 

He patronized the Improvisatori, 

Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 

Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
Italians can be, though in this their glory [has ; 

Must surely yield the palm to that which France 
In short, he was a perfect cavalicro, 
And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 

XXXIV. 

Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous ; 

So that no sort of female could complain, 
Although they're now and then a little clamorous, 

He never put the pretty souls in pain ; 
His heart was one of those which most enamour us, 

Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
He was a lover of the good old school, 
Who still become more constant as they cool. 

XXXV. 

No wonder such an accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady — 

With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
In law he was almost as good as dead, he • 

Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
And she had waited several years already ; 

And really if a man won't let us know 

That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,"' 

'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 
I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 

But " Cavalier Serventes " are quite common, 
And no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst), 

A second marriage which corrupts the first. 



BEPPO. 



191 



XXXVII. 

The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 
The Spaniards call the person a "Cortejo," 3 [recent; 
^?or the same mode subsists in Spain, though 
In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, 

And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 
But Heaven preserve Old England from such 

courses ! 
Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 

XXXVIII. 

However, I still think, with all due deference 
To the fair single part of the creation, 

That married ladies should preserve the preference 
In trte-a-titu or general conversation — 

And this I say without peculiar reference 
To England, France, or any other nation — 

Because they know the world, and are at ease, 

And being natural, naturally please. 

XXXIX. 

'Tis true your budding Miss is very charming, 
But shy and awkward at first coming out, 

So much alarm'd that she is quite alarming, 
All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout; 

And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in 
What you, she, it, or they may be about, 

The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 

But " Cavalier Servcnte " is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who stays 

Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only law which he obeys. 

His is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 

XLI. 

"With all its sinful doings, I must say, 

That Italy's a pleasant place to me, 
Who love to see the Sun shine every day, 

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, 

Or melodrame, which people flock to see, 
When the first act is ended by a dance 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 
I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, 

Because the skies are not the most secure ; 
I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 

Where the green alleys windingly allure, 
Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way, — 
In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 
I also like to dine on becaficas, 

To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow, 
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will break as 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 



XLIV. 
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 
And gentle liquids gliding al^o pat in, 

That not a single accent semis uncouth, 
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 
Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all 

XLV. 

Hike the women too, (forgive my folly,) 

From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 

And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 

To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 

Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 

XLVI. 

Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 

Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
Raphael, 4 who died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, 
In what he hath bequeath'd us ? — in what guise, 

Though flashing from the fervor of the lyre, 
Would words describe thy past and present glow, 
While yet Canova can create below ? * 

XLVII. 

" Engl" d ! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 

I like to speak and lucubate my fill ; 

I like the government, (but that is not it ;) 

I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 
I like the Habeas Corpus, (when we've got it ;) 

I like a parliamentary debate, 

Particularly when 'tis not too late ; 

XLVIII. 

I like the taxes, when they're not too many ; 

I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear ; 
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 

That is, I like two months of every year. 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King . 
Which means that I like all and every thirig. 

XLIX. 

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, 

Our little riots just to show we are free men, 
Our trifling bankruptcies in (lie Gazette, 

Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, 
All these I can forgive, and those forget, 

And greatly venerate our recent glories, 

And wish they were not owing the Tories. 



• Note. 

(In talking thus, the writer, more especially 

Of women, would be understood to say, 
He speaks as a spectator, not officially, 

And always, reader, in a modest way J 
Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 

Appear to have offended in this lay, 
Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 
Would seem unnni&h'd like their untrimm'd bonnets./ 

(Signed) Printer'* DtM. 



192 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 

Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, 

And, therefore, may the reader too displease — 
The gentle reader, wkmay wax unkind, 

And caring little fcWhe author's ease, 
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 

LI. 

Oh that I had the art of easy writing 
What should be easy reading ! could I scale 

Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
Those pretty poems, never known to fail, 

How quickly would I print, (the world delighting,) 
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale : 

And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, 

Some samples of the first Orientalism. 

LII. 

But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels,) 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, 

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 

I've a half mind to tumble down to prose, 

But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIII. 

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, 
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimesTlo, 

For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 
They had their little differences, too ; 

Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant : 
In such affairs there probably are few 

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 

From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

LIV. 

But on the whole, they were a happy pair, 
As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 

The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, 
Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to 
break them : 

The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 

The pious only wish'd " the devil take them ! " 

He took them not ; he very often waits, 

And leaves old sinners to be young one's baits. 

LV. 

But they were young ; Oh ! what without our youth 
Would love be ! What would youth be without love ! 

Youth lepds it joy, and sweetness, vigor, truth, 
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 

But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
"One of few things experience don't improve, 

Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 

Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LVI. 

It was the Carnival, as I have said 

Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 

Laura the usual preparations made, 
Which you do when your mind's made up to go 

To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 
Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 

The only difference known between the cases 

Is — here, we have six weeks of "varnish'd faces." 



LVII. 

Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
With all the fashions which the last month wore, 

Color'd, and silver paper leaved between 
That and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 

LVIII. 

They went to the Ridotto ; — 'tis a hall 

Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 

Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, 
But that's of no importance to my strain ; 

'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 

The company is "mix'd," (the phrase I quote is 

As much as saving, they're below your notice ;) 

LIX. 

For a " mix'd company " implies that, save 
Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 

Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 

Of public places, where they basely brave 
The fashionable stare of twenty score 

Of well-bred persons, call'd "the World;" but I 

Although I know them, really don't know why. 

LX. 

This is the case in England ; at least was 
During the dynasty of Dandies, now 

Perchance succeeded by some other class 
Of imitated imitators : — how 

Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 

The demagogues of fashion : all below 

Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 

By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 

LXI. 

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 

Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 
A blundering novice in his new French grammar; 

Good causejiad he to doubt the chance of war, 
And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her, 

Because, were I to ponder to infinity, 

The more I should believe in her divinity. 

LXII. 

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 
She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage, 

I cannot say that she's done much for me yet ; 
Nor that I mean her bounties to disparage, 

We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 
How much she'll make amends for past miscar- 
nage ; 

Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune, 

Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune. 

LXIII. 

To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it ! 

This story slips for ever through my fingers, 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 

It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
This form of verse began, I can't well break it, 

But must keep time and tune like public singers ; 
But if I once get through my present measure, 
I'll take another when I'm next at leisure. 



BEPPO. 



193 



LXIV. 

They went to the Ridotto, ('tis a place 
To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 

Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 
Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow 

Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 

May lurk beneath each mask, and as my sorrow 

Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find, 

Something shall leave it half an hour behind.) 

LXV. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being drest so ill. 

LXVI. 

One has false curls, another too much paint, 
A third — where did she buy that frightful turban ? 

A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, 
A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 

A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, 

And lo ! an eighth appears, — " I'll see no more ! " 

For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
Others were levelling their looks at her ; 

She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, 
And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir ; 

The women only thought it quite amazing 
That at her time of life so many were 

Admirers still, — but men are so debased, 

Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 

LXVIII. 
For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 

Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 
A thing which is a scandal to the land, 

I only don't see why it should be thus ; 
And if I were but in a gown and band, 

Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 

LXIX. 
While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 

Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 
So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 

Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 
And well drest males still kept before her filing, 

And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 
More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 
With pertinacity that's rather rare. 

LXX. 

He was a Turk, the color of mahogany ; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 

Although then- usage of their wives is sad ; 
'Tis said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, 
Four wives by law, and concubines " ad libitum." 
25 



LXXI. 

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, 
They scarcely can behold their male relations, 

So that then - moments do not pass so gaily 

As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 

Confinement, too, mustmakethem look quite palely . 
And as the Turks abhor long conversations, 

Their days arc either past in doing nothing, 

Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 

LXXII. 

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 

Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism. 

But luckily these beauties are no "blues," 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
" That charming passage in the last new poem." 

LXXIII. 

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
Who having angled all his life for fame, 

And getting but a nibble at a time, 
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 

Small " Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
Of mediocrity, the furious tame, 

The echo's echo, usher of the school 

Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool ! 

LXXIV. 

A stalking oracle of awful phrase, [law 

The approving "Good!" (by no means good in 

Humming like flies around the newest blaze, 
The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 

Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 
Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, 

Translating tongues he knows not even by lettei, 

And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 

LXXV. 

One hates an author that's all author, fellows 
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 

So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 

One don't know what to say to them, or think, 

Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; 
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombry e'en the pink 

Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 

These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper. 

LXXVI. 

Of these same we see several, and of others, 
Men of the world, who know the world like men, 

Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, 
Who think of something else besides the pen ; 

But for the children of the "mighty mother's," 
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 

I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 

Smug coterie, and literary lady. 

LXXVII. 

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 

And one would seem to them a new invention, 
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; 

I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill 

A missionary author, just to preach 

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 



194 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVIII. 

No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses, 
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 

No circulating library amasses 

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 

Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 
No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 

They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 

Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 

And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 

I fear I have a little turn for satire, 

And yet methinks the older that one grows 

Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter 

Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 

LXXX. 

Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, Milk and Water ! 

Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 

Abominable Man no more allays 
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 

I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
Meantime I chink to your return in brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 

Which seems to say, "Madam, I do you honor, 
And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay." 

Could staring win a woman, this had won her, 
But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 

She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 

Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

LXXXII. 

The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
A turn of time at which I would advise 

Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
In any other kind of exercise, 

To make their preparations for forsaking 
The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, 

Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 

His blushes make them look a little pale. 

LXXXIII. 
I've seen some balls and revels in my time, 

And stayed them over for some silly reason, 
And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 

To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
And though I've seen some thousands in their prime, 

Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 
I never saw but one, (the stars withdrawn,) 
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 

LXXXIV. 

The name of this Aurora I'll not mention, 
Although I might, for she was nought to me 

More than that patent work of God's invention, 
A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 

But writing names would merit reprehension, 
Yet if you like to find out this fair she, 

At the next London or Parisian ball 

You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 



LXXXV. 

Laura, who knew it would not do at all 

To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting 

Among three thousand people at a ball, 
To make her curtsey thought it right and fitting : 

The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 
And they the room were on the point of quitting, 

When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 

Just in the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVI. 

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause 
Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling, 

With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, 
They make a never intermittent bawling. 

At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 

But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, 

And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 

LXXXVII. 

The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide, 

Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside; 

Some little scandals eke : but all aghast 
(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 

Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 

When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 

LXXXYIII. 
" Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 

" Your unexpected presence here will make 
It necessary for myself to crave 

Its import ? But perhaps 'tis a mistake ; 
I hope it is so ; and at once to wave 

All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 
You understand my meaning, or you shall." 
" Sir," (quoth the Turk,) " 'tis no mhstake at all. 

LXXXIX. 

" That lady is my wife ! " Much wonder paints 
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might; 

But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
Italian females don't do so outright ; 

They only call a little on their saints, 

And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; 

Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling 
faces, 

And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 

XC. 

She said, — what could she say ? Why not a word ; 

But the Count courteously invited in 
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 

" Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss within," 
Said he ; " don't let us make ourselves absurd 

In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
For then the chief and only satisfaction 
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 

XCI. 
They enter'd, and for coffee call'd — it came, 

A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 
Although the way they make it's not the same. 

Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 
To speak, cries " Beppo ! what's your pagan name i 

Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
And how came you to keep away so long ? 
Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong ? 



NOTES TO BEPPO. 



195 



XCII. 
" And are you really, truly, now a Turk ? 

With, any other women did you wive ? 
Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 

"Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm alive ! 
You'll give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless me ! did I ever ? No, I never 
Saw a man grown so yellow ! How's your liver ? 

XCIII. 
" Beppo ! that beard of your's becomes you not ; 

It shall be shaved before you're a day older : 
Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot — 

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder ? 
How do I look ? You shan't stir from this spot 

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is! Lord! how gray it's grown!" 

XCIV. 

What answer Beppo made to these demands 
Is more than I know. He was cast away 

About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands ; 
Became a slave of course, and for his pay 

Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
Of pirates landing in a neighboring bay, 

He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 

A renegado of indifferent fame. 

xcv. 

But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
Keen the desire to see his home again, 

He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
And not be always thieving on the main ; 

Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 
And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 

Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca, 

Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 



XCVI. 

Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten) cash, 
He then embark'd with risk of life and limb, 

And got clear off, although the attempt was rash ; 
He said that Providence protected him — 

For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 
In our opinions : well, the ship was trim, 

Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 

Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 

XCVII. 
They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading, 

And self and live-stock, to another bottom, 
And pass'd for a true Turkey merchant, trading 

With goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em. 
However, he got off by this evading, 

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him ; 
And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 
His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 

XCVIII. 

His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him, 
(He made the church a present by the way ;) 

He then threw off the garments which disguised him, 
And borrow'd the Count's small-clothes for a day ; 

His friends the more for his long absence prized him, 
Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay, 

With dinn ers, where he oft became th e laugh of them, 

For stories — but I don't believe the half of them. 

XCIX. 

Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age 

With wealth and talking made him some amends ; 

Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
I've heard the Count and he were always friends. 

My pen is at the bottom of a page, 

AVhich being finish'd, here the story ends ; 

'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 

But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 



N0TES TO BEPPO. 



i. 

Like the lost Pleiad, seen no more below. 

Page 189, line 48. 
Quse septcm dici sex tamen esse solent." — Ovid. 

2. 
His name Giuseppe, called more briefly, Beppo. 
Page i90, line 24. 
Beppo is the Joe of the Italian Joseph. 
3. 
The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo." 
Page 191, iine 3. 



" Cortejo" is pronounced "CorteAo," with an aspi- 
rate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means 
what there is as yet no precise name for in England, 
though the practice is as common as in any tramon- 
tane country whatever. 

4. 
Raphael, wJio died in thy embrace. 

, Page 191, line 19. 

For the received accounts of the cause of Rapha- 
el's death, see his Lives. 



MAZEPPA. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

"Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un 
gentilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans 
lfe palatinat de Padolie ; il avait ete eleve page de 
Jean Casimir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture 
des belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa 
jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais, 
ayant etc decouverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un 
cheval farouche, et le laissa aller en cet etat. Le 
chcval, qui etait du pays de l'Ukrainc, y retourna, 
et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de 
faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent : il resta 
longtems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs 
courses contrc les Tartares. La superiorite de ses 
lumiercs lui donna une grande consideration parmi 
les Cosaques : sa reputation s'augmentant de jour en 
jour, obligea le Czar a le fairc Prince dc l'Ukraine." 
— Voltaire, Hist, de dairies XII. p. 19G. 

" Le roi fuyant et poursuivi eut son cheval tue 
sous lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout 
son sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux 
fois a cheval, dans la fuite, ce conquerant qui n'avait 
pu y monter pendant la bataillc." — Voltaire, 
Hist, de Charles XII. p. 216. 

" Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques 
cavaliers. Le carrosse, 011 il etait, rompit dans la 
marche ; on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de dis- 
grace, il s'egara pendant la nuit dans un bois; la, 
son courage ne pouvant plus suppKer a ses forces 
epuissees, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus 
insupportables par la fatigue, son cheval etant 
tombi' de lassitude, il se eoueha quelques heures au 
pied d'un arbre, en danger d'etre surpris a tout 
moment par les vainqueurs qui le ehcrchaient de 
tous c6ti's." — Voltaire, Hist, de Charles XII. 
p. 218. 



'Twas after dread Pultowa's day, 

When fortune left the royal Swede, 
Around a slaughter'd army lay, 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war, 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again, 



Until a day more dark and drear, 

And a more memorable year, 

Should give to slaughter and to shame 

A mightier host and haughtier name ; 

A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 

A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 

II. 
Such was the hazard of the die ; 
The wounded Charles was taught to fly 
By day and night through field and flood, 
Stain'dwith his own and subjects blood; 
For thousands fell that flight to aid : 
And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 
Ambition in his humbled hour, 
"When truth had nought to dread from power. 
His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
His own — and died the Russians' slave. 
This too sinks after many a league 
Of well sustained, but vain fatigue ; 
And in the depth of forests, darkling 
The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ! 
They laid him by a savage tree, 
In outworn nature's agony ; 
His wounds were stiff — his limbs were stark— 
The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid, 
And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill, 
His pangs the vassals of his will ; 
All silent and subdued were they, 
As once the nations round him lay. 

III. 

A band of chiefs ! alas ! how few, 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 
And chivalrous : upon the clay 
Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 

Beside his monarch and his steed, 
For danger levels man and brute, 

And all are fellows in their need. 



MAZEPPA. 



Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold ; 
But first, outspent with this long course, 
The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
And made for him a leafy bed, 
And smoothed his fetlocks and his name, 
And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
For until now he had the dread 
His wearied courser might refuse 
To browse beneath the midnight dews : 
But he was hardy as his lord, 
And little cared for bed and board ; 
But spirited and docile too ; 
Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 
And knew him in the midst of all ; 
Though thousands were around, — and Night, 
Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
That steed from sunset until dawn 
His chief would follow like a fawn. 

IV. 

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 

And laid his lance beneath his oak, 

Felt if his arms in order good 

The long day's march had well withstood — 

If still the powder fill'd the pan, 

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
And whether they had chafed his belt — 
And next the venerable man, 
From out his havresack and can, 

Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion ofFer'd them, 
With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
And Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there, 
To force of cheer a greater show, 
And seem above both wounds and wo ; — 
And then he said — " Of all our band, 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
Can less have said or more have done 
Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birth, 
Since Alexander's days till now, 
As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
Mazeppa answer'd — " 111 betide 
The school wherein I learn'd to ride ! " 
Quoth Charles — " Old Hetman, wherefore so, 
Since thou hast learn'd the art so well ? " 
Mazeppa said — " 'Twere long to tell : 
And we have many a league to go, 
With every now and then a blow, 
And ten to one at least the foe, 
Before our steeds may graze at ease 
Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 
And I will be the sentinel 
Of this your troop." — " But I request," 



197 



Said Sweden's monarch, " thou wilt tell 
This tale of thine, and I may reap, 
Perchance, from this the boon of sleep, 
For at this moment from my eyes 
The hope of present slumber flics." 

" Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track 
My seventy years of memory back : 
I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — 
A}', 'twas,— when Casimir was king- 
John Casimir,— I was his page 
Six summers, in my earlier age ; 
A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 
And most unlike your majesty : 
He made no wars, and did not gain 
New realms to lose them back again ; 
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) ' 
He reigned in most unseemly quiet ; 
Not that he had no cares to vex, 
He loved the muses and the sex ; 
And sometimes these so froward arc, 
They made him wish himself at war, 
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
Another mistress, or new book : 
And then he gave prodigious fetes- 
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
To gaze upon his splendid court, 
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port; 
He was the Polish Solomon, 
So sung his poets, all but one, 
Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, 
And boasted that he could not flatter. 
It was a court of jousts and mimes, 
Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
Even I for once produced some verses, 
And sign'd my odes Despairing Thirsis. 
There was a certain Palatine, 

A count of far and high descent, 
Rich as a salt or silver mine ; * 
And he was proud ye may divine, 

As if from heaven he had been sent ; 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 

As few could match beneath the throne ; 
And he would gaze upon his store, 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led, 
Which almost look'd like want of head, 
He thought their merits were his own. 
His wife was not of his opinion — 
His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 
And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 
To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
Awaited but the usual chances, 
Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender, 
To deck her Count with titles given, 
'Tis said, as passports into heaven ; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these who have deserved them most. 



"I was a goodly stripling then ; 
At seventy years I so may^ay, 



• Thii comparison of a " salt mine " may perhaps be admitted to a Pole 
i the wealth of the country consists greatly in the salt mines. 



198 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That there were few, or boys or men, 
"Who, in my dawning time of day, 
Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
Could vie in vanities with me ; 
For I had strength, youth, gayety, 
A port, not like to this ye see, 
But smooth, as all is rugged now : 

For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 
My very soul from out my brow ; 

And thus I should be disavow'd 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday ; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
With years ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
Or at this hour I should not be 
Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
With starless skies my canopy. 
But let me on : Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
The memory is so quick and warm ; 
And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well : 
She had the Asiatic eye, 

Such as our Turkish neighborhood 
Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender light, 
Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam ; 
All love, half languor, and half fire, 
Like saints that at the stake expire, 
And lift their raptured looks on high, 
As though it were a joy to die. 
A brow like a midsummer lake, 

Transparent with the sun therein, 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 
And heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 
I loved her then — I love her still ; 
And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
But still we love even in our rage, 
And haunted to our very age 
With the vain shadow of the past, 
As is Mazeppa to the last. 



VI. 

" We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 

She did not speak, and yet replied ; 

There are ten thousand tones and signs 

We hear and see, but none defines — 

Involuntary sparks of thought, 

Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought, 

And form a strange intelligence, 

Alike mysterious and intense, 

Which link the burning chain that binds, 

Without their will, young hearts and minds ; 

Conveying, as the electric wire, 

We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 

I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, 

And still reluctant distance kept, 

Until I was made*known to her, 

And we might then and there confer 

Without suspicion — then, even then, 



I long'd, and was resolved to speak ; 
But on my lips they died again, 

The accents tremulous and weak, 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish play, 

Wherewith we while away the day ; 
It is — I have forgot the name — 
And we to this, it seems, were set, 
By some strange chance, which I forget : 
I reck'd not if I won or lost, 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
The being whom I loved the most. — 
I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well !) 
Until I saw, and thus it was, 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved • 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Piay'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot. 
Then through my brain the thought did pass, 
Even as a flash of lightning there, 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair ; 
And on the thought my words broke forth. 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was little worth, 
But yet she listened — 'tis enough — 

Who listens once will listen twice ; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
And one refusal no rebuff. 

VII. 

" I loved, and was beloved again — 
They tell me, Sire, you never knew 
Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, 

I shorten all my joy or pain ; 

To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ; 

But all men are not born to reign, 

Or o'er their passions, or as you 

Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 

I am — or rather was — a prince, 
A chief of thousands, and could lead 
Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 

But could not o'er myself evince 

The like control — But to resume : 
I loved, and was beloved again ; 

In sooth, it is a happy doom, 
But yet where happiest ends in pain. — 

We met in secret, and the hour 

Which led me to that lady's bower 

Was fiery Expectation's dower. 

My days and nights were nothing — all 

Except that hour, which doth recall, 

In the long lapse from youth to age, 
No other like itself — I'd give 
The Ukraine back again to live 

It o'er once more — and be a page, 

The happy page, who was the lord 

Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 

And had no other gem nor wealth 

Save nature's gift of youth and health. — 

We met in secret — doubly sweet, 

Some say, they find it so to meet ; 

I know not that — I would have given 
My life but to have call'd her mine 

In the full view of earth and heaven ; 



MAZEPPA. 



119 



For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 

VIII. 

' ' For lovers there are many eyes, 
And such there were on us ; — the devil 
On such occasions should be civil — 
The devil ! — I'm loth to do him wrong, 

It might be some untoward saint, 
Who would not be at rest too long, 

But to his pious bile gave vent — 
But one fair night, some lurking spies 
Surprised and seized us both. 
The Count was something more than wroth : 
I was unarm'd; but if in steel, 
All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 
What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? — 
'Twas near his castle, far away 

From city or from succor near, 
And almost on the break of day ; 
I did not think to see another, 

My moments seem'd reduced to few ; 
And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two, 
As I resign'd me to my fate, 
They led me to the castle gate : 

Theresa's doom I never knew, 
Our lot was henceforth separate. — 
An angry man, ye may opine, 
Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
And he had reason good to be, 

But he was most enraged lest such 

An accident should chance to touch 
Upon his future pedigree; 
Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 
While he was highest of his line ; 

Because unto himself he seem'd 

The first of men, nor less he deem'd 
In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
'Sdeath ! with ajmc/e — perchance a king 
Had reconciled him to the thing ; 
But with a stripling of a page — 
I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 

IX. 

" ' Bring forth the horse !' — the horse was brought : 

In truth, he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 

'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane, 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of WTath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led ; 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back with many a thong ; 
Then losed him with a sudden lash- 
Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 

X. 

" Away ! — away ! — my breath was gone — 
I saw not where he hurried on : 
'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, 
And on he foani'd — away ! — away — 



The last of human sounds which rose, 

As I was darted from my foes, 

Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 

Which on the wind came roaring after 

A moment from that rabble rout : 

With sudden wrath I WTenched my head, 

And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 

Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And, writhing half my form about, 
Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
The thunder of my courser's speed, 
•Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 
I paid it well in after days : 
There is not of that castle gate, 
Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 

Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
And many a time ye there might pass, 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 
I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
Their crackling battlements all cleft, 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought that day of pain, 
When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
They bade me to destruction dash, 

That one day I should come again, 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They play'd me then a bitter prank, 

When, with the wild horse for my guide 
They bound me to his foaming fla:ik : 
At length I play'd them one as frank — 
For time at last sets all things even — 

And if we do but watch the hour, 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 

XI. 
"Away, away, my steed and I, 
Upon the pinions of the wind, 
All human dwellings left behind ; 
We sped like meteors through the sky, 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is checker'd with the northern light : 
Town — village none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent, 
And bounded by a forest black ; 

And, save the scarce seen battlement 
On distant heights of some strong hold, 
Against the Tartar's built of old, 
No trace of man, — the year before 
A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
And where the Spain's hoof hath trod 
The verdure flies the bloody sod : — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 
Aid a low breeze crept moaning by — 
I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away, away — 
And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane : 



200 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
He flew upon his far career ; 
At times I almost thought, indeed, 
He must have slacken'd in his speed ; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might, 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affright : 
I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, 
But yet he swerved as from a blow : 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er ; 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 

XII. 

" We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 

I saw no bounds on either side ; 

'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 

And strips the forest in its haste, — 

But these were few, and far between, 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 

Ere strown by those autumnal eves 

That nip the forest's foliage dead, 

Discolor'd with a lifeless red, 

Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 

Upon the slain when battle's o'er, 

And some long winter's night hath shed 

Its frost o'er every tombless head, 

So cold and stark the raven's beak 

May peck unpierced each frozen cheek ; 

'Twas a wild waste of underwood, 

And here and there a chestnut stood, 

The strong oak, and the hardy pine ! 

But far apart — and well it were, 
Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs ga . e way, and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
By night I heard them on the track, 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire : 
Where'er we flew they follow'd on, 
Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
At day-break winding through the wood, 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
At least to die amidst the horde, 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wish'd the goal already won ; 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 



Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 
Than through the forest-paths he past — 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
All furious as a favor'd child 
Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 

XIII. 

The wood was past ; 'twas more than noon, 

But chill the air, although in June ; 

Or it might be my veins ran cold — 

Prolong'd endurance tames the bold ; 

And I was then not what I seem, 

But headlong as a wintry stream, 

And wore my feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er ; 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 

The tortures which beset my path, 

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 

Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 

Sprung from a race whose rising blood 

When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 

And trodden hard upon, is like 

The rattlesnake's, in act to strike, 

What marvel if this worn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 

The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 

I seem'd to sink upon the ground 

But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 

My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, 

And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more : 

The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 

I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 

Which saw no farther : he who dies 

Can die no more than then I died. 

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 

I felt the blackness come and go, 

And strove to wake ; but could not make 
My senses climb up from below : 
I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
At the same time upheave and whelm, 
And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
My undulating life was as 
The fancied lights that flitting pass 
Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
Fever begins upon the brain ; 
But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 

But a confusion worse than such : 

I own that I should deem it much, 
Dying, to feel the same again ; 
And yet I do suppose we must 
Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
No matter ; I have bared my brow 
Full in death's face — before — and now. 

XIV. 

" My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Coll, 
And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 

Life reassumed its lingering hold, 

And throb by throb : till grown a pang 
Which for a moment would convulse, 
My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill ; 

My ear with uncouth noises rang, 
My heart began once more to thrill ; 

My sight return'd, though dim ; alas ! 



MAZEPPA. 201 


And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 


The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 


Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 


Although no goal was nearly won : 


There was a gleam too of the sky, 


Some streaks announced the coming sun- 


Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 


How slow, alas ! he came ! ■ 


The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 


Methought that mist of dawning gray 


The bright broad river's gushing tide 


Would never dapple into day ; 


Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 


How heavily it roll'd away 


And we are half-way, struggling o'er 


Before the eastern flame 


To yon unknown and silont shore. 


Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 


The waters broke my hollow trance, 


And call'd the radiance from their cars, 


And with a temporary strength 


And fill'd the earfh from his deep throne, 


My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 


With lonely lustre, all his own. 


My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 




And dashes off the ascending waves, 




And onward we advance ! 


. XVII. 


We reach the slippery shore at length, 


" Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 


A haven I but little prized, 


Back from the solitary world 


For all behind was dark and drear, 


Which lay around — behind — before ; 


And all before was night and fear. 


What booted it to traverse o'er 


How many hours of night or day 


Plain, forest, river ! Man nor brute, 


In those suspended pangs I lay, 


Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 


I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 


Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 


If this were human breath I drew. 


No sign of travel — none of toil ; 




The very ah was mute ; 




And not an insect's shrill small horn, 


XV. 


Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 


" "With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 


From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 


And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 


Panting as if his heart would burst, 


The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 


The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 


Up the repelling bank. 


And still we were — or seem'd — alone : 


We gain the top : a boundless plain 


At length, while reeling on our way, 


Spreads through the shadow of the night, 


Methought I heard a courser neigh, 


And onward, onward, onward, seems, 


From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 


Like precipices in our dreams, 


Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 


To stretch beyond the sight ; 


No, no ! from out the forest prance 


And here and there a speck of white, 


A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 


Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, 


In one vast squadron they advance ! 


In masses broke into the light, 


I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 


As rose the moon upon my right. 


The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 


But nought distinctly seen 


But where are they the reins to guide ? 


In the dim waste would indicate 


A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 


The omen of a cottage gate ; 


With flowing*tail, and flying mane, 


No twinkling taper from afar 


Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain, 


Stood like a hospitable star ; 


Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 


Not even an ignis fatuils rose 


And feet that iron never shod, 


To make him merry with my woes : 


And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 


That very cheat had cheer'd me then ! 


A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 


Although detected, welcome still, 


Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 


Reminding me, through every ill, 


Came thickly thundering on, 


Of the abodes of men. 


As if our faint approach to meet ; 




The sight renerved my courser's feet, 




A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 


XVI. 


A moment, with a faint low neigh, 


** Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 


He answer'd, and then fell ; 


His savage force at length o'erspent, 


With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 


The drooping courser, faint and low, 


And reeking limbs immoveable, 


All feebly foaming went. 


His first and last career is done ! 


A sickly infant had had power 


On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 


To guide him forward in that hour ; 


They saw me strangely bound along 


But useless all to me. 


His back with many a bloody thong ; 


His new-born tameness nought avail'd, 


They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 


My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 


Gallop a moment here and there, 


Perchance, had they been free. 


Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 


With feeble effort still I tried 


Then plunging back with sudden bound, 


To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 


Headed by one black mighty steed, 


But still it was in vain ; 


Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, • 


My limbs were only wrung the more, 


Without a single speck or hair 


And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 


Of white upon his shaggy hide; 


Which but prolong'd their pain : 
26 


They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside, 



202 



BYRON'S WOBKS. 



And backward to the forest fly, 
By instinct, from a human eye. — 
They left me there, to my despair, 
Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
Believed from that unwonted weight, 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay, 

The dying on the dead ! 
I little deem'd another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 

" And there from morn till twilight bound, 

I felt the heavy hours toil round, 

With just enough of life to see 

My last of suns go down on me, 

In hopeless certainty of mind, 

That makes us feel at length resign'd 

To that which our foreboding years 

Presents the worst and last of fears 

Inevitable — even a boon, 

Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 

Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, 

As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape: 
At times both wish'd for and implored, 
At times sought with self-pointed sword, 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no shape. 
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
They who have revell'd beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
Whose heritage was misery : 
For he who hath in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new, 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave ; 
And, save the future, (which is view'd 
Not quite as men are base or good, 
But as their nerves may be endued,) 

With nought perhaps to grieve : — 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, to his distemper'd eyes, 
Arrived to rob him of his prize, 
The tree of his new paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all, 
Bepaidhis pangs, repair'd his fall ; 
To-morrow would have been the first 
Of days no more deplored or curst, 
But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 
Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
To -morrow would have given him power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave ? 

XVIII. 
"The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chain'd to tr*£ chill and stiffening steed, 
I thought to mingle there our clay ; 

And my dim eyes of death had need, 

No hope arose of being freed : 
I cast my last looks up the sky, 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly, 
Who scarce could wait till both should die, 

Ere his repast begun ; 



He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before ; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
And once so near me he alit 

I could have smote, but lack'd the strength; 
But the slight motion of my hand, 
And feeble scratching of the sand, 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise 
Which scarcely could be called a voice, 

Together scared him off at length. — 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
And went and came with wandering beam, 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense, 
And then subsiding back to death, 
And then again a little breath, 
A little thrill, a short suspense, 

An icy sickness curdling o'er 
My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain — 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
A sigh, and nothing more. 

XIX. 

" I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see ? 
A human face look down on me ? 
And doth a roof above me close ? 
Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
And is it mortal yon bright eye, 
That watches me with gentle glance ? 

I closed my own again once more, 
As doubtful that the former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 
A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 
The sparkle of her eye I caught, 
Even with my first return of thought, 
For ever and anon she threw 

A prying, pitying glance on me 

With her black eyes so wild and free : 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I lived, and was released 
From adding to the vulture's feast : 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unsealed, 
She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 

But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 

With lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yet to break 
The silence, till my strength should be 
Enough to leave my accents free ; 
And then her hand on mine she laid, 
And smooth'd the pillow for my head, 
And stole along on tiptoe tread, 

And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
Even music follow'd her light feet ; — 

But those she call'd were not awake, 
And she went forth ; but, ere she pass'd, 
Another look on me she cast, 

Another sign she made, to say, 
That I had nought to, fear, that all 
Were near, at my command or call, 

And she would not delay 
Her due return : — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 



THE ISLAND 



203 



XX. 

«' She came with mother and with sire — 
What need of more ? — I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest, 
Since I became the Cossack's guest ; 
They found me senseless on the plain — 

They bore me to the nearest hut — 
They brought me into life again — 
Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain, 

Sent me forth to the wilderness, 
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
To pass the desert to a throne, — 

What mortal his own doom may guess ? 

Let none despond, let none despair ! 



To-morrow the Borysthenes 
May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely There. 
Comrades, good night ! "—The Hetman threw 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where : 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep, 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wondered not, — 

The king had been an hour asleep 



THE ISLAND; 



CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The foundation of the following story will be 
found partly in the account of the mutiny of the 
Bounty in the South Seas, (in 1789,) and partly in 
" Mariner's account of the Tonga Isla?uls." 



CANTO I. 



The morning watch was come ; the vessel lay 
Her course, and gently made her liquid way ; 
The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow 
In furrows form'd by that majestic plough ; 
The waters with their world were all before — 
Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore. 
The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 



The sail resumed its lately shadow'd white, 
And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight ; 
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun, 
But ere he break — a deed is to be done. 

II. 
The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
Secure in those by whom the watch was kept: 
His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, 
Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er ; 
His name was added to the glorious roll 
Of those who search the storm-surrounded Pole. 
The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure, 
And why should not his slumber be secure ? 
Alas ! his deck was trod by unwilling feet, 
And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet ; 
Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle, 
Where summer years and summer women smile ; 
Men without country, who, too long estranged, 
Had found no native home, or found it changed, 
And, half uncivilized, preferr'd the cave 
Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave — 
The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd ; 
The wood without a path but where they will'd ; 



204 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The field o'er which promiscuous plenty pour'd 

Her horn ; the equal land without a lord ; 

The wish — which ages have not yet subdued 

In man — to have no master save his mood : 

The earth, whose^nine was on its face, unsold, 

The glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 

The freedom which can call each grot a home ; 

The general garden, where all steps may roam, 

Where Nature owns a nation as her child, 

Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild; 

Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know ; 

Their unexploring navy, the canoe ; 

Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase ; 

Their strangest sight, an European face : — 

Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd 

To see again ; a sight they dearly earn'd. 

Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate, 

Awake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. 
Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast ; 
Tke hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest ; 
Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 
The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand ; 
That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
Its desperate escape from duty's path, 
Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes 
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice : 
For ne'er cau man his conscience all assuage, 
Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 



IV. 

In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, 
Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath ; 
They come not ; they are few, and, over-awed, 
Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud, 
In vain thou dost demand the cause : a curse 
Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 
Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, 
Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid, 
The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 
In hands as steeled to do the deadly rest. 
Thou darest them to the worst, exclaiming- 

"Fire !" 
But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 
Some lurking remnant of their former awe 
Restrain'd them longer than their broken law; 
They would not dip their souls at once in blood, 
But left thee to the mercies of the flood. 



" Hoist out the boat ! " was now the leader's cry ; 

And who dare answer " No ! " to Mutiny, 

In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 

The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power ? 

The boat is lower' d with all the haste of hate, 

With its slight plank between thee and thy fate ; 

Her ony cargo such a scant supply 

As promises the death then - hands deny ; 

And just enough of water and of bread 

To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 

Some cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and twine, 

But treasures all to hermits of the brine, 

Were added after, to the earnest prayer 

Of those who saw no hope, save sea and air ; 

And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole — 

The feeling compass — Navigation's soul. 



VI. 



And now the self-elected chief finds time 

To stun the first sensation of his crime, 

And raise it in his followers — " Ho ! the bowl; 

Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 

" Brandy for heroes ! " Burke could once exclaim — 

No doubt a liquid path to epic fame ; 

And such the new-born heroes found it here, 

And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer. 

" Huzza for Otaheite ! " was the cry, 

How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny. 

The gentle island, and the genial soil, 

The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil, 

The courteous manners but from nature caught, 

The wealth unhoarded and the love unbought ; 

Could these have charms for rudest seaboys, driven 

Before the mast by every wind of heaven ? 

And now, even now prepared with other's woes 

To earn mild virtue's vain desire, repose ? 

Alas ! such is our nature ! all but aim 

At the same end by pathways not the same , 

Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, 

Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame, 

Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 

Than aught we know beyond our little day. 

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, 

Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din 1 

Whatever creed he taught or land he trod, 

Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 

VII. 

The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew : 
But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes : 
While others scoff 'd his augur'd miseries, 
Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail 
And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 
The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, 
The seaborn sailor of his shell canoe, 
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea, 
Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 
He, when the lightning-wing'd tornadoes sweep 
The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 
And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 

VIII. 

When all was now prepared, the vessel clear 
Which hail'd her master in the mutineer — 
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
Show'd the vain pity which but irritates ; 
Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye, 
And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ; 
Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, 
Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth. 
But soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn, 
Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy 
His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, 
And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is death ! " 
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
In that last moment could a word recall 
Remorse for the black deed as yet half done. 
And what he hid from many show'd to one : 



THE ISLAND. 



205 



When Bligh in stern reproach demanded where 
Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, 
And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher ? 
His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
" Tis that ! 'tis that ! I am in hell ! in hell ! " 
No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
His chief, commits him to his fragile ark, 
These the sole accents from his tongue that fell, 
But -volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 

• IX 

The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 

The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave : 

As on the jEolian harp, his fitful wings 

Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 

With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff 

Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, 

Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 

That boat and ship shall never meet again ! 

But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief, 

Their constant peril and their scant relief; 

Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; 

Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain ; 

The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 

Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 

The ills that lessen'd still their little store, 

And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more ; 

The varying frowns and favors of the deep, 

That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 

With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 

The tide that yields reluctant to the strong ; 

The incessant fever of that arid thirst 

Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 

Above their naked bones, and feels delight 

In the cold drenching of the stormy night, 

And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings 

A drop to moisten life's all gasping springs ; 

The savage foe escaped, to seek agaiii 

More hospitable shelter from the main ; 

The ghastly spectres which were dooni'd at last, 

To tell as true a tale of dangers past, 

As ever the dark annals of the deep 

Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 



We leave them to their fate, but not unknown 

Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own : 

Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 

And injured navies urge their broken laws. 

Pursue we on his track the mutineer, 

Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. 

Wide o'er the wave — away ! away ! away ! 

Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay ; 

Once more the happy shores without a law 

Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw ; 

Nature, and Nature's goddess — woman — woos 

To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse ; 

Where all partake the earth without dispute, 

And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit : * 

Where none contest the fields, the woods, the 

streams : 
The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, 
Inhabits or inhabited the shore, 
Till Europe taught them better than before ; 



* The now celebrated bread-fruit, to transplant which Captain Bligh's 
expedition was undertaken. 



Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 
But left her vices also to their heirs. . 
Away with this ! behold them as they were, 
Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 
" Huzza ! for Otaheite ! " was the cry, 
As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
The breeze springs up ; the lately flapping sail 
Extends its arch before the growing gale ; 
In swifter ripples stream aside the seas, 
Which her bold bow flings off with dashing ease, 
Thus Argo plough'd the Euxine's virgin foam; 
But those she wafted still look back to home — 
These spurn their country with their rebel bark, 
And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 
And yet they seek to nestle with the dove, 
And tame their fiery spirits down to love. 



CANTO II. 



How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,* 

When summer's sun went down the coral bay ! 

Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, 

And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said : 

The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 

Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 

We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, 

For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head ; 

And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 

The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, 

The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 

Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 

Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 

Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, 

Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. 

How beautiful are these ! how happy they, 

Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives, 

Steal to look down where nought but ocean strives 

Even he ton loves at times the blue lagoon, 

And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the moon. 

II. 

Yes — from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers, 

Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers, 

Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, 

Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, 

And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 

Anoint our bodies with the fragant oil, 

And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave, 

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. 

But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us back, 

The sound of mats are heard along our track ; 

Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 

In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; 

And we too will be there ; we too recall 

The memory bright with many a festival, 

Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 

For the first time were wafted in canoes. 

Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds ; 

Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds : 



* The first three sections are taken from an actual song of the Tonge 
Islanders, of which a prose translation is given in " Mariners Account of the 
Tongo Islands." Toobonai is not however one of them ; but was one o! 
those where Cliristian and the mutineers took refuge. I have altered and 
added, but have retained as much as possible of the original. 



206 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown, 
Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 
But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 
The club and rain our arrows o'er the field : 
Now let them reap the harvest of their art ! 
But feast to-night ! to-morrow we depart. 
Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl fill high ! 
Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 
In summer garments be our limbs array'd ; 
Around our waists the tappa's white display'rl ; 
Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like spring's. 
And round our necks shall glance thehooni strings : 
So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 
Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 

III. 

But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile ; 
Ah, pause ! nor yet put out the social smile. 
To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, 
But to-night — to-night is for the heart. 
Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo, 
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 
How lovely are your forms ! how every sense 
Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense, 
Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep, 
Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep !— 
We too will see Licoo ; but — oh ! my heart ! — 
What do I say ? — to-morrow we depart ! 

IV. 

Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
True, they had vices — such are nature's growth — 
But only the barbarian's — we have both : 
The sordor of civilization, mix'd 
With all the savage which man's fall hath fix'd. 
Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign, 
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain ? 
Who such would see may from his lattice view 
The Old World more degraded than the New, 
Now new no more, save where Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wav^ 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 



Such was this ditty of tradition's days, 
Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 
In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 
Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine ; 
Which leaves no record to the skeptic eye, 
But yields young history all to harmony ; 
A boy Achilles, with the centaur's lyre 
In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. 
For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave 
Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave, 
Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 
Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide, 
Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 
Than all the columns Conquest's minions rear : 
Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
For sage's labors or the student's dream ; 
Attracts, when history's volumes are a toil, — 
The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. 
Such was this rude rhyme — rhyme is of the rude- 
But such inspired the Norseman's solitude, 
Who came and cor.quer'd ; such, wherever rise 
Lands where no foes destroy or civilize, 



Exist : and what can our accomplish'd art 

Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart ? 



VI. 

And sweetly now those untaught melodies 

Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, 

The sweet siesta of a summer day, 

The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 

When every flower was bloom, and air was balm, 

And the first breath began to stir the palm, 

The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 

All gently to refresh the thirsty rave, 

Where sat the songstress with the stranger boy, 

Who taught her passion's desolating joy, 

Too powerful over every heart, but most 

O'er those who know not how it may be lost ; 

O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire, 

Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 

With such devotion to their ecstacy, 

That life knows no such rapture as to die : 

And die they do ; for earthly life has nought 

Match'd with that burst of nature, even in thoughtj 

And all our dreams of better life above 

But close in one eternal gush of love. 

VII. 

There sat the gentle savage of the wild, 

In growth a woman, thoiigh in years a child, 

As childhood dates within our colder clime, 

Where nought is ripen'd rapidly save crime ; 

The infant of an infant world, as pure 

From nature — lovely, warm, and premature ; 

Dusky like night, but night with all her stars ; 

Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 

With eyes that were a language and a spell, 

A form like Aphrodite's in her shell, 

With all her loves around her on the deep, 

Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep ; 

Yet full of life — for through her tropic cheek 

The blush would make its way, and all but speak; 

The sun-born blood suffused her neck and threw 

O'er her clear nutbrown skin a lucid hue, 

Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave 

Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 

Such was this daughter of the southern seas, 

Herself a billow in her energies, 

To bear the bark of others' happiness, 

Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less : 

Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew 

No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 

Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose 

Sad proof reduces all things from their hues : 

She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, 

Or what she knew was soon — too soon — forgot : 

Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass 

O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, 

Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from the 

hill, 
Restore their surface, in itself so still, 
Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave, 
Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, 
And crush the living waters to a mass, 
The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 
And must their fate be hers ? The eternal change 
But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 
And they who fall but fell as worlds will fall, 
To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 



THE ISLAND. 



207 



VIII. 



And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern child 

Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild; 

The fair-hair'd offspring of the Hebrides, 

"Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas ; 

Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind, 

The tempest-born in body and in mind, 

His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam, 

Had from that moment deem'd the deep his home, 

The giant comrade of his pensive moods, 

The sharer of his craggy solitudes, 

The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 

His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and air ; 

A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, 

Nurs'd by the legends of his land's romance ; 

Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear, 

Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 

Plac'd in the Arab's clime, he would have been 

As bold a rover as the sands have seen, 

And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 

As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship ; * 

Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique; 

On Hellas' mountains a rebellious Greek ; 

Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 

Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 

For the same soul that rends its path to sway, 

If rear'd to such, can find no further prey 

Beyond itself, and must retrace its way, f 

Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 

Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame, 

A humbler state and discipline of heart 

Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart ; J 

But grant his vices, grant them all his own, 

How small their theatre without a throne ! 

IX. 
Thou smilest ; — these comparisons seem high 
To those who scan all things with dazzled eye ; 
Link'd with the unknown name of one whose doom 
Has nought to do with glory or with Rome, 
With Chili, Hellas, or with Araby ;— 
Thou smilest ? — Smile ; 'tis better thus than sigh ; 
Yet such he might have been ; he was a man, 
A soaring spirit, ever in the van, 
A patriot hero or despotic chief, 
To form a nation's glory or its grief, 
Born under auspices which make us more 
Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 
But these are visions ; say, what was he here ? 
A blooming boy, a truant mutineer, 
The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 
The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 

X. 

By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters, — 
Neuha, the sunflower of the island daughters, 
Highborn, (a birth at which the herald smiles, 
Without a scutcheon for these secret isles,) 



• The " ship of the desert " Is the Oriental figure for the camel or drom- 
edary : and they deserve the metaphor well, the former for his endurance, 
the latter for his swiftness. 

| " Lucullus, when frugality could charm, 
Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm."— Pope. 

% The consul Nero, who made the unequal match which deceived Hanni- 
bal, and defeated Asdrubcd; thereby accomplishing an achievement almost 
unrivalled in military annals. The first intelligence of his return, to Hanni- 
bal, was the sight ol Asdrubal's head thrown into his camp. When Hannibal 
saw this, he exclaimed with a sigh, that " Rome would now be the mistress 
of the world." And yet to this victory of Nero's it might be owing that his 
imperial namesake reigned at all. But the infamy of the one has eclipsed the 
glory of the other. When the name of " Nero " is heard, who thinks of the 
consul i — but such are human tilings. 



Of a long race, the valiant and the free, 

The naked knights of savage chivalry, 

Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore ; 

And thine — I've seen — Achilles ! do no more. 

She, when the thunder-bearing strangers came, 

In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 

Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm, 

Seem'd rooted in the deep amid its calm ; 

But when the winds awaken'd, shot forth wings 

Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 

And sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, 

Making the very billows look less^ree ; 

She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 

Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow, 

Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge, 

Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge, 

And gazed and wonder'd at the giant bulk, 

Which heaved from wave to wave its trembling hulk ; 

The anchor dropp'd ; it lay along the deep, 

Like a huge lion in the sun asleep, 

While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain, 

Like summer bees that hum around his mane. 

XL 

The white man landed ! — need the rest be told ? 
The New "World stretch'd its dusk hand to the Old ; 
Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
Of wonder wa'rm'd to better sympathy. 
Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires, 
And kinder still their daughters' gentler fires. 
Their union grew : the children of the storm 
Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form ; 
While these in turn admired the paler glow, 
Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no snow, 
The chase, the race, the liberty to roam, 
The soil where every cottage show'd a home ; 
The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoe, 
Which stemm'd the studded archipelago, 
O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 
The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils ; 
The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods, 
Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, 
While eagles scarce build higher than the crest 
Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast ; 
The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, 
Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit ; 
The bread-tree, which, without the ploughahar«j 

yields 
The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields, 
And bakes its unadulterated loaves 
Without a furnace in unpurchased groves, 
And flings off famine from its fertile breast, 
A priceless market for the gathering guest ; 
These, with the luxuries of seas and woods, 
The airy joys of social solitudes, 
Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies 
Of those who were more happy, if less wise, 
Did more than Europe's discipline had done, 
And civilized civilization's son ! 

XII. 

Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 
Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair ; 
Both children of the isles, though distant far; 
Born both beneath a sea-presiding star ; 
Both nourish'd amid nature's native scenes, 
Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 
Between us and our childhood's sympathy, 
Which still reverts to what first caught the eye 



208 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue 
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, 
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
Long have I roam'd through lands which are not 

mine, 
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 
Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep : 
But 'twas not all long ages lore, nor all 
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall. 
The infant rapture still survived the boy, 
And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,* 
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, 
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 
Forgive me, Homer's universal shade ! 
Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy stray'd ; 
The north and nature taught me to adore 
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before. 

XIII. 

The love which maketh all things fond and fair, 

The youth which makes one rainbow of the air, 

The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 

The pause in which he ceases to destroy, 

The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 

Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, 

United the half savage and the whole, 

The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 

No more the thundering memory of the fight 

Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight ; 

No more the irksome restlessness of rest 

Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest, 

Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 

Darts for a victim over all the sky ; 

His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 

At once Elysian and effeminate, 

Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn : — 

These wither when for aught save blood they burn ; 

Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid, 

Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 

Had Caesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 

Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 

And what have Caesar's deeds and Caesar's fame 

Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame : 

The gory sanction of his glory stains 

The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 

Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 

Roused millions do what single Brutus did — 

Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 

From the tall bough where they have perch'd so 

long,— 
Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls, 
And take for falcons those ignoble fowls, 
WV>en but a word of freedom would dispel 
These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 



XIV. 

Rapt in the fond forgetfulness ef life, 
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife, 



* When very young, about eight years of age, after an attack of the 
scarlet fever at Aberdeen, 1 was removed by medical advice into the High- 
lands. Here I passed occasionally some summers, and from this period 1 
date my love of mountainous countries. I can never forget the efl'ect, a few 
years afterwards in England, of the only tiling I had long seen, even in 
miniature, of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. After I returned to Chel- 
tenham, I rsed to watcli them every afternoon, at sunset, with a sensation 
which 1 cannot describe. This was boyish enough ; but I was then only tiiir- 
leon years of age, and it was in the holidays. 



With no distracting world to call her un 
From love ; with no society to scoff 
At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 
Of coxcombry in admiration loud, 
Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
Her duty, and her glory, and her joy ■ 
With faith and feelings naked as her form, 
She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm, 
Changing its hues with bright variety, 
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
Howe'er its arch may swell, its colors move, 
The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 

XV. 

Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore, 
They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er; 
Nor long the hours— they never pass'd o'er time, 
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime, 
Which deals the daily pittance of our span, 
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man, 
What deem'd they of the future or the past ? 
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast : 
Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide 
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide ; 
Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tow'r ; 
They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour ; 
The nightingale, their only vesper-bell, 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ; * 
The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep 
As in the north he mellows o'er the deep, 
But fiery, and fierce, as if he left 
The world for ever, earth of light bereft, 
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave 
As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
Then rose they, looking first along the skies, 
And then for light into each other's eyes, 
Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun, 
And asking if indeed the day were done. 

XVI. 

And let not this seem strange : the devotee 

Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 

Around him days and worlds are heedless driven, 

His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 

Is love less potent ? No — his path is trod, 

Alike uplifted gloriously to God ; 

Or link'd to all we know of heaven below, 

Th.e other better self, whose joy or wo 

Is more than ours ; the all-absorbing flame 

Which, kindled by another, grows the same, 

Wrapp'd in one blaze ; the pure, yet funeral pile, 

Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile. 

How often we forget all time, when lone, 

Admiring Nature's universal throne, 

Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 

Reply of hers to our intelligence ! 

Live not the stars and mountains ? Arc the waves 

Without a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 

Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 

No, no ; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres, 

Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 

Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore, 

Strip oft' this fond and false identity ! — 

Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky ? 

And who, though gazing lower, ever thought, 

In the young moments ere the heart is taught 



The now well-known story of the lovee of the nightingale and rose need 
not be more than alluded to, being sufficiently familiar to the western aa to 
the eastern reader. 



THE ISLAND. 



209 



Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own ? 
All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 

XVII. 
Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's hour 
Come sad and softly to their rocky bower, 
Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
Echoed their dim light to the mustering stars. 
Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm, 
Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm ; 
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
Lovely as Love — the spirit ! — when serene. 
The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell, 
Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell,* 
As, far divided from his parent deep, 
The sea-born infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
For the broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
The tropic bird wheel'd rock-ward to his nest, 
And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 

XVIII. 
But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice ! 
Not such as would have fceen a lover's choice, 
In such an hour, to break the air so still ; 
No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill, 
Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 
Those best and earliest lyres of harmony, 
With Echo for their chorus; nor the alarm 
Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm ; 
Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, 
Exhaling all his solitary soul, 
The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite, 
Who peals his dreary pa?an o'er the night ; — 
But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 
As ever started through a sea-bird's bill ; 
And then a pause, and then a hoarse " Hillo ! 
Torquil! my boy ! what cheer ? Ho! brother, ho!" 
" Who hails ? " cried Torquil, following with his eye 
The sound. " Here's one," was all the brief reply. 

XIX. 

But here the herald of the self-same mouth 

Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 

Not like a "bed of violets " on the gale, 

But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale, 

Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 

Its gentle odors over either zone, 

And puff'd where'er winds rise or waters roll, 

Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 

Opposed its vapor as the lightning flash'd, 

A.nd reek'd, 'mid mountain billows unabash'd, 

To .ZEolus a constant sacrifice, 

Through every change of all the varying skies. 

And what was he who bore it ? — I may err, 

Cut deem him sailor or philosopher. f 



* If the reader will apply to his ear the sea-shell on his chimney-piece, he 
will be aware of what is alluded to. If the text should appear obscure, he 
•■rill find in " Gebir," the same idea better expressed in two lines. — The poem 
I never read, but have heard die lines quoted by a more recondite reader — 
who seems to be of a different opinion from the editor of the Quarterly 
Review, who qualified it, in his answer to the Critical Reviewer of his 
Juvenal, as trash of the worst and most insane description. It is to Mr. 
Laudor, the audior, of "Gebir," so qualified, and of some Latin poems, 
which vie with Martial or Catullus in obscenity, that ibe immaculate Mr. 
South) y addresses his declamation against impurity ! 

t Hobbe, the father of Locke's and other philosophy, wni an inveterate 
imoker, — even to pipes beyond computation. 



Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 
Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest ; 
Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 
His hours, and rivals opium and his brides ; 
Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, 
Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand ; 
Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, 
When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe ; 
Like other charmers, wooing the caress 
More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 
Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar ! 

XX. 

Through the approaching darkness of the wood 
A human figure broke the solitude, 
Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
Such as appears to rise out from the deep, 
When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep, 
And the rough saturnalia of the tar 
Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car; * 
And pleased the god of ocean sees his name 
Revive once more, though but in mimic game 
Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
Undreamt of in his native Cyclades ; 
Still the old god delights, from out the main, 
To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 
Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, 
His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim, 
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, 
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state ; 
But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
Not over-tightly bound, nor nicely spread ; 
And stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
For even the mildest woods will have their thorn) 
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
Now served for inexpressibles and hat ; 
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face, 
Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth, 
Which two worlds bless for civilizing both ; 
The musket swung behind his shoulders broad 
And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode, 
But brawny as the boar's ; and hung beneath, 
His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath, 
Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoff, 
Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off;) 
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust, 
Completed his accoutrements, as Night 
Survey'd him in his garb hetcroclite. 

XXI. 

" What cheer, Ben Bunting ? " cried (when in full 

view 
Our new acquaintance) Torquil, "Aught of new ? " 
" Ey, ey ! " quoth Ben, "not new, but news enow ; 
A strange sail in the offing." — " Sail ! and how ? 
What ! could you make her out ? It cannot be, 
I've seen no rag of canvas on the sea." 
" Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the bay, 
But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd to-day, 
I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 
Was light and baffling." — " When the sun declined 



27 



Tliis rough but jovial ceremony, nsed in crossing' the Hue, has been ~»o 
often and so well described, that it need not be more than alluded to. 



210 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Where lay she ? had she anchor'd ? " — " No, but still 

She bore down on us, till the wind grew still." 

" Her flag ? " — " I had ho glass ; but fore and aft, 

Egad ! she seemed a wicked-looking craft." 

" Arm'd ? " — " I expect so ; — sent on the look-out : 

'Tis time, belike, to put our helm about." 

" About ? — Whate'er may have us now in chase, 

We'll make no running-fight, for that were base, 

We will die at our quarters, like true men." 

" Ey, ey ! for that 'tis all the same to Ben." 

" Does Christian know this ? " — "Ay ; he has piped 

all hands 
To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
Of arms ; and we have got some guns to bear, 
And scaled them. You are wanted." — " That's but 

fair; 
And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
My Neuha ! ah ! and must my fate pursue 
Not me alone, but one so sweet and true ? 
But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha ! now 
Unman me not ; the hour will not allow 
A tear ; I am thine whatever intervenes ! " 
'Right," quoth Ben, " that will do for themarines."* 



CANTO III. 



The fight was o'er ; the flashing through the gloom, 
Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, 
Had ceased ; and sulphury vapors upward driven 
Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven : 
The rattling roar which rung in every volley 
Had left the echoes to their melancholy ; 
No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for boom ; 
The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom ; 
The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or ta'en, 
Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. 
Few, few escaped, and those were hunted o'er 
The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 
No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth, 
Once renegades to that which gave them birth ; 
Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the 

wild, 
As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 
But vainly wolves and lions seek their den, 
And still more vainly men escape from men. 

II. 
Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 
Far over ocean in his fiercest moods, 
When scaling his enormous crag the wave 
Is hurl'd down headlong, like the foremost brave,. 
And falls back on the foaming crowd behind, 
Which fight beneath the banners of the wind, 
But now at rest, a little remnant drew 
Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few, 
But still their weapons in their hands, and still 
With something of the pride of former will, 
As men not all unused to meditate, 
And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 



* " That will do for the marines, but the sailors won't believe it," is as old 
Baying; ; and one of the few fragments of former jealousies which still survive 
(in jest only) between these gallant services. 



Their present lot was what they had foreseen, 
And dared as what was likely to have been ; 
Yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their lo 
Not pardon'd, but unsought for or forgot, 
Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 
Might still be miss'd amid the world of waves, 
Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what they 

saw 
And felt, the vengeance of their country's law. 
Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise, 
No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 
Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown 
Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alone. 
Proscribed even in their second country, they 
Were lost ; in vain the world before them lay , 
All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies 
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 
But what avail'd the club, and spear, and arm 
Of Hercules against the sulphury charm, 
The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
The warrior ere his strength could be employ'd ? 
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave 
No less of human bravery than the brave ! * 
Their own scant numbers acted all the few 
Against the many oft will dare and do ; 
But though the choice seems native to die free, 
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae 
Till now, when she has forged her broken chain 
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again ! 

III. 
Beside the jutting rock the few appear*d, 
Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd ; 
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 
But still the hunter's blood was on their horn, 
A little stream came tumbling from the height, 
And straggling into ocean as it might, 
Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray, 
And gush'd from cliff to crag with saltless spray ; 
Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 
And fresh as innocence, and more secure, 
Its silver torrent glittcr'd o'er the deep, 
As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 
While far below the vast and sullen swell 
Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell : 
To this young spring they rush'd,— all feelings first 
Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst, — 
Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw 
Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 
Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory 

stains 
From wounds whose only bandage might be chains ; 
Then, when their drought was quen^i'd, look'd sadly 

round, 
As wondering how so many still were found 
Alive and fetterless : — but silent all, 
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
On him for language which his lips denied, 
As though their voices with their cause had died. 

IV. 

Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, 
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless, hue once spread 
Along his cheek was livid now as lead ; 



• Archidamus, king of Sparta, and son of Agesilaus, when he saw a 
machine Invented for the casting of stones and darts, exclaimed that it was 
the " grave of valor." The same story has been told of some knights on die 
fust applicatibn of gunpowder J but the original anecdote is in Plutarch. 



THE ISLAND. 



211 



His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow, 
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow, 
Still as a statue, with his lips comprest 
To stifle even the breath within his breast, 
Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute, 
He stood ; and, save a slight beat of his foot, 
Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 
Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flint. 
Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head 
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, — 
Not mortally — his worst wound was within : 
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, 
And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 
Show'd that his faintness came not from despair, 
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another*, 
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 
Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe, 
And bind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe, 
A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights. 
The fourth and last of this deserted group 
Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, then 

stoop 
To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 
Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 
Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 
And then his former movements would redouble, 
With something between carelessness and trouble : 
This is a long description, but applies 
To scarce five minutes pass'd before the eyes ; 
But yet ichat minutes ! Moments like to these 
Rend men's lives into immortalities. 



At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man, 
Who fiutter'd over all things like a fan, 
More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 
And die at once than wrestle with despair, 
Exclaim'd "G — d Damn!" — those syllables in- 
tense, — 
Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 
As the Turk's " Allah " or the Roman's more 
Pagan " Proh Jupiter ! " was wont of yore 
To give their first impressions such a vent, 
By way of echo to embarrassment. 
Jack was embarrass'd, never hero more, 
And as he knew not what to say, he swore ; 
Nor swore in vain ; the long congenial sound 
Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound : 
He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full wise, 
But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 
Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete, 
A peroration I need not repeat. 

VI. 

But Christian, of a higher order, stood 

Like an extinct volcano in his mood ; 

Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 

Of passion reeking from his clouded face ; 

Till lifting up again his sombre eye, 

It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by. 

"And is it thus," he cried, " unhappy boy ! 

And thee, too, thee — my madness must destroy ! " 

He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood, 

Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood ; 

Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 

And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 



Inquired into his state ; and when he heard 

The wound was slighter than he deem'd or fear'd, 

A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow, 

As much as such a moment would allow. 

"Yes," he exclaim'd, " we are taken in the toil, 

But not a coward or a common spoil ; 

Dearly they have bought us — dearly still may buy,— < 

And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly ? 

'Twould be some comfort still, could you survive; 

Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 

Oh ! for a sole canoe ! though but a shell, 

To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell ' 

For me, my lot is what I sought ; to be, 

In life or death, the fearless and the free." 

VII. 

Even as he spoke, around the promontory, 
Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary, 
A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew 
Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew ; 
Onward it came — and, lo ! a second follow'd — 
Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale was hol- 

low'd ; 
And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 
Presented well-known aspects to the view, 
Till on the surf their skimming paddles play, 
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray; — 
Now perching on the wave's high curl, and now 
Dash'd downward in the thundering foam below, 
Which flings its broad and boiling sheet on sheet, 
And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet : 
But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh 
The barks, like small birds through a lowering sky. 
Their art seem'd nature — such the skill to sweep 
The wave of these born playmates of the deep. 

VIII. 

And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
Leap'd like a nereid from her shell to land, 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy ? 
Neuha — the fond, the faithful, the adored — 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd ; 
And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasp'd, 
As if to be assured 'twas him she grasp'd ; 
Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then, 
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair. 
Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could blight 
That full-blown moment in its all delight : 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
That rock'd her heart till almost heard to throb ; 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child in nature's ecstacy. 

IX. 
The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 
Were not unmoved : who are, when hearts are 

greeting ? 
Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 
With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 
Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays, 
In hopeless visions of our better days, 
When all's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray, 
" And but for me ! " he said, and turn'd away, 
Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
A lion looks upon his cubs again; 



212 

And then relapsed into his sullen guise, 
As heedless of his further destinies. 

X. 

But brief their time for good or evil thought; 
The billows round the promontory brought 
The splash of hostile oars. — Alas ! who made 
That sound a dread ? All round them seem'd array'd 
Against them, save the bride of Toobonai : 
She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 
Of the arm'd boats, which hurried to complete 
The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 
Embark'd their guests, and launch'd their light 

canoes, 
In one placed Christian and his comrades twain ; 
But she and Torquil must not part again. 
She fix'd him in her own. — Away ! away ! 
They clear the breakers, dart along the bay, 
And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hollow'd lair, 
They skim the blue tops of the billows ; fast 
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 
They gain upon them — now they lose again, — 
Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 
And now the two canoes in chase divide, 
And follow different courses o'er the tide, 
To baffle the pursuit. — Away ! away ! 
As life is on each paddle's flight to-day, 
And more than life or lives to Neuha : Love 
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove — 
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
Yet, yet a moment ! — Fly, thou light ark, fly ! 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO IV. 



I. 



"White as a white sail on a dusky sea, 
When half the horizon's clouded and half free, 
Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky 
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
Her anchor parts, but still her snowy sail 
Attracts our eye amid the rudest gale ; 
Though every wave she climbs divides us more, 
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore. 

II. 
Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 
The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind, 
Where the rough seal reposes from the wind, 
And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun, 
Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun : 
There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 
The startled echo of the ocean bird, 
Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood, 
The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 
A narrow segment of the yellow sand 
On one side forms the outline of a strand 
Here, the young turtle, crawling from his shell, 
Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell ; 
Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day, 
But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray ; 
The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
Gave mariners a shelter and despair ; 



A spot to make the saved regret the deck 
Which late went down, and envy the lost wreck. 
Such was the stern asylum Neuha chose / 

To shield her lover from his following foes ; 
But all its secret was not told ; she knew 
In this a treasure hidden from the view. 

III. 

Ere the canoes divided, near the spot, 

The men that mann'd what held her Torquil's lot, 

But her command removed, to strengthen more 

The skiff which wafted Christian from the shore. 

This he would have opposed ; but with a smile 

She pointed calmly to the craggy isle, 

And bade him " speed and prosper." She -would taka 

The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 

They parted with this added aid ; afar 

The proa darted like a shooting star, 

And gain'd on the pursuers, who now steer'd 

Right on the rock which she and Torquil ncar'd. 

They pull'd; her arm, though delicate, was free 

And firm as ever grappled with the sea, 

And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier strength. 

The prow now almost lay within its length 

Of the crag's steep, inexorable face, 

With nought but soundless waters for its base ; 

Within a hundred boats' length was the foe, 

And now what refuge but their frail canoe ? 

This Torquil ask'd with half upbraiding eye, 

Which said — " Has Neuha brought me here to die ? 

Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 

And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave ? " 

IV. 

They rested on their paddles, and uprose 
Neuha, and pointing to the approaching foes, 
Cried, " Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow ! " 
Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 
There was no time to pause. — the foes were near — 
Chains in his eyes, and menace in his ear ; 
With vigor they pull'd on, and as they came, 
Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 
Headlong he leapt — to him the swimmer's skill 
Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 
But how, or where ? He dived, and rose no more ; 
The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore. 
There was no landing on that precipice, 
Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 
They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 
But not a trace rebubbled from the main : 
The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face, 
Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace ; 
The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam, 
That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest home, 
White as a sepulchre above the pair 
Who left no marble (mournful as an heir) 
The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 
Was all that told of Torquil and his bride ; 
And but for this alone the whole might seem 
The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 
They paused and search'd in vain, then pull'd away 
Even superstition now forbade their stay. 
Some said he had not plung'd into the wave, 
But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave ; 
Others, that something supernatural 
Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 
While all agreed that in his cheek and eye 
I There was a dead hue of eternity. 



THE ISLAND. 



213 



Still as their oars receded from the crag, 
Round every weed a moment would they lag, 
Expectant of some token of their prey ; 
But no — he had melted from them like the spray. 



And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep, 
Following the nereid ? Had they ceased to weep 
For ever ? or, received in coral caves, 
Wrung life and pity from the softening waves ? 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
And sound with mermen the fantastic shell ? 
Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair, 
Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air ? 
Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt ? 

VI. 
Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 
Follow'd : her track beneath her native sea 
"Was as a native's of the element, 
So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 
Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 
Which struck and flashed like an amphibious steel 
Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 
The depths where divers hold their pearl in chase, 
Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas, 
Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 
Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 
The way — then upward soar'd — and as she spread 
Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, 
Laugh'd, and the sound was answer'd by the rocks. 
They had gain'd a central realm of earth again, 
But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 
Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 
Whose only portal was the keyless wave,* 
(A hollow archway by the sun unseen, 
Save through the billows'- glassy veil of green, 
In some transparent ocean holiday, 
When all the finny people are at play,) 
Wiped with her hah the brine from Torquil's eyes, 
And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise ; 
Led him to where the rock appear'd to jut, 
And form a something like a Triton's hut ; 
For all was darkness for a space, till day 
Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray ; 
As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 
The dusty monuments from light recoil, 
Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 
The vault drew half her shadow from the scene. 

VII. 

Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 

A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 

A plantain-leaf o'er all, the more to keep 

Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 

This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 

Of the same plantain-leaf a flint she took, 

A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the blade 

Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus array'd 

The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high, 

And show'd a self-born Gothic canopy ; 

The arch uprear'd by nature's architect, 

The architrave some earthquake might erect : 



The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurled, 
When the Poles crash'd, and water was the world ; 
Or harden'd from some earth-aboding fire, 
While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre ; 
The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave,* 
Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave 
There, with a little tinge of fantasy, 
Fantastic faces mop'd and mow'd on high, 
And then a mitre and a shrine would fix 
The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 
And built herself a chapel of the seas 

VIII. 
And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand. 
And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
And led him into each recess, and show'd 
The secret places of their new abode. 
Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
Before, to sooth the lover's lot she shared : 
The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
And sandal-oil to fence against the dew ; 
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
Born of the fruit ; for board the plantain spread 
With his broad leaf, or turtle-shell he bore 
A banquet in the flesh it cover'd o'er ; 
The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
A pine torch-pile to keep undying light, 
And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, 
And make their subterranean world serene. 
She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, 
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 
Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower ; 
And now she spread her little store with smiles, 
The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 

IX. 

She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press d 
Her shelter'd love to her-impassion'd breast ; 
And suited to her soft caresses, told 
An olden tale of love, — for love is old, 
Old as eternity, but not outworn 
With each new being born or to be born : t 
How a young chief, a thousand moons ago, 
Diving for turtle in the depths below, 
Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey, 
Into the cave which round and o'er them lay ; 
How in some desperate feud of after time, 
He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime. 
A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe, 
Saved by his tribe but for a captive's wo ; 
How, when the storm of war was still'd, he le<! 
His island clan to where the waters spread 



• Of this cave (which is no fiction) the original will be found in the ninth 
chapter of " Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands." I have taken the 
poetical liberty to transplant it to Toobonai, the last island where any distinct 
account is left of Christian and his comrades. 



• Tliis may seem too minute for the general outline (in Mariner's Account) 
from which it is taken. But few men have travelled without seeing some- 
tiling of the kind — on land, that is. Without adverting to Ellora, in Mungo 
Park's last journal, (if my memory do not err, for there are eight years sine© 
1 read the book,) he mentions having met with a rock or mountain so exactly 
resembling a Gothic cathedral, that only a minute inspection could conruwe 
him that it was a work of nature. 

t The reader will recollect the epigram of the Greek anthology, or ttt 
translation into most of the modern languages : 

u Whoe'er thou art, thy master see, 
He was or is, or is to be. " 



214 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky door, 
Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more : 
His wondering mates, amazed within their bark, 
Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark ; 
Row'd down in sorrow the sea-girded rock, 
Then paused upon their paddles from the shock ; 
When, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 
A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe ; 
And their companion, glorious by her side, 
Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride ; 
And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore 
AVith sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore; 
How they had gladly lived and calmly died, — 
And why not also Torquil and his bride ? 
Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 
Which follow'd wildly in that wild recess. 
This tale ; enough that all within that cave 
Was love, though buried strong as in the grave 
Where Abelard, through twenty years of death, 
When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 
Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd, and 

press'd 
The kindling ashes to his kindled breast.* 
The waves without sang round their couch, their roar 
As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 
Within, their hearts made all their harmony, 
Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 

X. 

And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
Which left them exiles of the hollow rock, 
Where were they ? O'er the sea for life they plied, 
To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 
Another course had been their choice — but where ? 
The wavp which bore them still their foes would bear, 
Who disappointed of their former chase, 
In search of Christian now renew'd their race. 
Eager with anger, their strong arms made way 
Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 
They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lay 
In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 
No further chance or choice remain' d ; and right 
For the first further rock which met their sight 
They steer'd, to take their latest view of land, 
And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 
Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 
Would still have battled for that scanty crew ; 
But Christian bade them seek their shore again, 
Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain ; 
For what were simple bow and savage spear 
Against the arms that must be wielded here ? 

XL 

They landed on a wild but narrow scene, 
Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been ; 
Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, 
Stern and sustain'd of man's extremity, 
When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 
To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 
They stood x the three, as the three hundred stood 
Who dyed Thermopylae with holy blood. 
But, ah ! how different ! 'tis the cause makes all, 
Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 
O'er them no fame, eternal and intense, 
Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon'd 
hence ; 



• The tradition is attached to the story of Eloisa, that when her body was 
lowered into the grave of Abelard, (who had been buried twenty years,) he 
opened his arms to reoeive her. 



No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 

Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 

No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent, 

No heroes envy them their -monument ; 

However boldly their warm blood was spilt, 

Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 

And this they knew and felt, at least the one, 

The leader of the band he had undone ; 

Who, born perchance for better things, had set 

His life upon a cast which linger'd yet: 

But now the die was to be thrown, and all 

The chances were in favor of his fall ; 

And such a fall ! But still he faced the shock, 

Obdurate as a portion of the rock 

Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levcll'd gun, 

Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 

XIL- 

The boat drew nigh, well arni'd, and firm the crew 

To act whatever duty bade them do ; 

Careless of danger, as the onward wind 

Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind. 

And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 

Against a nation's than a native foe, 

And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 

Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 

They hail'd him to surrender — no reply : 

Their arms were poised, and glittcr'd in the sky. 

They hail'd again — no answer 1 ; yet once more 

They offer' d quarter louder than before. 

The echoes only, from the rock's rebound, 

Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 

Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying flame 

And the smoke rose between them and their aim. 

While the rock rattled with the bullets' knell, 

Which pcal'd in vain, and flattcn'd as they fell: 

Then flew the only answer to be given 

By those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. 

After the first fierce peal, as they pull'd nigher, 

They heard the voice of Christian shout, "Now fire !' 

And ere the word upon the echo died, 

Two fell ; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side, 

And, furious at the madness of their foes, 

Disdain' d all further efforts, save to close. 

But steep the crag, and all without a path, 

Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath ; 

While, placed 'mid clefts the least accessible 

Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well, 

The three maintain'd a strife which must not yield, 

In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. 

Their every shot told ; while the assailant fell, 

Dash'd on the shingles like the limpet shell ; 

But still enough survived, a»d mounted still, 

Scattering their numbers here and there, until 

Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 

Enough for seizure, near enough to die, 

The desperate trio held aloof their fate 

But by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the 

bait; 
Yet to the very last they battled well, 
And not a groan inform'd their foes w/io fell, 
Christian died last — twice wounded ; and once more 
Mercy was offer'd when they saw his gore ; 
Too late for life, but not too late to die, 
With, though a hostile hand, to close his eye. 
A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 
Tne crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 
The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 
Some passion which a weakly gesture spake ; 



THE ISLAND. 



215 



He beckon'd to the foremost, who drew nigh, 
But, as they near'd, he rear'd his weapon high— 
His last ball had been aim'd, but from his breast 
He tore the topmost button from his vest,* 
Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and smiled 
As his foe fell; then, like a serpent, coil'd 
His wounded, weary form, to where the steep 
Look'd desperate as himself along the deep ; 
Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and 

shook 
His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook ; 
Then plunged : the rock below received like glass 
His body crush'd into one gory mass, 
With scarce a shred to tell of human form, 
Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm ; 
A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and weeds, 
Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds, 
Some splinters of his weapons, (to the last, 
As long as hand could hold, he held them fast,) 
Yet glitter'd, but at distance— hurl'd away 
To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray ; 
The rest was nothing— save a life mispent, 
And soul— but who shall answer where it went ? 
'Tis ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 
"Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way, 
Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. 

\ 

XIII. 
The deed was over ! All were gone or ta'en, 
The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 
Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant crew, 
They stood with honor, were the wretched few 
' Survivors of the skirmish on the isle ;■ 
But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
Cold these lay where they fell, and weltering, 
While o'er them fiapp'd the sea-bird's dewy wing, 
Now wheeling nearer from the neighboring surge, 
And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge :. 
But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 
Eternal with unsympathetic flow ; 
Ear o'er its face the dolphins sported on, 
And sprung the flying fish against the sun, 



• In Thihault's account of Frederic the Second of Prussia, there i* a sin- 
gular relation of a young Frenchman, who with his mistress, appeared to be 
of some rank. He enlisted and deserted atScweidnitz : and after a despeiate 
resistance was retaken, having Hied an officer, who attempted to seize him 
after he was wounded, by the discharge of his musket loaded with a button ol 
his uniform. Some circumstances on his court martial raised a great interest 
among bis judges, who wished to discover bis real situation in life, which lie 
offered to disclose, but to the king only, to whom he requested permission to 
write. This was refused, and Frederic. was'nUed with the greatest indigna- 
tion, from baffled curiosity or some other motive, when he understood that his 
request had been clenied-Sce ThibatUt'i Work, vol. ii.-[l quote from mem 
ory.] 



Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 
To gather moisture for* another flight. 

XIV. 

'Twas morn ; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 
Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, 
And watch if aught approach' d the amphibious laii 
Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 
It flapp'd, it fill'd, and to the growing gale 
Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail 
With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, 
While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie. 
But no ! it came not ; fast and far away 
The shadow lessen'd as it clear'd the bay. 
She gazed and flung the sea-foam from her eyes, 
To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 
On the horizon verged tlie distant deck, 
Diminish'd, dwindled to a very speck- 
Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was joy ! 
Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her boy, 
Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 
That happy love could augur or recall ; 
Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 
His bounding nereid over the broad sea ; 
Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 
Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 
Drifting along the tide, without an oar, 
That eve the strangers chased them from the shore ; 
But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 
Regain'd, and urged to where they found it now : 
Nor ever did more love and joy embark, 
Than now was wafted in that slender ark. 

XV. 

Again their own shore rises on the view, 

No more polluted with a hostile hue ; 

No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 

A floating dungeon :— all was hope and home ! 

A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, 

AVith sounding shells, and heralded their way ; 

The chiefs came down, around the people pour'd, 

And welcome Torquil as a son restored ; 

The women throng'd, embracing and embraced 

By Neuha, asking where they had been chased, 

And how escaped ? The tale was told ; and then 

One 'acclamation rent the sky again ; 

And from that hour a new tradition gave 

Their sanctuary the name of " Neuha's Cave." 

A hundred fires, far flickering from the height, 

Blazed o'er the general revel of the night, 

The feast in honor of the guest, return'd 

To peace and pleasure, perilously earn'd : 

A night succeeded by such happy days 

As only the yet infant world displays. 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



EXTRACT FROM THE VOYAGE OF CAPTAIN BLIGH. 



Ox the 27th of December it blew a severe storm of 
wind from the eastward, in the course of which we 
suffered greatly. One sea broke away the spare 
yards and spars out of the starboard main-chains ; 
another broke into the ship and stove all the boats. 
Several casks of beer that had been lashed on deck 
broke loose, and were washed overboard ; and it was 
not without great risk and difficulty that wc were 
able to secure the boats from being washed away 
entirely. A great quantity of our bread was also 
damaged and. rendered useless, for the sea had 
stove in our stern, and filled the cabin with water. 

On the oth of January, 1788, we saw the island 
of Teneriffe about twelve leagues distant ; and next 
day being Sunday, came to an anchor in the road 
of Santa Cruz. There we took in the necessary 
supplies, and, having finished our business, sailed 
on the 10th. 

I now divided tbe people into three watches, and 
gave the charge of the third watch to Mr. Fletcher 
Christian, one of the mates. I have always con- 
sidered this a desirable regulation when circum- 
stances will admit of it ; and I am persuaded that 
unbroken rest not only contributes much towards 
the health of the ship's company, but enables them 
more readily to exert themselves in cases of sud- 
den emergency. 

As I wished to proceed to Otaheite without stop- 
ping, I reduced the allowance of bread to two- 
thirds, and caused the water for drinking to be fil- 
tered through drip-stones, bought at Teneriffe for 
that purpose. I now acquainted the ship's compa- 
ny of the object of the voyage, and gave assurances 
of certain promotion to every one whose endeavors 
should merit it. 

On Tuesday the 26th of February, being in south 
latitude 29 degrees, 38 minutes, and 44 degrees, 
44 minutes west longitude, we bent new sails, and 
made other necessary preparations for encountering 
the weather that was to be expected in a high lati- 
tude. Our distance from the coast of Brazil was 
about one hundred leagues. 

On the forenoon of Sunday the 2d of March, after 
seeing that every person was clean, divine service 
was performed, according to my usual custom on 
this day. I gave to Mr. Fletcher Christian, whom 
I had before directed to take charge of the third 
watch, a written order to act as lieutenant. 

The change of temperature soon began to be sen- 
sibly felt, and that the people might not suffer from 
their own negligence, I supplied them with thicker 
clothing, as better suited to the climate. A great 
number of whales of an immense size, with two 
spout-holes on the back of the head, were seen on 
the 11th. 

On a complaint made to me by the master, I 
found it necessary to punish Matthew Quintal, one 
of the seamen, with two dozen of lashes, for inso- 
lence and mutinous behaviour, which was the first 
time that there was any occasion for punishment on 
board. 

We were off Cape St. Diego, the eastern part of 
the Terra del Fuego, and, the wind being unfavor- 
able, I thought it more advisable to go round to the 
eastward of Staten-land than to attempt passing 



through Straits le Maire. We passed New Year's 
Harbor and Cape St. John, and on Monday the 31st 
were in latitude 60 degrees 1 minute south. But 
the wind became variable, and we had bad weather. 
Storms, attended with great sea, prevailed until the 
12th of April, The ship began to leak, and requir- 
ed pumping every hour, which was no more than 
we had reason to expect from such a continuance of 
gales of wind and high seas. The decks also be- 
came so leaky, that it was necessary to allot the 
great cabin, of which I made little use except in 
fine weather, to those people who had not berths to 
hang their hammocks in, and by this means the 
space between decks was less crowded. 

With all this bad weather, we had the additional 
mortification to find, at the end of every day, that 
we were losing ground ; for, notwithstanding our 
utmost exertions, and keeping on the most advan- 
tageous tracks, we did little better than drift before 
the wind. On Tuesday the 22d of April, we had 
eight down on the sick list, and the rest of the peo 
pie, though in good health, were greatly fatigued ; 
but I saw, with much concern, that it was impossi- 
ble to make a passage this way to the Society Is 
lands, for we had now been thirty days in a tempest- 
uous ocean. Thus the season was too far advanced 
for us to expect better weather to enable us to double 
Cape Horn ; and, from these and other considera- 
tions, I ordered the helm to be put a-weather, and 
bore away for the Cape of Good Hope, to the great 
joy of every one on board. 

We came to an anchor on Friday the 23d of May 
in Simon's bay, at the Cape, after a tolerable run. 
The ship required complete caulking, for she had 
become so leaky, that we were obliged to pump' 
hourly in our passage from Cape Horn. The sails 
and rigging also required repair ; and on examining 
the provisions, a considerable quantity was found 
damaged. 

Having remained thirty-eight days in this place, 
and my people having received all the advantage 
that could be derived from refreshments of every 
kind that could be met with, we sailed on the 1st of 
July. 

A gale of wind blew on the 20th, with a high sea : 
it increased after noon with such violence, that the 
ship was driven almost forecastle under before we 
could get the sails clewed up. The lower yards 
were lowered, and the topgallant-masts got down 
upon deck, which relieved her much. We lay to 
all night, and in the morning bore away under a 
reefed foresail. The sea still running high, in the 
afternoon it became very unsafe to stand on : we 
therefore lay to all night, without any accident, ex- 
cepting that a man at the steerage was thrown over 
the wheel and much bruised. Towards noon the 
violence of the storm abated, and we again bore 
away under t*ne reefed foresail. 

In a few days we passed the island of St. Paul, 
where there is good fresh water, as I was informed 
by a Dutch captain, and also a hot spring, which 
boils fish as completely as if done by a fire. Ap- 
proaching to Van Dieman's land, we had much bad 
weather, with snow and hail ; but nothing was seen 
to indicate our vicinity on the 13th of August, ex- 



APPENDIX TO 

cept a seal, which appeared at the distance of twenty 
leagues from it. We anchored in Adventure Bay 
on Vednesday the 20th. 

In our passage thither from the Cape of Good 
Hope, the winds were chiefly from the westward, 
with very boisterous weather. The approa-ch of 
strong southerly winds is announced by many birds 
of the albatross or petrel tribe ; and the abatement 
of the gale, or a shift of wind to the northward, by 
their keeping away. The thermometer also varies 
five or six degrees in its height when a change of 
these winds may be expected. 

In the land surrounding Adventure Bay are many 
forest trees one hundred and fifty feet high : we saw 
one which measured above thirty-three feet in girth. 
We observed several eagles, some beantiful blue- 
plumaged herons, and paroquets in great variety. 

The natives not appearing, we went in search of 
them towards Cape Frederic Henry. Soon after, 
coming to a grapnel close to the shore, for it was 
impossible to land, we heard their voices, like the 
cackling of geese, and twenty persons came out of 
the woods. We threw trinkets ashore tied up in 
parcels, which they would not open until I made an 
appearance of leaving them: then they did so, and, 
taking the articles out, put them on their heads. 
On first coming in sight they made a prodigious 
clattering in their speech, and held their arms over 
their heads. They spoke so quick, that it was im- 
possible to catch one single word they uttered. 
Their color is of a dull black ; their skin scarified 
about the breast and shoulders. One was distin- 
guished by his body being colored with red ochre, 
but all the others were painted black, with a kind 
of soot, so thickly laid over their faces and should- 
ers, that it was difficult to ascertain what they 
were like. 

On Thursday<the 4th of September, we sailed out 
of Adventure Bay, steering first towards east-south- 
east, and then to the northward of east, when, on 
the 19th, we came in sight of a cluster of small 
rocky islands, which I named Bounty Isles. Soon 
afterwards we frequently observed the sea in the 
night-time, to be covered by luminous spots, caused 
by amazing quantities of small blubbers, or Medu- 
sas, which emit a light like a blaze of a candle from 
the strings or filaments extending from them, while 
the rest of the body continues perfectly dark. 

We discovered the Island of Otaheite on the 
2oth, and, before casting anchor next morning in 
Matavai Bay, such numbers of canoes had come off, 
that, after the natives ascertained we were friends, 
they came on board, and crowded the deck so much, 
that in ten minutes I could scarce find my own peo- 
ple. The whole distance which the ship had run, 
in direct and contrary courses, from the time of 
leaving England until reaching Otaheite, was 
twenty-seven thousand and eighty-six miles, which, 
on an average, was one hundred and eight miles 
each twenty-four hours. 

Here we lost our surgeon on the 9th of Decem- 
ber. Of late he had scarcely ever stirred out of the 
cabin, though not apprehended to be in a dangerous 
state. Nevertheless, appearing worse than usual 
in the evening, he was removed where he could ob- 
tain more air, but without any benefit, for he died 
in an hour afterwards. This unfortunate man 
drank very hard, and was so averse to exercise, that 
he would never be prevailed on to take half a dozen 
turns on deck at a time during all the course of the 
voyage. He was buried on shore. 

On Monday, the oth of January, the small cutter 
was missed, of which I was immediately apprised. 
The ship's company being mustered, we found three 
men absent, who had carried it off. They had taken 
with them eight stand of arms and ammunition ; 
but with regard to their plan, every one on board 
seemed to be quite ignorant. I therefore went on 
shore, and engaged all the chiefs to assist in recov- 
ering both the boat and the deserters. According- 
ly, the former was brought back in the course of the 
28 



THE ISLAND. 



217 



day by five of the natives ; but the men were not 
taken until nearly three weeks afterwards. Learn- 
ing the place where they were, in a different quarter 
of the island of Otaheite, I went thither in the cut- 
ter, thinking there would be no great difficulty in 
securing them with the assistance of the natives. 
However, they heard of my arrival ; and when I 
was near a house in which they were, they came out 
without their fire-arms, and delivered themselves 
up. Some of the chiefs had formerly seized and 
bound these deserters ; but had been prevailed on, 
by fair promises of returning peaceably to the ship, 
to release them. But finding an opportunity again 
to get possession of their arms, they set the natives 
at defiance. 

The object of the voyage being now completed, 
all the bread-fruit plants, to the number of one 
thousand and fifteen, were got on board on Tuesday 
the 31st of March. Besides these, We had collected 
many other plants, some of them bearing the finest 
fruits in the world ; and valuable, from affording 
brilliant dyes, and for various properties besides. 
At sunset of the 4th of April, we made sail from 
Otaheite, bidding farewell to an island where for 
twenty-three weeks we have been treated with the 
utmost affection and regard, and which seemed to 
increase in proportion to our stay. That we were 
not insensible to their kindness, the succeeding cir- 
cumstances sufficiently proved ; for to the friendly 
and endearing behavior of these people may be as- 
cribed the motives inciting an event that affected 
the ruin of our expedition, which there was every 
reason to believe would have been attended with 
the most favorable issue. 

Next morning we got sight of the Island Hua- 
heine ; and a double canoe soon coming alongside, 
containing ten natives, I saw among them a young 
man, who recollected me, and called me by my 
name. I had been here in the year 1780, with Cap 
tain Cook, in the Resolution. A few days after 
sailing from this island, the weather became squally, 
and a thick body of black clouds collected in the 
east. A water-spout was in a short time seen at no 
great distance from us, which appeared to great ad- 
vantage from the darkness of the clouds behind it. 
As nearly as I could judge, the upper part was about 
two feet in diameter, and the lower about eight 
inches. Scarcely had I made these remarks, when 
I observed that it was rapidly advancing towards 
the ship. We immediately altered our course, and 
took in all the sails except the foresail ; soon after 
which it passed within ten yards of the stern, with 
a rustling noise, but without our feeling the lest ef- 
fect from its being so near. It seemed to be trav- 
elling at the rate of about ten miles an hour, in the 
direction of the wind, as it dispersed in a quarter of 
an hour after passing us. It is impossible to say 
what injury we should have received had it passed 
directly over us. Masts, I imagine, might have 
been carried away, but I do not apprehend that it 
would have endangered the loss of the ship. 

Passing several islands on the way, we anchored 
at Annamooka on the 23d of April ; and an old lame 
man called Tepa, whom I had known here in 1777, 
and immediately recollected, came on board, along 
with others, from different islandsin the vicinity. 
They-were desirous to see the ship, and on being 
taken below, where the bread-fruit plants were ar- 
ranged, they testified great surprise. A few of these 
being decayed, we went on shore to procure some in 
their place. 

The natives exhibited numerous marks of the pe- 
culiar mourning which they express on losing their 
relatives ; such as bloody temples, their heads being 
deprived of most of their hair ; and what was worse, 
almost the whole of them had lost some of their 
fingers. Several fine boys, not above six years old, 
had lost both their little fingers ; and several of ^the 
men, besides these, had parted with the middle 
finger of the right hand. 

the chiefs went off with me to dinner, and we 



218 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



carried on a brisk trade for yams : we also got plain- 
tains and bread-fruit. But the yams were in great 
abundance, and very fine and large. One of them 
weighed above forty-five pounds. Sailing canoes 
came, some of which contained not less than ninety 
passengers. Such a number of them gradually ar- 
rived from different islands, that it was impossible 
to get any thing done, the multitude became so 
great, and there was no chief of sufficient authority 
to command the whole. I therefore ordered a 
watering party, then employed, to come on board, 
and sailed on Sunday the 26th of April. 

We kept near the island of Kotoo all the after- 
noon of Monday, in hopes that some canoes would 
come off to the ship, but in this we were disappoint- 
ed. The wind being northerly, we steered to the 
westward in the evening, to pass south of Tofoa ; 
and I gave directions for this course to be continued 
during the night. The master had the first watch, 
the gunner the middle watch, and Mr. Christian 
the morning watch. This was the turn of duty for 
the night. 

Hitherto the voyage had advanced in a course of 
uninterrupted prosperity, and had been attended 
with circumstances equally pleasing and satisfac- 
tory. But a very different scene was now to be dis- 
closed : a conspiracy had been formed, which was to 
render all our past labor productive only of misery 
and distress ; and it had been concerted with so 
much secrecy and circumspection, that no one cir- 
cumstance escaped to betray the impending ca- 
lamity. 

On the night of Monday, the watch was set as I 
have described. Just before sunrise on Tuesday 
morning, while I was yet asleep, Mr. Christian, 
with the master-at-arms, gunner's mate, and 
Thomas Burkitt, seaman, came into my cabin, and 
seizing me, tied my hands with a cord behind my 
back, threatening me with instant death if I spoke 
or made the least noise. I nevertheless called out 
as loud as I could, in hopes of assistance ; but the 
officers not of their party were already secured by 
sentinels at their doors. At my own cabin door 
were three men, besides the four within : all except 
Christian had muskets and bayonets ; he had only 
a cutlass. I was dragged out of bed, and forced on 
deck in my shirt, suffering great pain in the mean 
time from the tightness with which my hands were 
tied. On demanding the reason of such violence, 
the only answer was. abuse for not holding my 
tongue. The master, the gunner, surgeon, master's 
mate, and Nelson the gardener, were kept confined 
below, and the fore-hatchway was guarded by sen- 
tinels. The boatswain and carpenter, and also the 
clerk, were allowed to come on deck, where they 
saw me standing abaft the mizzen-mast, with my 
hands tied behind my back, under a guard, with 
Christian at their head. The boatswain was then 
ordered to hoist out the launch, accompanied by a 
threat, if he did not do it instantly, to take care 

OF HIMSELF. 

The boat being hoisted out, Mr. Hayward and 
Mr. Hallct, two of the midshipmen, and Mr. Samuel, 
the clerk, were ordered into it. I demanded the 
intention of giving this order, and endeavored to 
persuade the people near me not to persist in such 
acts of violence; but it was to no effect; for the 
constant answer was, " Hold your tongue, sir, or 
you are dead this moment." * 

The master had by this time sent, requesting that 
he might come on deck, which was permitted; but 
he was soon ordered back again to his cabin. My 
exertions to turn the tide of affairs were continued ; 
when Christian, changing the cutlass he held for a 
bayonet, and holding me by the cord about my 
hands with a strong gripe, threatened me with im- 
mediate death if I would not be quiet ; and the 
villains around me had their pieces cocked, and 
bayonets fixed. 

Certain individuals were called on to get into the 
boat, and were hurried over the ship's side ; whence 



I concluded that along with them I was to be set 
adrift. Another effort to bring about a change pro- 
duced nothing but menaces of having my brains 
blown out. 

The' boatswain and those seamen who w-ere to be 
put into the boat were allowed to collect twine, can- 
vas, lines, sails, cordage, an cight-and-twcnty-gallon 
cask of water ; and Mr. Samuel got one hundred 
and fifty pounds of bread, with a small quantity of 
rum and wine ; also a quadrant and compass, but 
he was prohibited, on pain of death, to touch any 
map or astronomical book, and any instrument, or 
any of my surveys and drawings. 

The mutineers having thus forced those of the 
seamen whom they wished to get rid of into the 
boat, Christian directed a dram to be served to each 
of his crew. I then unhappily saw that nothing 
could be done to recover the ship. The officers 
were next called on deck, and forced over the ship's 
side into the boat, v while I was kept apart from eve- 
ry one abaft the mizzen-mast. Christian, armed 
with a bayonet, held the cord fastening my hands, 
and the guard around me stood with their pieces 
cocked ; but on my daring the ungrateful wretches 
to fire, they uncocked them. Isaac Martin, one of 
them, I saw had an inclination to assist me ; and 
as he fed me with shaddock, my lips being quite 
parched, we explained each other's sentiments by 
looks. But this was observed, and he was removed. 
He then got into the boat, attempting to leave the 
ship; however, he was compelled to return. Some 
others were also kept contrary to their inclination. 

It appeared to me that Christian was some time 
in doubt whether he should keep the carpenter or 
his mates. At length he determined on the latter, 
and the carpenter was ordered into the boat. He 
was permitted, though not without opposition to 
take his tool-chest. % 

Mr. Samuel secured my joxvrnals and commission, 
with some important ship papers : this he did with 
great resolution, though strictly watched. He at- 
tempted to save the time-keeper, and a box with my 
surveys, drawings, and remarks for fifteen years 
past, which were very numerous, when he was hur- 
ried away with — "Damn your eyes, you are well off 
to get what you have." 

Much altercation took place among the mutinous 
crew during the transaction of this whole affair. 
Some swore, " I'll be damned if he does not find 
his way home, if he gets any thing with him," 
meaning me ; and when the carpenter's chest was 
carrying away, " Damn my eyes, he will have a ves- 
sel built in a month ; " while others ridiculed tin? 
helpless situation of the boat, which was very deep 
in the water, and had so little room for those who 
were in her. As for Christian, he seemed as if medi- 
tating destruction on himself and every one else. 

I asked for arms, but the mutineers laughed at 
me, and said I was well acquainted with the people 
among whom I was going : four cutlasses, however, 
were thrown into the boat after we were veered 
astern. 

The officers and men being in the boat, they only 
waited for me, of which the master-at-arms inform- 
ed Christian who then said, " Come, Captain Bligh, 
your officers are now in the boat, and you must go 
with them ; if you attempt to make the least re- 
sistance, you will instantly be put to death ; " and 
without further ceremony I was forced over the side 
by a tribe of armed ruffians, where they untied my 
hands. Being in the boat, we were veered astern 
by a rope. A few pieces of pork were thrown to us, 
also the four cutlasses. The armorer and carpenter 
then called out to me to remember that they had no 
hand in the transaction. After having been kept 
some time to make sport for these unfeeling wretch- 
es, and having undergone much ridicule, we were 
at length cast adrift in the open ocean. 

Eighteen persons were with me in the boat, — the 
master, acting surgeon, botanist, gunner, boatswain, 
carpenter, master, and quartermaster's mate, two 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



219 



quartermasters, the sail-maker, two cooks, my clerk, 
the butcher, and a boy. There remained on board 
Fletcher Christian, the master's mate ; Peter Hay- 
wood, Edward Young, George Stewart, midship- 
men ; the* master-at-arms, gunner's mate, boat- 
swain's mate, gardener, armorer, carpenter's mate, 
carpenter's crew, and fourteen seamen, being al- 
together the most able men of the ship's company. 

Having little or no wind, we rowed pretty fast to- 
wards the island of Tofoa, which bore northeast 
about ten leagues distant. The ship while in sight 
steered west-northwest ; but this I considered only 
as a feint, for when we were sent away, " Huzza for 
Otaheite ! ' was frequently heard among the muti- 
neers. 

Christian, the chief of them, was of a respecta- 
ble family in the north of England. This was the 
third voyage he had made with me. Notwithstand- 
ing the roughness with which I was treated, the re- 
membrance of past kindnesses produced some re- 
morse in him. While they were forcing me out 
the ship, I asked him whether this was a proper re- 
turn for the many instances he had experienced of 
my friendship ? He appeared disturbed at the ques- 
tion, and answered with much emotion, " That 
— Captain Bligh — that is the thing — I am in hell — 
I am in hell ! " His abilities to take charge of the 
third watch,, as I had so divided the ship's company, 
were fully equal to the task. 

Haywood wa£- also of a respectable family in the 
north of England, and a young man of abilities, as 
well as Christian. These two had been objects of 
my particular regard and attention, and I had taken 
great pains to instruct them, having entertained 
hopes that, as professional men, they would have 
become a credit to their country. Young was well 
recommended, and Stewart of creditable parents in 
the Orkneys, at which place, on the return of the 
Resolution from the South Seas in 1780, we received 
so many civilities, that in consideration of these 
alone I should gladly have taken him with me. But 
he had always borne a good character. 

When I had time to reflect, an inward satisfaction 
prevented the depression of my spirits. Yet, a few 
hours before, my situation had been peculiarly flat- 
tering ; I had a ship in the most perfect order, 
stored with every necessary, both for health and 
service ; the object of the voyage was attained, and 
two-thirds of it now completed. The remaining 
part had every prospect of success. 



It will naturally be asked, what could be the 
cause of such a revolt ? In answer, I can only con- 
jecture that the mutineers had flattered themselves 
with the hope of a happier life among the Otaheit- 
ans than they could possibly enjoy in England, 
which, joined to some female connexions, most 
probably occasioned the whole transaction. 

The women of Otaheite are handsome, mild, and 
cheerful in manners and conversation, possessed of 
great sensibility, and have sufficient delicacy to 
make them be ^admired and beloved. The chiefs 
were so much attached to our people, that they 
rather encouraged their stay among ihem than oth- 
erwise, and even made them promises of large pos- 
sessions. Under these and many other concomi- 
tant circumstances, it ought hardly to be the sub- 
ject of surprise that a set of sailors, most of them 
void of connexions, should be led away, where they 
had the power of fixing themselves in the midst of 
plenty, in one of the finest islands in the world, 
where there was no necessity to labor, and where 
the allurements of dissipation are beyond any con- 
ception that can be formed of it. The utmost, how- 
ever, that a commander could have expected was de- 
sertions, such as have already happened more or 
less in the South Seas, and not an act of open mu- 
tiny. 

But the secrecy of this mutiny surpasses belief. 
Thirteen of the party who were now with me had 
always lived forward among the seamen, yet neither 
they, nor the messmates of Christian, Stewart, 
Haywood, and Young, had ever observed any cir- 
cumstance to excite suspicion of what was plotting ; 
and it is not wonderful if I fell a sacrifice to it, my 
mind being entirely free from srispicion. Perhaps, 
had mariners been on board, a sentinel at my cabin 
door might have prevented it ; for I constantly slept 
with the door open, that the officer of the watch 
might have access to me on all occasions. If the 
mutiny had been occasioned by any grievances, 
either real or imaginary, I must have discovered 
symptoms of discontent, which would have put me 
on my guard; but it was far otherwise. With 
Christian, in particular, I was on the most friendly 
terms ; that very day he was engaged to have dined 
with me ; and the preceding night he excised him- 
self from supping with me on pretence of indispo- 
sition, for which I felt concerned, having no sus- 
picions of his honor or integrity. 






MANFRED ; 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



* There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in ycur philosophy." 



DRAMATIS PERSONJE. 

Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter. 

Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 

Witch of the Alps, 

Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, &c. 

The Scene of the Drama is among the higher Alps — 
partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the 
Mountains. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

Manfred alone. — Scene, a Gothic Gallery.- 

Midnight. 



-Time, 



Man. The lamp must be replenish' d, but even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil and these eyes but close 
To look within : and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; 
Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most, 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 

I 



Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 

I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 

A power to make these subject to itself — 

But they avail not : I have done men good, 

And I have met with good even among men— 

But this avail'd not : I have had my foes, 

And none have baffled, many fallen before me— 

But this avail'd not : Good or evil, life, 

Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 

Have been to me as rain unto the sands 

Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 

And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 

Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes 

Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 

Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 
I call upon ye by the written charm 
Which gives me power upon you Rise ! appear ! 

[A pause. 
They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
Who is undying, — Rise ! appear ! Appear ! 

[A pause. 
If it be so. — Spirits of earth and ah, 
Ye shall not thus elude me \ by a power, 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd, 
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 

\A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery : it 
is stationary ; and a voice is heard singing. 



MANFRED. 



221 



First Spirit. 

Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
From my mansion in the cloud, 
Which the breath of twilight builds, 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion, 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
To thine adjuration bow'd, 
Mortal — be thy wish avow'd. 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 

Mount Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; 

They crown 'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place, 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 

And what with me wouldst Thou ? 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 

In the blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave hath no strife, 
Where the wind is a stranger, 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells ; 
Like the storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy spells ; 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roll'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold ! 

Fourth Spirit. 

Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire, 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higher ; 
Where the roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth, 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth ; 
I have quitted my birthplace, 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide ! 

Fifth Spirit. 

1 am the Rider of the wind, 

The Stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm; 
To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon the blast : 
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'Twill sink ere night be past. 



Sixth Spirit. 



My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light ? 

Seventh Spirit. 

The star which rules thy destiny 

Was ruled, ere earth began, by me ; 

It was a world as fresh and fair 

As e'er revolved round sun in air, 

Its course was free and regular, 

Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 

The hour arrived — and it became 

A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 

A pathless comet, and a curse, 

The menace of the universe ; 

Still rolling on with innate force, 

Without a sphere, without a course ! f 

A bright deformity on high, 

The monster of the upper sky ! 

And thou ! beneath its influence born — 

Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 

Forced by a power, (which is not thine, 

And lent thee but to make thee mine,) 

For this brief moment to descend, 

Where these weak spirits round thee bend 

And parley with a thing like thee — 

What wouldst thou, Child of Clay ! with me ? 

The Seven Spirits. 

Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star^ 
Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay ! 

Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 

What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals — say ? 

Man. Forgetfulness 

First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why ? 

Man. Of that which is within me ; read it there— 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Spirit. We can but give thee that which we 
possess : 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dominators, each and all, 
These shall be thine. 

Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 

Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
But — thou mayst die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me ? 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ; 
We are eternal ; and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 

Man. Ye mock me — but the power which brought 
ye here 
Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will ! 
The mind, the Spirit, the Promethean spark, 
The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
Pervading, and far-darting as your own, 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay ■ 
Answer, or I will teach ye what I am. 

Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
Is even in thine own words. 

Man. Why say ye so ? 

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours. 



222 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



We have replied, in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 

Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms in 
vain. 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit. Say ; 

What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
Bethink ere thou dismiss lis, ask again — 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of 
days 

Man. Accursed ! what have I to do with days ? 
They are too long already .— Hence — hegone ! 

Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our will would do 
thee service ; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 

Man. No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we 
part — 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
As music on the waters ; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 

Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
Of which we are the mind and principle : 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 

Mart. I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 

Seventh Spirit. (Appearing in the shape of a 
beautiful female figure.) Behold ! 

Man. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
Art not a madness and a mockery. 
I yet will be most happy. I will clasp thee, 

And we again will be {The figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd ! 
[Manfred falls senseless. 

r A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.) 

When the moon is on the wave, 
And the glow-worm in the grass, 

And the meteor on the grave, 
And the wisp on the morass ; 

When the falling stars are shooting, 

And the answer'd owls are hooting, 

And the silent leaves are still 

In the shadow of the hill, 

Shall my soul be upon thine, 

With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 
Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 
There are shades which will not vanish, 
There are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 
By a power to thee unknown, 
Thou canst never be alone ; 
Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 
^ Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 
And for ever shalt thou dwell 
In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
Ab a thing that, though unseen, 
Must be near thee, and hath been ; 



And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 
Thou shalt marvel I am not 
As thy shadow on the spot, 
And the power which thou dost feel 
Shall be what thou must conceal. 



And a magic voice and verse 

Hath baptized thee with a curse, 

And a spirit of the air 

Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 

In the wind there is a voice 

Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 

And to thee shall Night deny 

All the quiet of her sky ; 

And the day shall have a sun, 

Which shall make thee wish, it done. 



From thy false tears I did distil 

An essence which hath strength to kill ; 

From thy own heart I then did wring 

The black blood in its blackest spring : 

From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake, 

For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 

From thy own lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest harm ; 

In proving every poison known, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 



By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 

By that most seeming virtuous eye, 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart ; 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee ! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 



And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die, 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear ; 

Lo ! the spell now works around'thee, 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee ; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 



SCENE II. 

The Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Time, Morning.- 
Manfred alone vpon the Cliffs. 

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me— 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
I lean no more on superhuman aid, 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulf 'd in darkness, 
It is not of my search. — My mother Earth! 



MANFEED. 



223 



And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Moun- 
tains, . 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart, 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 
I feci the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
There is a power upon me which withholds, 
And makes it my fatality to live ; 
If it be life to wear within myself 
This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
To justify my deeds unto myself — 
The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
Thou wing'd and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[An eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
How glorious in its action and itself ! 
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degredation and of pride, 
Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
Till our mortality predominates, 
And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 

[The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. 
The mutual music of the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd; 
My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me ! 
/ 

Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. 

Chamois Hunter. Even so 

This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my breakneck travail. — What is here ? 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain ; his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a frecborn peasant's, at this distance— 
I will approach him nearer. 

Man. (not perceiving the other.) To be thus — 
Gray-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 



And to be thus, eternally but thus, 

Having been otherwise ! Now furrow' d o'er 

With wrinkles-, plough'd by moments, not by years 

And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 

Which I outlive ! — ye toppling crags of ice ! 

Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 

In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me ! 

I heal ye momently above, beneath, 

Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass, 

And only fall on things that still would live ; 

On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 

And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; 
I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 

C.'Hun. I must approach him cautiously; if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

Man. Mountains have fallen, 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters ; 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
Which crush' d the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
Why stood I not beneath it ? 

C. Hun. Friend ! have a care, 

Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
Of Him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 

Man. (nut hearing him.) Such would have been 
for me a fitting tomb ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall 

be— 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
Ye were not meant for me — Earth ! take these atoms ! 
[As Manfked is in act to spring from the cliff, 
the Chamois Hunter, seizes and retains him 
with a sudden grasp. 

C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweary of thy 
life, 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood- 
Away with me — > — I will not quit my hold. 

Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me 
not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 

Spinning around me 1 grow blind What art 

thou ? 

C. Hun. I'll answer that anon. — Away with me — 

The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on me — 

Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 
A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand, 
And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
The Chalet will be gained within an hour — 
Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing, 
And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely 

done — 
You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

[As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the 
scene closes. 



224 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

A Cottage among the Bernese Alps. 

Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 

C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet 
go forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither ? 

Man. It imports not : I do know 

My route full well, and need no further guidance. 

C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high 
lineage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths, 
Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
1 know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 

Man. No matter. 

C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question, 

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine : 
'Tis of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine— Come, pledge me fairly. 

Man. Away, away ! there's blood upon the brim! 
Will it then never — never sink in the earth ? 

C. Hun. What dost thou mean ? thy senses wan- 
der from thee. 

Man. I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm 
stream 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours, 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed : but still it rises up, 
Coloring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half- 
maddening sin, 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 

Man. Patience and patience ! Hence — that word 
was made 
For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey ; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! 

I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 

Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — I live. 

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 

Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number : ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked! 

C. Hun Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 

Man. Thiuk'st thou existence doth depend on 
time? 



It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
Barren and cold, ton which the wild waves break, 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Rocks, and the salt surf-weeds of bitterness. 

C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — but yet I must not 
leave him. 

Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C. Hun. What is it 

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 

Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils, 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
With cross and garland over its green turf, 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; • 
This do I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already ! 

C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy 
lot for mine ? 

Man. No, friend ! I would not wrong thee nor 
exchange 
My lot with living being : I can bear — 
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to dream, 
But perish in their slumber. 

C. Hun. And with this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 

Man. Oh ! no, no, no ! 

My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! 

And penitence restore thee to thyself ; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Man. I need them not. 

But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
'Tis time — farewell! — here's gold and thanks foi 

thee — 
No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
I know my path — the mountain perils pass'd : — 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 



SCENE II. 
A lower Valley in the Alj)s. — A Cataract. 

Enter Manfred. 

It is noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
The torrent with the many hues ] of heaven, 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
And fling its lines of foaming light along, 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness; 



MANFRED. 



225 



I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 
And with the Spirit of the place divide 
The homage of these waters — I will call her. 

[Manfred takes some of the water into the 
palm of his hand, and flings it in the air, 
muttering the adjuration. After a pause, the 
Witch of the Alps rises beneath the arch 
of the sunbeam of the torrent. 
Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light, 
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow 
To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth, — 
Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 
Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 
The blush of earth embracing with her heaven — 
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 
AVhieh of itself shows immortality, 
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
At times to commune with them — if that he 
Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 
And gaze on thee a moment. 

Witch. Son of Earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what wouldst thou with me ? 

Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

Witch What could be the quest 
Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible ? 

Man. A boon ; 

But why should I repeat it ? 'twere in vain. 

Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 

Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the 
same ; 
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 
The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, 
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

Was there but one who but of her anon. 

I said with men, and with the thoughts of men, . 
I held but slight communion ; but instead, 
My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe 
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 
Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
Into the torrent, and to roll along 
On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
In these my early strength exulted ; or 
29 



To follow through the night the moving moon, 

The stars and their development ; or catch 

The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 

Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves, 

While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 

These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 

For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 

Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 

I felt myself degraded back to them, 

And was all clay again. And then I dived, 

In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 

Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 

From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust. 

Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 

The nights of years in science's untaught, 

Save in the old time ; and with time and toil, 

And terrible ordeal, and such penance 

As in itself hath power upon the air, 

And spirits that do compass air and earth, 

Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 

Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 

Eros and Anteros 2 at Gadara, 

As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 

The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until 

Witch. Proceed. 

Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words, 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, -. 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties : 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one 

Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 

Man. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty ; 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — 
I lov'd her, and destroy'd her ! 

Witch. With thy hand ? 

Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke 
her heart — 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed- 
I saw — and could not stanch it. 

Witch. And for this — 

A being of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine own would rise above, 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back 
To recreant mortality Away ! 

Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, since that 
hour — 
But words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 
Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me ! 
My solitude is solitude no more, 
But peopled with the Furies ; — I have gnash'd 
My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 



226 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I have pray'd 

For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 

I have affronted death — but in the war 

Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 

And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 

Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 

Back by a single hair, which would not break. 

In phantasy, imagination, all 

The affluence of my soul — which one day was 

A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 

But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 

Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 

I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 

I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, 

And that I have to learn — my sciences, 

My long pursued and superhuman art, 

Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 

And live — and live forever. 

Witch. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

Man. . To do this thy power 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. 

Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 

Man. I will not swear — Obey ! and whom ? the 
spirits 
Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who served me — Never ! 

Witch. Is this all ? 

Hast thou no gentler answer ? — Yet bethink thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 

Man. I have said it. 

Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 

Man. Retire ! 

[The Witch disappears. 

Man. ( alone.) We are the fools of time and terror : 
Days 
Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead, 
And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hag 
Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, but fulfilled. 3 
If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living ; had I never loved, 



That which I love would still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she? 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. ■ , 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart, 
But I can act even what I most abhor, 
And champion human fears. — the night approaches. 

[Exit. 

SCENE III. 
The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain 

Enter First Destiny. 

The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright , 

And here on snows, where never human foot 

Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 

And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 

The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 

We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 

The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 

Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's image ; 

And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 

The fretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 

Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 

Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 

Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 

To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 

Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not. 

A Voice without, singing. 

The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne, 
Lay buried in torpor, 

Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 

He's Tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he'll answer my care, 
With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 

Seco?id Voice, without. 
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast : 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck ; 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 
And he was a subject well worthy my care ; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me ! 

First Destiny, ansicering. 

The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping : 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague flew o'er it, — 

Thousands lie lowly ; 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they should cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from ; 

Sorrow and anguish, 



MANFRED. 



227 



And evil and dread, 

Envelop a nation — 
The blest are the dead, 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation — 
This work of a night — 
' This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — 
For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing ! 

Enter the Second and Third Destinies. 

The Three. 

Our hands contain the hearts of men, 
Our footsteps are their graves ; 

"We only give to take again 
The spirits of our slaves ! 

First Des. Welcome ! — Where's Nemesis ? 
Second Des. At some great work ; 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
Third Des. Behold she cometh. 

Enter Nemesis. 

First Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 

My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

Nem. I was detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
Avenging men upon their enemies, 
And making them repent their own revenge ; 
Goading the wise to madness ; from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
We have outstay'd the hour — mount we our clouds ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 

The Hall of Arimanes. — Arimanes on his Throne, a 
Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. 

Hymn of the SriRiTS. 
Hail to our Master! — Prince of Earth and Air ! 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements — which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea ; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder ; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

hirst Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
The necks of men, bow down before his throne ! 

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we await 
His nod ! 

Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are thine, 



And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, 
And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, 
And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
Have been fulfill' d to the utmost. 



Enter Manfred. 

A Spirit. What is here ? 

A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Bow down and worship ! 

Second Spirit. I do know the man — 

A Magician of great power and fearful skill ! 

Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave ! — 
What, know'st thou not 
Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey 

All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy con- 
demned clay, 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 

Man. I know it ; 

And yet ye see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. 

Man. 'Tis taught already ; — many a night on the 
earth, 
On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face, 
And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 
The fulness of humiliation, for 
I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his Glory — Croucli ! I say. 

Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above 
him, 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made him not for worship — let him kneel, 
And we will kneel together. 

The Spirits. Crush the worm ! 

Tear him in pieces ! — 

First Des. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he's mine. 

Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers, and will, 
As far as is compatible with clay, 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
And they have only taught him what we know — 
That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, noi 

being, 
Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
Made him a thing, which I, who pity not, 
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
And thine, it may be — be it so, or not, 
No other Spirit in this region hath 
A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 

Nem. What doth he here then ? 

First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man. Ye know what I have known ; and without 
power 
I could not be among ye : but there are 



228 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 

Nem. What would'st thou ? 

Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead — my question is for them. 

Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal ? 

Ari. Yea. 

Nem. Whomwouldst thou 

Unchamel ? 

Man. One without a tomb — call up 

Astarte. 

Nemesis. 

Shadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever thou art, 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay, 
Which return' d to the earth, 

Reappear to the day ! 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form, 
And the aspect thou worest, 
Redeem from the worm. 
Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 
[The Phantom of Astarte rises and stands in 
the midst. 
Man. Can this be death ? there's bloom upon her 
cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue, 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 

By the power which hath broken 
The grave which enthrall'd thee, 

Speak to him who hath spoken, 
Or those who have call'd thee ! 

Man. She is silent, 

And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 

Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of 
air! 
It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 

Ari. Spirit — obey this sceptre ! 

Nem. Silent still ! 

She is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
And we are baffled also. 

Man. Hear me, hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured — so much endure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 



Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; 
And I would hear yet once more before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 
Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd 

boughs, 

And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name, 
Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me — 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — but say — 
I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
This once — once more ! 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred! 

Man. Say on, say on— 

I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 

Phan. Manfred ! To-morrow ends thine earthly 
ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou lovest me. 

Phan. Manfred ! 

[The Spirit of Astarte disappears, 

Nem. She's gone, and will not be rccall'd ; 

Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 

A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, 
and makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit 

Nem. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 

Man. None. 

Nem. Then for a time farewell. 

Man. We meet then ! Where ? On the earth ? — 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 

[Exit Manfred. 
{Scene closes.) 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall i?i the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour ? 

Tier. It wants but one till sunset, 

And promises a lovely twilight. 



MANFRED. 



229 



Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well : 

Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman 

Man. {alone.) There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosphy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," found, 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once ; 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 

Re-enter Herman. 

Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these 
walls ; 
Thy presence honors them, and blesseth those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so, Count ! — 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman, retire. — What would my reverend 
guest ? 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude : — Age and zeal, my 
office, 
And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighborhood, 
May also be my herald. Rumors strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries : may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

Man. Proceed. — I listen. 

Abbot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the 
things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man. 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
It is an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these 
things ? 

Abbot. My pious brethern — the scared peasantry — 
Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 

I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to 
heaven. 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply ; whate'er 



I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! 

Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment, 
But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 
Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 
To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
I leave to heaven — " Vengeance is mine alone," 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 

Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men, 
Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 
The innate tortures of that deep despair, 
Which is remorse without the fear of hell 
But all in all sufficient to itself 
Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
Upon itself; there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self condemn'd 
He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well ; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 
Man. When Rome's sixth emperor was near his 
last, 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
With show of royal pity, would have stanch'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
" It is too late — is this fidelity ? " 
Abbot. And what of this ? 

Man. I answer with the Roman — 

" It is too late ! " 

Abbot. It never can be so, 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, 
And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 
'Tis strange — even those who do despair above, 
Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth, 
To which frail twig they cling like drowning men. 

Man. Ay — father! I have had those earthly visions 
And noble aspirations in my youth, 
To make my own the mind of other men, 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
I knew not whither — it might be to fall ; 
But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, 
Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, 
(Which casts up misty columns that become 
Clouds raining from the reascended skies,) 
Lies low but mighty still. But this is past, 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 
Abbot. And wherefore so ? 

Man. I could not tame my nature down ; for he 



230 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Must serve who fain would sway — and sooth — and 

sue — 
And watch all time; — and pry into all place — 
And be a living lie — who would become 
A mighty thing among the mean, and such 
The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 
A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
The lion is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not live and act with other men ? 

Man. Because my nature was averse from life ; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation : — like the wind, 
The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
The course of my existence ; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas ! 

1 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
I still would 

Man. Look on me ! there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 
Without the violence of warlike death ; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
Some of disease — and some of insanity — 
And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts, 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
Have I partaken ; and of all these things 
One were enough ; then wonder nor that 1 
Am what I am, but that I ever was, 
Or having been, that I am still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still 

Man. Old man ! I do respect 

Thine order, and revere thy years ; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
TJiink me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 

[Exit Manfred. 

Abbot. This should have been a noble creature : he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements, 
Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 
It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, 
Mix'd, and contending without end or order, 
All dormant or destructive : he will perish, 
And yet he must not ; I will try once more, 
For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I'll follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

[Exit Abbot. 

SCENE II. 

Another Chamber. 

Manfred and Herman. 
Her, My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 



Doth he so ? 



Man. 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the Window of the Hall 
Glorious Orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 4 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb i that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief star ! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. [Exit Manfred. 

SCENE III. 

The Mountains. — The Castle of Manfred at some 
distance. — A Terrace before a Tower. — Time, 
Twilight. 

Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of 
Manfred. 

Her. 'Tis strange enough ; night after night, for 
years, 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
So have we all been ofttimes, but from it, 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
One chamber where none enter : I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'Twcre dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within the 

castle — 
How many years is't ? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he naught resembles. 

Her. There be more sons in like predicament. 
But wherein do they differ ? <• 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits : 
Count Sigismund was proud,— but gay and free,— 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 



MANFRED. 



231 



And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. 

Her. Come, be friendly 

Relate me some to while away our watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
"Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love, — 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do. 

The lady Astarte, his 

Hush ! who comes here. 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. Where is your master ? 

He?: Yonder in the tower. 

Abbot. I must speak with him. 

Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve already. 

Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, 

Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 

Of my own purpose. 

Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 

I pray you pause. 

Abbot. Why so ? 

Manuel. But step this way, 

And I will tell you further. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. 
hitcrior of the Tower. 

Manfred alone. 

Man. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! 
I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
I learn'd the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth, 
When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 



The trees which grew along the broken arches 

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the star 

Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 

The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 

More near from out the Caesars' palace camo 

The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 

Of distant sentinels the fitful song 

Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 

Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 

Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 

Within a bowshot — Where the Caesars dwelt, 

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levell'd battlements. 

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths. 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth , — 

But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands. 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 

While Caesars' chambers, and the Augustan halls, 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 

Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 

Of rugg'd desolation, and fill'd up, 

As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries, 

Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 

And making that which was not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old ! — 

The dead, but sccptered sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns. — 

'Twas such a night ! 
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time : 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 



Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. My good lord ! 

I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in the effect , 

May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander' d ; 
But is not yet all lost. 

Man. Thou know'st me not ; 

My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded: 
Retire, or 't will be dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 

Man. Not I ; 

I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost thou mean ? 

Man. Look there ! 

What dost thou see ? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Man. Look there, I say, 

And steadfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest ? 

Abbot. That which should shake me, — but I fear 
it not — 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise 
Like an infernal god from out the earth ; 
His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Eobed as with angry clouds ; he stands between 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 

Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm 
thee — but 



232 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
I say to thee — Retire ! 

Abbot. And I reply- 

Never — till I have battled with this fiend — 
What doth he here ? 

Man. Why — ay — what doth he here ? — 

I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 

Abbot. Alas ! lost mortal ! what with guests like 
these 
Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake ; 
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him ? 
Ah ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality ©f hell — 
Avaunt ! — 

Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 

Spirit. '; Come! 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being ! -aaswer ! 
— speak ! 

Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Cornel 'tis 
time. 

Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
The power which summons me. Who sent thee 
here ? 

Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come ! come ! 

Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 

Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — Away ! — I 
say. 

Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 

Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren. — 
Rise ! [Other spirits rise up. 

Abbot. Avaunt ! ye evil ones !— Avaunt ! I say, — 
Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
And I do charge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man ! 

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
It were in vain ; this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 

Man. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 
Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
Which made thee wretched ! 



Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 

My life is in its last hour, — that I know, 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
I do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels : my past power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 
But by superior science — penance — daring — 
And length of watching — strength of mind — and 

skill 
In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 

Spirit. But thy many crimes 

Have made thee 

Man. 'What are they to such as thee ? 

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 
And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell ! 
Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : 
What I have done is done ; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thine ; 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
Is its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
No color from the fleeting things without ; 
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
Born from the knowledge of his own desert. 
Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not 

tempt me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
But was my own destroyer, and will be 
My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 
The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 

[The Demons disappear. 

Abbot. Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are 
white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to heaven — 
Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 

Man. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not, 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart — 

But yet one prayer — alas ! how fares it with thee ?— 

Man. Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die. 

[Manfred expires. 

Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'en its earth- 
less flight — 
Whither ? I dread to think— but he is gone. 



NOTES TO MANFRED. 



i. 

the sunbow's 7-ays still arch 



The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 

Page 224, lines "102 and 103. 

This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the 

lower part of the Alpine torrents ; it is exactly like 

a rainbow, come down to pay a visit, and so close 

that you may walk into it : — this effect lasts till noon. 

2. 
He loho from out their fountain dwellings raised 
Eros and Anteros, at Gadara. 

Page 225, lines 86 and 87. 
The philosopher Iamblicus. The story of the 
raising of Eros and Anteros may be found in his 
life by Eunapius. It is well told. 

3. 

she replied 

hi words of dubious import, but fulfilled. 

Page 226, lines 63 and 64. 



The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (who 
commanded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and 
afterwards perished for an attempt to betray the 
Lacedemonians,) and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's 
Life of Cimon ; and in the Laconics of Pausanias 
the Sophist, in his description of Greece. 



-the giant sons 



Of the embrace of anqels. 

Page 230, lines 65 and 66. 

"That the Sons of God saw the daughters of 
men that they were fair," &c. 

" There were giants in the earth in those days ; 
and also after that, when the Sons of God came in 
unto the daughters of men, and they bare children 
to them, the same became mighty men which were 
of old, men of renown." — Genesis, ch. vi. verses 2 
and 4. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED; 

A DRAMA. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

This production is founded partly on the story of 
a novel called "The Three Brothers," published 
many years ago, from which M. G. LeVis's " Wood 
Demon " was also taken, and partly on the " Faust " 
of the great Goethe. The present publication con- 
tains the two first Parts only, and the opening 
chorus of the third. The rest may, perhaps, appear 
Hereafter. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Men. — Stranger, afterwards Cjesar. 
Arnold. 
Bourbon. 
Philibert. 
Cellini. 

Women. — Bertha. 
Olimpia. 

Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, 
Peasants, &c. 
30 '* 



PART I. 

SCENE I. 
A Forest. 

Enter Arnold and his mother Bertha. 

Bert. Out, hunchback ! 

Am. I was born so, mother ! 

Bert. Out, 

Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven sons 
The sole abortion ! 

Arn. Would that I had been so, 

And never seen the light ! 

Bert. I would so too ! 

But as thou hast — hence, hence — and do thy best ! 
That back of thine may bear its burden ; 'tis 
More high, if not so broad as that of others. 

Arn. It bears its burden ; — but, my heart ! Will it 
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother ? 
I love, or, at the least, I loved you : nothing 
Save you, in nature, can love aught like me, 
You nursed me — do not kill me ! 

Bert. Yes — I nursed thee, 



234 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Because thou wert my first-bora, and I knew not 
If there would be another unlike thee, 
That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence, 
And gather wood ! 

Am. I will ; but when I bring it, 

Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
So beautiful aud lusty, and as free 
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me : 
Our milk has been the same. 

Bert. As is the hedgehog's 

Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
Of the young bull, until tbe milkmaid find 
The nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
Call not thy brothers brethren ! Call me not 
Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out. 

[Exit Bertha. 

Am. (solus.) Oh mother ! She's gone, and I 

must do 
Her bidding ; — wearily but willingly 
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
A kind word in return. What shall I do ? 

[Arnold begins to cut wood: in doing this he 
wounds one of his hands. 
My labor for the day is over now. 
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
For double curses will be my meed now 
At home. — What home ? I have no home, no kin, 
No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
To share then: sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too 
Like them ? Oh that each drop which falls to earth 
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have 

stung me ! 
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, 
Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
His form, why not his power ? Is it because 
I have not his will too ? For one kind word 
From her who bore me would still reconcile me 
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
The wound. 

[Arnold goes to a spiring, and stoops to wash 
his hand: he starts back. 
They are right ; and Nature's mirror shows me 
What she hath made me. I will not look on it 
Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous wretch 
That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
From drinking therein. [He pauses. 

And shall I live on, 
A burden to the earth, myself, and shame 
Unto what brought me into life ? Thou blood, 
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream 
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself 
On earth, to which I will restore at once 
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to her elements, and take 
The shape of any reptile save myself, 
And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
This knife ! now let me prove if this will sever 
This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade — my 
Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
The green bough from the forest. 

[Arnold places the knife in the ground, with 
the point upwards. 

Now 'tis set, 
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 



On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
Myself, and the sweet sun, which warm'd me, but 
In vain. The birds — how joyously they sing ! 
So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell ; 
The fallen leaves my monument ; the murmur 
Of the near fountain my sole elegy : 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall ! 

[As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife, 
his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain, 
which seems in motion. 
The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
No. Yet it moves again ! The waters stir, 
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
And rocking power of the internal world. 
What's here ? A mist ! No more ? — 

[A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands 
gazing upon it : it is dispelled, and a tall black 
man comes towards him. 

Am. What would you ? Speak ! 

Spirit or man ? 

Strati. As man is both, why not 

Say both in one ? 

Am. Your form is man's, and yet 

You may be devil. 

Stran. So many men are that 

Which is so called or thought, that you may add me 
To which you please, without much wrong to either. 
But come : you wish to kill yourself ; — pursue 
Your purpose. 

Am. You have interrupted rce. 

Stran. What is that resolution which can e'er 
Be interrupted ? If I be the devil 
You deem, a single moment would have made you 
Mine, and for ever, by your suicide ; 
And yet my coming saves you. 

Am. I said not 

You were the demon, but that your approach 
Was like one. 

Stran. Unless you keep company 

With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
Society) you can't tell how he approaches : 
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, 
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
Look likest what the boors believe to be 
Their cloven-footed terror. 

Arn. Do you — dare you 

To taunt me with my born deformity ? 

Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more 

mighty 
In action and endurance than thyself, 
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
With thee. Thy form is natural ; 'twas only 
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
The gifts which are of others upon man. 

Am. Give me the strength then of the buffalo'i 
foot, 
When he spurns high the dust, beholding his 
Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship, 
The helmless dromedary ; — and I'll bear 
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 

Stran. I will. 

Arn. [xoith surprise.) Thou canst ? 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



235 



Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught else ? 

Am. Thou mockest me. 

Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 

What all are mocking ? That's poor sport, methinks, 
To talk to thee in human language (for 
Thou canst not yet speak mine) the forester 
Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar, 
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee, — 
Now I can mock the mightiest. 

Am. Then waste not 

Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 

Stran. Your thoughts 

Are not far from me. Do not send me back : 
I am not easily recall'd to do 
Good service. 
Am. What wilt thou do for me ? 

Stran. Change 

Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you, 
Or form you to your wish in any shape. 

Am. Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
Nought else would wittingly wear mine. 

Stran. I'll show thee 

The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee 
Thy choice. 
Am. On what condition ? 

Stran. There's a question ! 

An hour ago you would have given your soul 
To look like other men, and now you pause 
To wear the form of heroes. 

Am. No ; I will not. 

I must not compromise my soul. 

Stran. What soul, 

Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? 

Am. 'Tis an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement 
In which it is mislodged. But name your compact : 
Must it be sign'd in blood ? 

Stran. Not in your own. 

Am. Whose blood then ? 

Stran. We will talk of that hereafter. 

But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 
Great things within you. You shall have no bond 
But your own will, no contract save your deeds. 
Are you content ? 
Am. I take thee at thy word. 

Stran. Now then ! — 

[The Stranger approaches the fountain, and 
turns to Arnold. 

A little of your blood. 
Am. For what ? 

Stran. To mingle with the magic of the waters, 
And make the charm effective. 
Am. (holding out his tcounded arm.) Take it all. 
Stran. Not now. A few drops will suffice for this. 
[The Stranger takes some of Arnold's blood in 
his hand, and casts it into the fountain. 
Stran. Shadows of beauty ! 
Shadows of power ! 
Rise to your duty — 
This is the hour ! 
Walk lovely and pliant 

From the depth of this fountain, 
As the cloud-shapen giant 

Bestrides the Hartz mountain.* 



* This is a well-lniown German superstition — a gigantic shadow produced 
▼ reflection on the Brocken. 



Come as yc were, 

That our eyes may behold 
The model in air 

Of the form I will mould, 
Bright as the Iris 

When ether is spann'd ; — 
Such his desire is, [Pointing to Arnold. 

Such my command ! 
Demons heroic — 

Demons who wore 
The form of the stoic 
Or sophist of yore — 
Or the shape of each victor, 

From Macedon's boy 
To each high Roman's picture, 

Who brcath'd to destroy — 
Shadows of beauty ! 

Shadows of power ! 
Up to your duty — 
This is the horn - ! 
[Various Phantoms arise from the icater, and 
pass in succession before the Stranger and 
Arnold. 
Am. What do I see ? 

Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 

The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 
Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became 
His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 
Am. The phantom's bald ; my quest is beauty 
Could I 
Inherit but his fame with his defects ! 
Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than 
hairs. 
You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. 
I can but promise you his form ; his fame 
Must be long sought and fought for. 

Am. I will fight too, 

But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass ; 
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 

Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please 
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother, 
Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 

[The phantom of Julius Casar disappears. 
Am. And can it 

Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone, 
And left no footstep ? 

Stran. There you err. His substance 

Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
More than enough to track his memory ; 
But for his shadow, 'tis no more than yours 
Except a little longer and less crooked. 
I the sun. Behold another ! 

[A second phantom passes. 
Am. *Who is he ? 

Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
Athenians. Look upon him well. 

Am. He is 

More lovely than the last. How beautiful ! 
Stran. Such was the curled son of Clinias ! — 
wouldst thou 
Invest thee with his form ? 

Am. Would that I had 

Been born with it ! But since I may choose further, 
I will look further. 

[The shade of Alcibiades disappears. 
' Stran. Lo ! behold again \ 



236 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Am. What ! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round- 
eyed satyr, 
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, 
The splay feet and low stature ! I had better 
Remain that which I am. 

Stran. And yet he was 

The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
And personification of all virtue. 
But you reject him ? 

Am. If his form could bring me 

That which redeem'd it — no. 

Stran. I have no power 

To promise that ; but you may try and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your own. 

Am. No. I was not born for philosophy, 
Though I have that about me which has need on't. 
Let him fleet on. 

Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 

[The shadow of Socrates disappears : another 
rises. 

Arn. What's here ? whose broad brow and whose 
curly beard 
And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 
As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
For whom he had fought. 

Stran. It was the man who lost 

The ancient world for love. 

Arn. I cannot blame him, 

Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
That which he exchang'd the earth for. 

Stran. Since so far 

You seem congenial, will you wear his features ? 

Arn. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult, 
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
Whence they float back before us. 

Stran. Hence, triumvir ! 

Thy Cleopatra's waiting. 

[The shade of Antony disappears : another rises. 

Arn. Who is this ? 

Who truly looketh like a demigod, 
Blooming and bright, with golden hah, and stature, 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 
Which he wears as the sun his rays — a something 
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 
Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
Was he e'er human only ? 

Stran. Let the earth speak, 

If there be atoms of him left, or even 
Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 

Am. Who was this glory of mankind? 

Stran. ^ The shame 

Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war — 
Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

Am. Yet one shadow more. 

Stran. (addressing the shadoio.) Get thee to La- 
mia's lap. 
[The shade of Demetrius Poliocetes vanishes : 
another rises. 

I'll fit you still, 
Fear not, my hunchback. If the shadows of 
That which existed please not your nice taste, 
I'll animate the ideal marble, till 
Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 



Arn. Content ! I will fix here. 

Stran. I must commend 

Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess, 
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
Of rich Pactolus, roll'd o'er sands of gold, 
Soften'd by intervening crystal, and 
Rippled like flowing waters by the wind, 
All vow'd to Sperchius as they were — behold them ! 
And him — as he stood by Polixana, 
With sanction'd and with soften'd love, before 
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride, 
With some remorse within for Hector slain 
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 
Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 
He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
Greece look'd her last upon her best, the instant 
Ere Paris' arrow flew. 

Arn. I gaze upon him 

As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
Envelop mine. 

Stran. You have done well. The greatest 

Deformity should only barter with 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb's true 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

Arn. Come ! Be quick . 

I am impatient. 

Stran. As a youthful beauty 

Before her glass. You both see what is not, 
But dream it is what must be. 

Am. Must I wait ? 

Stran. No ; that were a pity. But a word or two: 
His stature is twelve cubits : would you so far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titan ? Or 
(To talk canonically) wax a son 
Of Anak ? 

Arn. Why not ? 

Stran. Glorious ambition ! 

I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
His own Goliath down to a slight David : 
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
Feather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 
If such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 
A little less removed from present men 
In figure, thou canst sway them more ; for all 
Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
A new-found mammoth ; and their cursed engines, 
Their culverins, and so forth, would find way 
Through our friend's armor there, with greater ease 
Than the adulterer's arrow through his heel, 
Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
In Styx. 

Arn. Then let it be as thou deem'st best. 

Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou 
seest, 
And strong as what it was, and — 

Am. I ask not 

For valor, since deformity is daring 
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
By heart and soul, and make itself the equai- 
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
A spur in its halt movements, to become 
All that the others cannot, in such things 
As still are free to both, to compensate 
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune, 
And oft, like Timour, the lame Tartar, win them. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



237 



Stra?i. Well spoken! And thou doubtless wilt 
remain 
Form'd as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Without it ? 

Am. Had no power presented me 

The possibility of change, I would 
Have done the best which spirit may to make 
Its way, with all deformity's dull, deadly, 
Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain, 
In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders — 
An hateful and unsightly molehill to 
The eyes of happier man. I would have look'd 
On beauty in that sex which is the type 
Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh — 
Not of love, but of despair ; nor sought to win, 
Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 
In turn, because of this vile crooked clog, 
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 
It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from her. 
The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
Of shape ; — my dam beheld my shape was hopeless. 
Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
Than what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 
Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
And perseverance could have done, perchance 
Had made me something — as it has made heroes 
Of the ?ame mould as mine. You lately saw me 
Master of my own life, and quick to quit it ; 
And he who is so is the master of 
Whatever dreads to die. 

Stran. Decide between 

What you have been, or will be. 

Am. I have done so. 

You have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved 
Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
Haste ! Haste ! 

Stran. And what shall I wear ? 

Am, Surely he 

Who can command all forms will choose the highest, 
Something superior even to that which was 
Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
Who slew him, that of Paris : or — still higher — 
The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 

Stran. Less will content me ; 

For I, too, love a change. 

Am. Your aspect is 

Dusky, but not uncomely. 

Stran. If I chose, 

I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
For black — it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear : 
But I have worn it long enough of late, 
And now I'll take your figure. 

Am. Mine . 

Stran. Yes. You 

Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha, 
Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes ; 
You have yours — I mine. 

Am. Despatch ! despatch ! 



Stran. Even so. 

[The Stranger takes some' earth and moulds it 
along the turf, and then addresses the phan- 
tom of Achilles. 
Beautiful shadow 

Of Thestis's boy ! 
Who sleeps in the meadow 

Whose grass grows o'er Troy : 
From the red earth, like Adam,* 

Thy likeness I shape, 
As the being who made him. 

Whose actions I ape. 
Thou clay, be all glowing, 

Till the rose in his cheek 
Be as fair as, when blowing, 

It wears its first streak ! 
Ye violets, I scatter, 

Now turn into eyes ! 
And thou sunshiny water, 
Of blood take the guise ! 
Let these hyacinth boughs 
Be his long flowing hair, 
And wave o'er his brows, 
As thou wavest in ah ! 
Let his heart be this marble 

I tear from the rock ! 
But his voice as the warble 

Of birds on yon oak ! 
Let his flesh be the purest 

Of mould, in which grew 
The lily-root surest, 

And drank the best dew ! 
Let his limbs be the lightest 

Which clay can compound, 
And his aspect the brightest 

On earth to be found ! 
Elements, near me, 

Be mingled and stirr'd, 
Know me, and hear me, 
And leap to my word ! 
Sunbeams, awaken 

This earth's animation ! 
'Tis done ! He hath taken 
His stand in creation ! 
[Arnold falls senseless ; his soul passes into 
tlie shape of Achilles, which rises from the 
ground ; while the phantom has disappeared, 
part by part, as the figure teas formed from the 
eart/i. 
Am. (in his new form.) I love, and I shall be 
beloved ! Oh life ! 
At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit ! 

Stran. Stop ! 

What shall become of your abandon'd garment, 
Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, 
Which late you wore, or were ? 

Am. Who cares ? Let wolves 

And vultures take it, if they will. 

Stran. And if 

They do, and are not scared by it, you'll say 
It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 

Am. Let us but leave it there ; 

No matter what becomes on't. 

Stran. That's ungracious, 

If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 
It hath sustain'd your soul full many a day. 



238 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Am. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 

Stran. But if I give another form, it must be 
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
Who make men without women's aid have long 
Had patents for the same, and do not love 
Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 
Of the original workmanship : — and therefore 
Some one must be found to assume the shape 
You have quitted. 
Am. Who would do so ? 

Stran. That I know not, 

And therefore I must. 
Am. You ! 

Stran. I said it ere 

You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 

Am. True. I forget all filings in the new joy 
Of this immortal change. 

Stran. In a few moments 

I will be as you were, and you shall see 
Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 
Am. I woxild be spared this. 
Stran. But it cannot be. 

What ! shrink already, being what you are, 
From seeing what you were ? 
Am. Do as thou wilt. 

Stran. (to the late form of Arnold, extended on 
the earth.) 
Clay ! not dead, but soulless ! 

Though no man would choose thee, 
An immortal no less 

Deigns not to refuse thee. 
Clay thou art ; and unto spirit 
All clay is of equal merit. 
Fire ! without which nought can live ; 
Fire ! but in which nought can live, 
Save the fabled salamander, 
Or immortal souls, which wander, 
Praying what doth not forgive, 
Howling for a drop of water, 

Burning iii a quenchless lot : 
Fire ! the only element 
Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, 
Save the worm which dieth not, 
Can preserve a moment's form, 
But must with thyself be blent ; 
Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughter : 
Fire ! Creation's first-born daughter, 
And Destruction's threaten'd son 
When heaven with the world hath done 
Fire ! assist me to renew 
Life in what lies in my view 

Stiff and cold ! 
His resurrection rests with me and you ! 
One little, marshy spark of flame — 
And he again shall seem the same ; 

But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
[An ignis-fatuus fits through the wood, and 
rests on the broio of the body. The Stranger 
disappears : the body rises. 
Am. (in his i^ew form.) Oh ! horrible ! 
Strati, (in Arnold's late shape.) What ! trem- 

blest thou ? 
Am. Not so — 

I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
Thou lately worest ? 

Stran. To the world of shadows. 

But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou ? 



Am. Must thou be my companion ? 

Stran. Wherefore not ? 

Your betters keep worse company. 

Am. My betters ! 

Stran. Oh ! you wax proud, I see, of your new 
form : 
I'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That's well ; 
You improve apace : — two changes in an instant, 
And you are old in the world's ways already. 
But bear with me : indeed, you'll find me useful 
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
Where shall we now be errant ? 

Am. Where the world 

Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
Its workings. 

Stran. That's to say, where there is war 

And woman in activity. Let's see ! 
Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
Afric, with all its Moors. In very truth, 
There is small choice : the whole race are just now 
Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 

Am. I have heard great things of Rome. 

Stran. A goodly choice 

And scarce a better to be found on earth, 
Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too ; 
For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion 
Of the old Vandals, are at play along 
The sunny shores of the world's garden. 

Am. How 

Shall we proceed ? 

Strait. Like gallants, on good coursers. 

What ho ! my chargers ! Never yet were better 
Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
Our pages too ! 

Enter two Pages with four coal-black horses. 

Am. A noble sight : 

Stran. And of 

A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
With these ! 

Am. The mighty steam which volumes high 

From their proud nostrils, burns the very air ; 
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, wheel 
Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
Round common steeds towards sunset. 

Stran. Mount, my lord ; 

They and I are your servitors. 

Am. And these 

Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names ? 

Stran. You shall baptize them. 

Am. What ! in holy water ? 

Stran. Why not ? The deeper sinner, better saint. 

Am. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be 
demons. 

Strati. True ; the devil's always ugly ; and your 
beauty 
Is never diabolical. 

Am. I'll call him 

Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright 
And blooming aspect, Huon; for he looks 
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest, 
And never found till now. And for the other 
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 
But looks as serious though serene as night, 
He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king 
Whose statue turns a harper once a day. 
And you ? 

Stran. I have ten thousand names, and twice 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



239 



As many attributes ; but as I wear 

A human shape, will take a human name. 

Am. More human than the shape (though it was 
mine once) 
I trust. 

Stran. Then call me Cscsar. 

Am. Why, that name 

Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
By the world's lords. 

Stran. And therefore fittest for 

The devil in disguise — since so you deem me, 
Unless you call me pope instead. : 

Arn. Well, then, 

Cfesar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
Shall be plain Arnold still. 

Cces. "We'll add a title— 

" Count Arnold ; " it hath no ungracious sound, 
And will look well upon a billet-doux. 

Am. Or in an order for a battle-field. 

Cces. (sings.) To horse ! to horse ! my coal-black 
steed 
Paws the ground and snuffs the air ! 

There's not a foal of Arab's breed 
More knows whom he must bear ; 

On the hill he will not tire, 

Swifter as it waxes higher ; 

In the marsh he will not slacken, 

On the plain be overtaken ; 

In the wave he will not sink, 

Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 

In the race he will not pant, 

In the combat he'll not faint ; 

On the stones he will not stumble, 

Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 

In the stall he will not stiffen, 

But be winged as a griffin, 

Only flying with his feet ; 

And will not such a voyage be sweet ? 

Merrily ! merrily ! never unsound, 

Shall our bonny black horses skim over the 
ground ! 

From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 

For we'll leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 
[They mount their horses, and disappear. 



SCENE II. 
A Camp before the Walls of Rome. 

Arnold and C.'esae. 

Cces. You are well enter'd now. 

Arn. Ay ; but my path 

Has been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
Of blood. 

Cces. Then wipe them, and see clearly. "Why ! 
Thou art a conquerer ; the chosen knight 
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
Late constable of France : and now to be 
Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 
Under its emperors, and — changing sex, 
Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
Lady of the old world. 

Arn. How old ? "What ! are there 

New worlds ? 

Cces. To you. You'll find there are such shortly, 



By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold ; 
From one-half of the world named a whole new one, 
Because you know no better than the dull 
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 

Am. I'll trust them. 

Cces. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 

And that is better than the bitter truth. 

Am. Dog! 

Cces. Man ! 

Arn. Devil ! 

Cces. Your obedient humble servant. 

Arn. Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on, 
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 

Cces. And where wouldst thou be ? 

Am. Oh, at peace — in peace. 

Cces. And where is that which is so ? From the star 
To the winding worm, all life is motion ; and, 
In life commotion is the extremest point 
Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way, 
Living upon the death of other things, 
But still, like them, must live and die, the subject 
Of something which has made it live and die. 
You must obey what all obey, the rule 
Of fix'd necessity : against her edict 
Rebellion prospers not. 

Am. And when it prospers 

Cces. 'Tis no rebellion. 

Arn. Will it prosper now ? 

Cces. The Bourbon hath given orders for the 
assault, 
And by the dawn there will be work. 

Arn. Alas ! 

And shall the city yield ? I see the giant 
Abode of the true God, and his true saint, 
Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
The sky whence Christ ascended from the cross, 
Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
Of joy, (as once of torture unto him, 
God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge.) 

Cces. 'Tis there, and shall be. 

Am. What ? 

Cces. The crucifix 

Above, and many altar shrines below. 
Also some culverins upon the walls, 
And harquebusses, and what not ; besides 
The men who are to kindle them to death 
Of other men. 

Am. And those scarce mortal arches, 

Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 
The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
(Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 
The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
In the arena, (as right well they might, 
AVhen they had left no human foe unconquer'd;) 
Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
For a sole instant's pastime, and " Pass on, 
To a new gladiator !" — Must it fall ? 

Cces. The city, or the amphitheatre ? 
The church, or one, or all ? for you confound 
Both them and me. 

Am. To-morrow sounds the assault 

With the first cock-crow. 

Cces. Which, if it end with. 



240 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The evening's first nightingale, will be 
Something new in the annals of great sieges ; 
For men must have their prey after long toil. 

Am. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 
More beautifully than he did on Rome 
On the day Remus leapt her wall. 

Cats. I saw him. 

Am. You ! 

Cats. Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 

Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 
And a worse name. I'm Caesar and a hunchback 
Now. Well ! the first of Caesars was a bald-head, 
And loved his laurels better as a wig 
(So history says) than as a glory. Thus 
The world runs on, but we'll be merry still. 
I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 
Slay his own twin, quick born of the same womb, 
Because he leapt a ditch, ('twas then no wall, 
"Whate'er it now be ;) and Rome's earliest cement 
Was brother's blood ; and if its native blood 
Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
As e'er 'twas yellow, it will never wear 
The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 
Which the great robber sons of fratricide 
Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 
For ages. 

Am. But what have these done, their far 
Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, 
The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
Piety ? 

Cces. And what had they done, whom the old 
Romans o'erswept ? — Hark ! 

Am. They are soldiers singing 

A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 

Cats. And why should they not sing as well as 
swans ? 
They are black ones, to be sure. 

Am. So, you are learn'd, 

I see, too ? 

Am. In my grammar, certes. I 

Was educated for a monk of all times, 
And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 
Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 
Your alphabet. 

Am. And wherefore do you not ? 

Cats. It answers better to resolve the alphabet 
Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 
And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist, 
Philosopher, and what not, they have built 
More Babels, without new dispersion, than 
The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze, 
Who fail'd and fled each other. Why ? why, marry, 
Because no man could understand his neighbor. 
They are wiser now, and will not separate 
For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, 
Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 
Cabala ; their best brick-work, wherewithal 
They build more — 

Am. (interrupting him. J Oh, thou everlasting 
sneerer ! 
Be silent ! How the soldier's rough strain seems 
Soften'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence ! 
Listen ! 

Cces. Yes, I have heard the angel sing. 

Am. And demons howl. 

Cats. And man to. Let us listen ! 

I love all music. 



Song of the Soldiers within. 



The black bands came over 

The Alps and their snow ; 
With Bourbon, the rover, 

They passed the broad Po. 
We have beaten all foemen, 

We have captured a king, 
We have turn'd back on no men, 

And so let us sing ! 
Here's the Bourbon for ever ! 

Though pennyless all, 
We'll have one more endeavor 

At yonder old wall. 
With the Bourbon we'll gather 

At day-dawn before 
The gates, and together 

Or break or climb o'er 
The wall : on the ladder 

As mounts each firm foot, 
Our shouts shall grow gladder, 

And death only be mute. 
With the Bourbon we'll mount o'er 

The walls of old Rome, 
And who then shall dount o'er 

The spoils of each dome ? 
Up ! up with the lily ! 

And down with the keys ! 
In old Rome, the seven-hilly, 

We'll revel at ease. 
Her streets shall be gory, 

Her Tiber all red, 
And her temples so hoary 

Shall clang with our tread. 
Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 

The Bourbon for aye ! 
Of our song bear the burden ; 

And fire, fire away ! 
With Spain for the vanguard, 

Our varied host comes ; 
And next to the Spaniard 

Beat Germany's drums ; 
And Italy's lances 

Are couch'd at their mother ; 
But our leader from France is, 

Who warr'd with his brother. 
Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 

Sans country or home, 
We'll follow the Bourbon, 

To plunder old Rome. 

Cces. An indifferent song 

For those within the walls, methinks, to hear. 

Am. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here 
comes 
The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 
A goodly rebel ! 

Enter the Constable Bourbon, "cum suis," <§•<?., %c. 

Phil. How now, noble prince, 

You are not cheerful ? 

Bourb. Why should I be so ? 

Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours, 
Most men would be so. 

Bourb. If I were secure ! 

Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of 
adamant, 
They'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 

Bourb. That they will falter is my least of fears 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



241 



That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 
To marshal them on— were those hoary walls 
Mountains, and those who guard them like the gods 
Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans ;— 
But now — 
Phil. They are but men who war with mortals. 
Bourb. True ; but those walls have girded in 
great ages, 
And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 
And present phantom of imperious Rome 
Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 
They flit along the eternal city's rampart, 
And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, 
And beckon me away ! 

Phil. So let them ! Wilt thou 

Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows ? 

Bourb. They do not menace me. I could have 
faced 
Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp 
And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands 
And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eyes 
Fascinate mine. Look there ! 

Phil. I look upon 

A lofty battlement. 

Bourb. And there ! 

Phil. Not even 

A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
Sheltered by the gray parapet from some 
Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
Practice in the cool twiright. 

Bourb. You are blind. 

Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
Be so. 

Bourb. A thousand years have mann'd the walls 
With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
The liberty of that I would enslave. 
And the first Caesar with his triumphs flits 
From battlement to battlement. 

Phil. Then conquer 

The walls for which he conquer'd, and be greater I 

Bourb. True; so I will or perish. 

Phil. You can not. 

In such an enterprise to die is rather 
The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 

[Count Arnold and Cjesah advance. 
f Cces. And the mere men — do they too sweat 

beneath 
The noon of this same ever-scorching glory ? 

Bourb. Ah! 

Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his master, 
The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 
And generous as lovely. We shall find 
Work for you both ere morning. 

Cces. You will find, 

So please your highness, no less for yourself. 

Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a laborer 
More forward, hunchback ! 

Cces. You may well say so, 

For you have seen that back — as general, 
Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
Have never seen it. 

Bourb. That's a fair retort, 

For I provoked it :— but the Bourbon's breast 
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 

Cces. And if I were, I might have saved myself 
The toil of coming here. 
31 



Phil. Why so ? 

Cces. One half^ 

Of your brave bands of their own bold accord 
Will go to him, the other half be sent, 
More swiftly, not less surely. 

Bourb. Arnold, your 

Slight crook'd friend's as snake-like in his wcrds 
As his deeds. 

Cces. Your highness much mistakes me. 

The first snake was a flatterer — I am none ; 
And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 

Bourb. You are brave, and that's enough for me, 
and quick 
In speech as sharp in action — and that's more. 
I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
Comrade. 

Cces. They are but bad company, your highness, 
And worse even for their friends than foes, as being 
More permanent acquaintance. 

Phil. How now, fellow ! 

Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a buffoon. 

Cess. You mean I speak the truth. 

I'll lie — it is as easy : then you'll praise me 
For calling you a hero. 

Bourb. Philbert ! 

Let him alone ; he's brave, and ever has 
Been first, with that swart face and mountain 

shoulder, 
In field or storm, and patient in starvation : 
And for his tongue, the camp is full of license, 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
Of a mere famish'd, sullen, grumbling slave, 
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis, 
With which he deems him rich. 

Cces. It would be well 

If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 

Bourb. Be silent ! 

Cces. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with words ! 
You have but few to speak. 

Phil. What means the audacious prater ? 

Cces. To prate, like other prophets. 

Bourb. Philibert ! 

Why will you vex him ? Have we not enough 
To think on ? Arnold ! I will lead the attack 
To-morrow. 
I Am. I have heard as much, my lord. 

Bourb. And you will follow ? 

Am. Since I must not lead. 

Bourb. 'Tis necessary for the further daring 
Of our too needy army, that their chief 
Plant the first foot upon the formost ladder's 
First step. 

Cces. Upon its topmost, let us hope : 

So shall he have his full deserts. 

Bourb. The world's 

Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
Through every change the seven-hill'd city hath 
Retain'd her sway o'er nations, and the Caesars 
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest, 
Still the world's masters ! Civilized, barbarian, 
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
Have been the circus of an empire. Well ! 
'Twas their turn — now 'tis ours ; and let us hop* 
That we will fight as well, and rule much better 



242 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ccbs. No doubt, the camp's the school of civic 
rights. 
What would you make of Rome ? 

Bourb. That which it was. 

Ccbs. In Alaric's time ? 

Bourb. No, slave ! in the first Caesar's, 
Whose name you bear like other curs 

Ccbs. And kings ! 

"Tis a great name for bloodhounds. 

Bourb. There's a demon 

In that fierce rattlesnake, thy tongue. Wilt never 
Be serious ? 

Ccbs. On the eve of battle, no ; — 

That were not soldier-like. 'Tis for the general 
To be more pensive : we adventurers 
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think ? 
Our tutelar deity in a leader's shape, 
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 
If the knaves take to thinking, you will have 
To crack those walls alone. 

Bourb. You may sneer, since 

'Tis lucky for you that you fight no worse for't. 

Ccbs. I thank you for the freedom ; 'tis the only 
Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 

Bourb. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself. 
Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury : 
But Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold, 
We would request your presence. 

Am. Prince ! my service 

Is yours, as in the field. 

Bourb. In both we prize it, 

And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak. 

Ccbs. And mine ? 

Bourb. To follow glory with the Bourbon. 

Good night ! 

Am. (to Cjesar.) Prepare our armor for the 
assault, 
And wait within my tent. 

[Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Philibert, &c. 

Ccbs. (solus. J Within thy tent ! 

Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my 

presence ? 
Or that this crooked coffer, which contain'd 
Thy principle of life, is aught to me 
Except a mask ? And these are men, forsooth ! 
Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards ! 
This is the consequence of giving matter 
The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 
And thinks chaotically, as it acts, 
Ever relapsing into its first elements. 
Well ! I must play with these poor puppets : 'tis ' 
The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
When I grow weary of it, I have business 
Among the stars, which these poor creatures deem 
Were made for them to look at. 'Twere a jest now 
To bring one down among them, and set fire 
Unto their ant-hill : how the pismires then 
Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing 
From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth 
One universal orison ! Ha ! ha ! [Exit Cjesar. 



PAKT II. 

SCENE I. 

BeforB the Walls of Rome. — The Assault : the army 
in motion, with ladders to scale the walls ; Bour- 
bon, with a white scarf over his armor, foremost. 



Chorus of Spirits hi the air. 

1. 
'Tis the morn, but dim and dark. 
Whither flies the silent lark ? 
Whither shrinks the clouded sun ? 
Is the day indeed begun ? 
Nature's eye is melancholy 
O'er the city high and holy : 
But without there is a din 
Should arouse the saints within, 
And revive the heroic ashes 
Round which yellow Tiber dashes : 
Oh ye seven hills ! awaken, 
Ere your very base be shaken ! 



Hearken to the steady stamp ! 

Mars is in their every tramp I 

Not a step is out of tune, 

As the tides obey the mo'on ! 

On they march, though to self-slaughter 

Regular as rolling water, 

Whose high waves o'ersweep the border 

Of huge moles, but keep then - order, 

Breaking only rank by rank. 

Hearken to the armor's clank ! 

Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 

How he glares upon the barrier : 

Look on each step of each ladder, 

As the stripes that streak an adder. 



Look upon the bristling wall, 
Mann'd without an interval ! 
Round and round, and tier on tier, 
Cannon's black mouth, shining spear, 
Lit match, bell-mouth'd musquetoon 
Gaping to be murderous soon ; 
All the warlike gear of old, 
Mix'd with what we now behold, 
In this strife 'twixt old and new, 
Gather like a locusts' crew. 
Shade of Remus ! 'tis a time 
Awful as thy brother's crime ! 
Christians war against Christ's shrine ;— 
Must its lot be like to thine ? 



Near — and near — and nearer still, 
As the earthquake saps the hill, 
First with trembling, hollow motion, 
Like a scarce-awaken'd ocean, 
Then with stronger shock and louder, 
Till the rocks are crushed to powder, — 
Onward sweeps the rolling host ' 
Heroes of the immortal boast ! 
Mighty chiefs ! eternal shadows ! 
First flowers of the bloody meadows 
Which encompass Rome, the mother 
Of a people without brother ! 
Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
Plough the root up of your laurels ? 
Ye who wept o'er Carthage burning, 
Weep not — strike ! for Rome is mourning ! 



* Scipio, the second Africanus, is gaid to have repeated a veree of Homer, 
and wept over the burning of Carthage. He had better have granted it a 
capitulation. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



243 



5. 



Onward sweeps the varied nations ! 
Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
To the wall with hate and hunger, 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 
On they sweep. Oh ! glorious city, 
Must thou he a theme for pity ? 
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman ! 
Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti ! 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city ; 
Rouse thee ! Rather give the torch 
With thy own hand to thy porch, 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
Your worst dwelling with their foot. 

6. 
Ah ! behold yon bleeding spectre ! 
Ilion's children find no Hector ; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother ; 
Rome's great sire forgot his mother, 
When he slew his gallant twin, 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
O'er the ramparts high and wide ! 
When the first o'erleapt thy wall, 
Its foundation mourn'd thy fall. 
Now, though towering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able ? 
Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome ! 

7. 
Now they reach thee in their anger ; 
Fire and smoke and hellish clangor 
Are around thee, thou world's wonder, 
Death is in thy walls and under. 
Now the meeting steel first clashes, 
Downward then the ladder crashes, 
With its iron load all gleaming, 
Lying at its foot blaspheming ! 
"Up again ! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbes the barrier, 
Thicker grows the strife : thy ditches 
Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome ! although thy wall may perish, 
Such manure thy fields will cherish, 
Making gay the harvest-home ; 
But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome ! — 
Yet be Rome amid thine anguish, 
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish ! 



Yet once more, ye old Penates 

Let not your quench'd hearths be Ate's ! 

Yet again, ye shadowy heroes, 

Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 

Though the son who slew his mother 

Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother: 

'Twas the Roman curb'd the Roman ; — 

Brennus was a baffled foeman. 

Yet again, ye saints and martyrs, 

Rise ! for yours are holier charters ! 

Mighty gods of temples falling, 

Yet in ruin still appalling ! 

Mightier founders of those altars, 

True and Christian, — strike the assaulters ! 

Tiber ! Tiber ! let th# torrent 

Show even nature's self abhorrent. 



Let each breathing heart dilated 
Turn, as doth the lion baited ! 
Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb, 
But be still the Roman's Rome ! 
[Bourbon, Arnold, Cjesar, and others, arrive 
at the foot of the wall, Arnold is about to 
plant his ladder. 
Bourb. Hold, Arnold ! I am first. 
Am. Not so, my lord. 

Bourb. Hold, sir, I charge you! Follow! lam 
proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. 

[Bourbon plants his ladder and begins to mount. 
Now, boys ! On ! on ! 

\_A shot strikes him and Bourbon falls. 
Cces. And off! 

Am. Eternal powers ! 

The host will be appall'd, — but vengeance ! ven- 
geance ! 
Bourb. 'Tis nothing — lend me your hand. 

[Bourbon takes Arnold bij the hand and rises; 
but as he puts his foot on the step, falls again. 
Arnold ! I am sped. 
Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal it ! 
Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon ; 
Let not the soldiers see it. 

Am. You must be 

Removed ; the aid of — 

Bourb. No, my gallant boy ; 

Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay, 
Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 
Cces. Would not your highness choose to kiss the 
cross ? 
We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword 
May serve instead : — it did the same for Bayard. 
Bourb. Thou bitter slave ! to name him at this 
time : 
But I deserve it. 
Am. (to Cjbsar.) Villain, hold your peace ! 
Cces. What, when a Christian dies ? Shall I not 
offer 
A Christian " Vade in pace ? " 

Am. Silence ! Oh ! 

Those eyes are glazing which o'erlook'd the world, 
And saw no equal. 
Bourb. Arnold, should'st thou see 

France But hark ! hark ! the assault grows 

warmer — Oh ! 
For but an hour, a minute more of life 
To die within the wall ! Hence, Arnold, hence ! 
You lose time — they will conquer Rome without thee. 
Am. And without thee ! 

Bourb. Not so ; I'll lead them still 

In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! and be 
Victorious ! 
Am. But I must not leave thee thus. 

Bourb. You must — farewell — Up ! up ! the world 
is winning. [Bourbon dies. 

Cces. (to Arnold.) Come, Count, to business. 
Am. True. I'll weep hereafter. 

[Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a mantle, 
and mounts the ladder, crying 
The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On, boys ! Rome is ours ! 
Cms. Good-night, lord constable ! thou wert a man. 
[Cjesa.u follows Arnold ; they reach the battle- 
matt ; Arnold and Caesar are struck down. 



244 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Cces. A precious somerset ! Is your countship 
injured? 

Am. No. [Remounts the ladder. 

Cces. A rare bloodhound, when his own is heated ! 
And 'tis no boy's play. Now he strikes them down ! 
His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
As though it were an altar ; now his foot 

Is on it, and "What have Ave here ? — a Roman ? 

[A man falls. 
The first bird of the covey ! he has fallen 
On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow ? 

Wounded Man. A drop of water ! 

Cces. Blood's the only liquid 

Nearer than Tiber. 

Wounded Man. I have died for Rome. [Dies. 

Cess. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
Oh these immortal men ! and their great motives ! 
But I must after my young charge. He is 
By this time i' the forum. Charge ! charge ! 

[Cesar mounts the ladder; the scene closes. 



SCENE II. 

The city. — Combats between the Besiegers and 
Besieged in the streets. Inhabitants flying in 
confusion. 

Enter Cesar. 

Cces. I cannot find my hero ; he is mix'd 
With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
What have we here ? A cardinal or two 
That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
How the old red-shanks scamper ! Could they doff 
Then- hose as they have doff'd their hats, 'twould be 
A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
But let them fly ; the crimson kennels now 
"Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 
Is of the self-same purple hue. 

Enter a party fighting — Arnold at the head of the 
Besiegers. 

He comes. 
Hand in hand with the mild twins — Gore and glory. 
Holloa i hold, Count ! 

Am. Away ! they must not rally. 

Cces. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 
Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 
A form of beauty, and an 
Exemption from some maladies of body, 
But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
I dipt thee not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 
I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
More than Pelides' heel; why then, be cautious, 
And know thyself a mortal still. 

Am. And who 

With augW(, of soul would combat if he were 
Invulnerable ? That were pretty sport. 
Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar ? 

[Arnold rushes into the combat. 

Cces. A precious sample of humanity ! 
Well, his blood's up ; and if a little's shed, 
'Twill serve to curb his fever. 

[Arnold engages with a Roman who retires 
towards a portico. 

Am. Yield thee, slave ! 

I promise quarter. 

Rom. That's soon said. 



Am. And done — 

My word is known. 

Rom. So shall be my deeds. 

[They re-eivgage. Caesar comes forward. 

Cces. Why, Arnold ! hold thine own : thou has ! 
in hand 
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor : 
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
Not so, my musqueteer; 'twas he who slew 
The Bourbon from the wall. 

Am. Ay, did he so ? 

Then he hath carved his monument. 

Rom. I yet 

May live to carve your betters. 

Cces. Well said, my man of marble ! Benvenuto, 
Thou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 
Who slays Cellini will have work'd as hard 
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 

[Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, but 
slightly ; the latter draws a pistol, and fires ; 
then retires, and disappears through the portico. 

Cms. How farest thou ? Thou hast a taste, me- 
thinks, 
Of red Bellona's banquet. 

Am. (staggers.) 'Tis a scratch. 

Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus. 

Cces. Where is it ? 

Am. In the shoulder, not the sword arm.— 

And that's enough. I am thirsty : would I had 
A helm of water ! 

Cces. That's a liquid now 

In requisition, but by no means easiest 
To come at. 

Am. And my thirst increases ; — but 

I'll find a way to quench it. 

Cces. Or be quench'd 

Thyself? 

Am. The chance is even ; we will throw 
The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating ; 
Prithee be quick. [Cesar binds on the scarf. 

And what dost thou so idly ? 
Why dost not strike ? 

Cces. Your old philosophers 

Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo. 

Am. Ay, against an oak. 

Cces. A forest, when it suits me. 

I combat with a mass or not at all. 
Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine ; 
Which is just now to gaze, since all these laborers 
Will reap my harvest gratis. 

Am. Thou art still 

A fiend ! 

Cces. And thou — a man. 

Am. Why, such I fain would show me. 

Cces. True — as men are. 

Am. And what is that ? 

Cces. Thou feelest and thou see'st. 

[Exit Arnold, joining in the combat which still 
continues betiveen detached paHies. The scene 
closes. 

SCENE III. 

St. Peter's. — The Interior of the Church. — The 
Pope at the Altar. — Priests, <SfC, crowding in con- 
fusion, and Citizens fiyi^g for refuge, pursued by 
Soldiery. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



245 



Enter C^esak. 
A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, comrades ! 
seize upon those lamps ! 
Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine ! 
His rosary's of gold ! 

Lutheran Soldier. Revenge ! revenge ! 
Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 

Cees. (inteiposing.) How now, schismatic ' 

What would'st thou ? 

Licth. Sol. In the holy name of Christ, 

Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 

Cees. Yea, a disciple that would make the founder 
Of your belief renounce it, could he see 
Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 
Luth. Sol. I say he is the devil. 
Cees. Hush ! keep that secret, 

Lest he should recognise you for his own. 

Luth. Sol. Why would you save him ? Irepeatheis 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 

Cees. And that's the reason ; would you make a 
quarrel 
With your best friends ? You had far best be quiet ; 
His hour is not yet come. 
Luth. Sol. That shall be seen ! 

The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward ; a shot 
strikes him from one of the Pope's Guards, 
and he falls at the foot of the Altar. 
Cees. (to the Lutheran.) I told you so. 
Luth. Sol. And will you not avenge me ? 

Cees. Not I! You know that "Vengeance is 
the Lord's." 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

Luth. Sol. (dying.) Oh ! 

Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
Crown'd with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not, 
And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'Tis 
A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon's 
No more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath chang*ed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
A.nd ashes \ [The Lutheran dies. 

Cees. Yes, thine own amid the rest. 

Well done, old Babel ! 

[The Guards defend themselves desperately, 
while the Pontiff escapes, by a private pas- 
sage, to the Vatican and the Castle of St. An- 
gela. 
Cees Ha ! right nobly battled ! 

Now, priest ! now, soldier ! the two great professions, 
Together by the ears and hearts ! I have not seen 
A more comic pantomine since Titus 
Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best then ; 
Now they must take their turn. 

Soldiers. He hath escaped ! 

Follow ! 
Another Sol. They have barr'd the narrow pas- 
sage up, 
And it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. 

Cees. I am glad he hath escaped : he may thank 
me for't 
In part. I would not have his bulls abolish'd — 
Twere worth one half our empire : his indulgences 
Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must not 
Fall ; — and besides, his now escape may furnish 
A future miracle, in future proof 
Of his infallibility. [To the Spanish Soldiery. 

Well, cut-throats ! 
What do you pause for ? If you make not haste, 



There will not be a link of pious gold left. 
And you too, Catholics ! Would ye return 
From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 
The very Lutherans have more true devotion ; 
See how they strip the shrines ! 

Soldiers. By holy Peter! 

He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
The best away. 

Cees. ■ And that were shame ! Go to ! 

Assist in their conversion. 

[The Soldiers disperse; many quit the Church, 
others enter. 

Cees. They are gone, 

And others come ; so flows the wave on wave 
Of what these creatures call eternity, 
Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 
While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So another ! 

Enter Olimpi s., flying from thepursuit. — She springs 
upon the Altar. 
Sol. She's mine. 

Another Sol. (opposing the former.) You lie, I 
track'd her first ; and, were she 
The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. [They fight. 
3d Sol. (advancing towards Olimpia.) You may 
settle 
Your claims ; I'll make mine good. 

Olimp. Infernal slave ! 

You touch me not alive. 

3d Soldier. Alive or dead ! 

Olimp. (embracing a massive crucifix.) Respect 

your God ! 
3d Sol. Yes, when he shines in gold. 

Ghl, you but grasp your dowry. 

[As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong and 
sudden effort, casts down the crucifix ; it 
strikes the Soldier, ivho falls. 
3d Sol. Oh, great God ! 

Olimp. Ah ! now you recognize him. 
3d Sol. My brain's crush'd ! 

Comrades, help, ho ! All's darkness ! [lie dies. 

Other Soldiers, (coming up.) Slay her, although 
she had a thousand lives : 
She hath kill'd our comrade. 

Olimp. Welcome such a death ! 

You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming 

Son, 
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, 
And thee ! 

Enter Arnold. 

Am. What do I see ? Accursed jackals ! 
Forbear ! 

Cees. (aside and laughing.) Ha ! ha ! here's equi- 
ty ! The dogs 
Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 

Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade. 

Am. "With what weapon ? 

Sol. The cross, beneath which he is crush'd ; be- 
hold him 
Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it 
Upon his head. 

Am. Even so ; there is a woman 

Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such, 
Ye would have honor'd her. But get ye hence, 
And thank your meanness, other God you have none 
For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair 



246 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away ! 
Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves, 
But not even these till he permits. 

A Sol. (murmuring.) The lion 

Might conquer for himself then. 

Am. (cuts him down.) Mutineer ! 

Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 

[The Soldiers assault Arnold. 
Am. Come on ! I'm glad on't ! I will show you, 
slaves, 
How you should be commanded, and who led you 
First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale, 
Until I waved my banners from its height, 
As you arc bold within it. 

["Arnold mows down the foremost ; the rest 
throw down their arms. 
Soldiers. Mercy ! mercy ! 

Am. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you 
who 
Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements ? 

Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
The conquest which you led to. 

Arn. Get you hence ! 

Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 
In the Colonna palace. 

Olimp. (aside.) In my father's 

House ! 
Arn. (to the Soldiers.) Leave your arms ; ye have 
no further need 
Of such : the city's render'd. And mark well 
You keep your hands clean, or I'll find a stream, 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 

Soldiers, (deposing their arms and departing.) We 

obey ! 
Arn. (to Olimpia.J Lady, you are safe. 
Olimp. I should be so, 

Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
Death hath a thousand gates ; and on the marble, 
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! 

Am. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 
Thine own, although I have not injured thee. 
Olimp. No! thou hast only sack'd my native 
land, — 
No injury ! — and made my father's house 
A den of thieves ! No injury ! — this temple — 
Slippery with Roman and with holy gore. 
No injury ! And now thou would'st preserve me, 
To be — but that shall never be ! 

[She 7-aises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe 
round her, and prepares to dash herself down 
on the side of the Altar opposite to that where 
Arnold stands. 
Arn. Hold! hold! 

1 swear. 

Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul 
A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 
I know thee. 

Am. No, thou know'st me not; I am not 

Of these men, though — 

Olimp. I judge thee by thy mates ; 

It is for God to judge thee as thou art. 
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shalt have of me ! 
And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
Where the baptismal font baptized me God's, 



I offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[OLmriA waves her hand to Arnold with dig' 
dain, and dashes herself on the pavement from 
the Altar. 

Am. Eternal God ! 

I feel thee now ! Help! help! She's gone. 

Cms. (approaches.) I am here. 

Am. Thou ! but oh, save her ! 

Cces. (assisting him to raise Olimpia.J She hath 
done it well ! 
The leap was serious. 

Am. Oh ! she is lifeless ! 

Cces. If 

She be so, I have nought to do with that : 
The resurrection is beyond me. 

Am. Slave ! 

Cces. Ay, slave or master, 'tis all one : methinks 
Good words, however, are as well at times. 

Arn. Words ! — Canst thou aid her ? 

Cces. I will try. A sprinkling 

Of that same holy water may be useful. 

[He brings some in his helmet from the font. 

Am. 'Tis mix'd with blood, 

Cces. There is no cleaner now 

In Rome. 

Am. How pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless ! 
Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
I love but thee ! 

Cces. Even so Achilles loved 

Penthcsilea : with his form it seems 
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 

Am. She breathes ! But no, 'twas nothing, or the 
last 
Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

Cces. She breathes. 

Arn. Thou say'st it ? Then 'tis truth. 

Cas. You do me right— 

The devil speaks truth much oftener than he's 

deem'd : 
He hath an ignorant audience. 

Am. (without attending to him.) Yes! her heart 
beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I ever wish'd to beat with mine should vibrate 
To an assassin's pulse. 

Cces. A sage reflection, 

But somewhat late i' the day. Where shall we bear 

her ? 
I say she lives. 

Am. And will she live ? 

Cces. As much 

As dust can. 

Am. Then she is dead ! 

Cess. Bah ! bah ! You are so, 

And do not know it. She will come to life — 
Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
But we must work by human means. 

Am. We will. 

Convey her into the Colonna palace, 
Where I have pitch'd my banner. 

Cces. Come, then ! raise her up ! 

Am. Softly! 

Cas. As softly as they bear the dead, 

Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

Arn. But doth she live indeed ? 

Cces. Nay, never fear ! 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



247 



But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 

Am. Let her but live ! 

Cces. * The spirit of her life 

Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
Count ! Count ! I am your servant in all things, 
And this is a new office : — 'tis not oft 
I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive 
How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
Now / desert not mine. Soft ! bear her hence, 
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
I am almost enamor'd of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 

Am. Thou! 

C<es. I ! But fear not. I'll not be your rival. 

Am. Rival ! 

Cces. I could be one right formidable ; 

But since I slew the seven husbands of 
Tobias' future bride, (and after all 
'Twas suck'd out by some incense,) I have laid 
Aside intrigue : 'tis rarely worth the trouble 
Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize again : for there's 
The rub ! at least to mortals. 

Am. Prithee, peace ! 

Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 

Cces. Like stars, no doubt ; for that's a metaphor 
For Lucifer and Venus. 

Am. To the palace 

Colonna, as I told you ! 

Cess. Oh ! I know 

My way through Rome. 

Am. Now onward, onward ! Gently. 

[Exeunt, bearing Olimpia. — The scene closes. 



PART III. 

SCENE I. 

A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild but 
smiling country. — Chorus of Peasants singing be- 
fore the Gates. 

CHORUS. 



The wars are over, 

The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 



The spring is come ; the violet's gone, 

The first-born child of the early sun : 

With us she is but a winter's flower, 

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 

And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 

To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 



3. 



And when the spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
Her heavenly odor and virgin hues. 

4. 
Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald out of dim December — 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours: 
Nor, mid the roses, e'er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 

Enter Cesar. 
Cces. (singing.) The wars are all over, 

Our swords are all idle, 

The steed bites the bridle, 
The casque's on the wall. 
There's rest for the rover, 

But his armor is rusty, 

And the veteran grows crusty, 
As he yawns in the hall ; 

He drinks — but what's drinking ? 

A mere pause from thinking ! 
No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call. 

CHORUS. 

But the hound bayeth loudly, 

The boar's in the wood, 
And the falcon longs proudly 

To spring from her hood : 
On the wrist of the noble 

She sits like a crest, 
And the air is in trouble 

With birds from their nest 

Cces. Oh ! shadow of glory ! 
Dim image of war ! 

But the chase hath no story, 
Her hero no star, 

Since Nimrod the founder 
Of empire and chase, 

Who made the woods wonder 
And quake for their race. 

When the lion was young, 
In the pride of his might, 

Then 'twas sport for the strong 
To embrace him in fight ; 
To go forth, with a pine 

For a spear 'gainst the mammoth, 
Or strike through the ravine 
At the foaming behemoth ; 
While man was in stature 

As towers in our time, 
The first-born of nature, 
And, like her, sublime ! 

CHORUS. 

But the wars are over, 
The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, and we rejoice*, 
Let their hearts have an echo from every voice : 
[Exeunt the Peasantry, singing, 



HEAVEN AND EARTH; 



A MYSTERY, 



FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. VI. 



" And it came to pass .... that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair ; and they took them 
wives of all which they chose." 



" And woman wailing for her demon lover." — Coleridge. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Angels. — Samiasa. 
Azaziel. 
Raphael the Archangel. 

Men. — Noah and his Sons. 
Iuad. 
Japhet. 

Women. — Anah. 

Aholibamah. 

Chorus of Spirits of the Earth.— Chorus of Mortals, 



PART I. 

SCENE I. 

A woody and mountainous district ?iear Mount Ara- 
rat. — Time, Midnight. 

Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 

Anah. Oun father sleeps : it is the hour when they 
Who love us are accustom'd to descend 
Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : 
How my heart beats ! 

Aho. Let us proceed upon 

Our invocation. 

Anah. But the stars are hidden. 

I tremble. 

Alio. So do I, but not with fear 
Of aught save their delay. 



Anah. My sister, though 

I love Azzaiel more than oh, too much ! 

What was I going to say ? my heart grows impious. 

Alio. And where is the impiety of loving 
Celestial natures ? 

Anah. But, Aholibamah, 

I love our God less since his angel loved me : 
This cannot be of good ; and though I know not 
That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 

Alio. Then wed thee 

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long : 
Marry, and bring forth dust ! 

Anah. I should have loved 

Azaziel not less were he mortal ; yet 
I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him, 
And when I think that his immortal wings 
Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 
As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
Less terrible ; but yet I pity him : 
His grief will be of ages, or at leasts 
Mine would be such for him, were I the seraph. 
And he the perishable. t 

Aho. Rather say, 

That he will single forth some other daughter 
Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 

Anah. And if it should be so, and she loved him 
Better thus than that he should weep for me. 

Alio. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
All seraph as he is, I'd spurn him from me. 
But to our invocation ! 'Tis the hour. 

Anah. Seraph ! 

From thy sphere ! 

Whatever star contain thy glory ; 

In the eternal depths of heaven 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



249 



Albeit thou watchest with " the seven " * 
Though through space infinite and hoary 
Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
Yet hear ! 
Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! 

And though she nothing is to thee, 
Yet think that thou art all to her. 

Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
- Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
The bitterness of tears. 
Eternity is in thy years, 
Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes ; 
With me thou canst not sympathize, 
Except in love, and there thou must 
Acknowledge that more loving dust 
Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 

The face of him who made thee great, 
As he hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
Yet, Seraph dear ! 
Oh hear ! 
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
That thou foget'st in thine eternity 
Her whose heart death could not keep from o'er- 
flowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 
A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear, 
For sorrow is our element ; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight, 

Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
The hour is near 
Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite. — 
Appear ! Appear ! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel ! be but here, 
And leave the stars to their own light. 
Alio. Samiasa ! 

Whereso'er 
Thou rulest in the upper air — 
Or warring with the spirits who may dare 

Dispute with him 
Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling 
Some wandering star, which shoots through the 
abyss 
Whose tenants dying, while their world is falling, 
Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
Thou deignest to partake then- hymn — 
Samiasa ! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many may worship thee, that will I not: 
If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
Descend and share my lot ! 

Though I be form'd of clay, 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 
On Eden's streams, 
Thine immortality can not repay 

With love more warm than mine 
My love. There is a ray 



The -archangels, said to be seven in number. 

32 



In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, 

I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long : death and decay 

Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
Defies it : though this life must pass away, 

Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? 
Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 

I feel my immortality o'erswecp 
All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal, 

Like the eternal thunders of the deep, 
Into my ears this truth — " thou liv'st for ever ! " 
But if it be in joy 

I know not, nor would know ; 
That secret rests with the Almighty giver 

Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and wo . 
But thee and me he never can destroy ; 

Change as he may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 

Of as eternal essence and must war 

With him if he will war with us : with thee 
I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; 

For thou hast ventured to share life with me, 

And shall / shrink from thine eternity ? 

No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce me 
through, 

And thou thyself wert like the serpent coil 

Around me still ! and I will smile 
And curse thee not ; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend ; and prove 

A mortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and take, remain ! 

Anah. Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 
Their bright way through the parted night. 

Alio. The clouds from off their pinions flinging, 
As though they bore to-morrow's light. 

Anah, But if our father see the sight ! 

Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

Anah. They come ! he comes ! — Azaziel ! 

Aho. Haste 

To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there, 
To Samiasa's breast ! 

Anah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 

On Ararat's late secret crest 
A mild and many-color'd bow, 
The remnant of their flashing path, 
Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
Return'd to night, as rippling foam, 

Which the leviathan hath lash'd 
From his unfathomable home, 
When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 

Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 

Aho. They have touch'd earth ! Samiasa ! 

Anah. My Azaziel ' 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

Enter Irad and Japhet. 

Irad. Despond not; wherefore wilt thou wander 
thus 
To add thy silence to the silent night, 
And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars ? 
They cannot aid thee. 



250 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Japh. But they sooth me — now 

Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Methinks a being that is beautiful 
Becometh more so as it looks on beauty, 
The eternal beauty of undying things. 
Oh, Anah ! 

Irad. But she loves thee not. 

Japh. Alas ! 

Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me also. 

Japh. I feel for thee too. 

Irad. Let her keep her pride, 

Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn : 
[t may be, time too will avenge it. 

Japh. Canst thou 

Find joy in such a thought ? 

Irad. Nor joy nor sorrow, 

I loved her well ; I would have loved her better, 
Had love been met with love : as 'tis, I leave her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 

Japh. What destinies ? 

Irad. I have some cause to think 

She loves another. 

Japh. Anah ! 

Irad. No ; her sister. 

Japh. What other ? 

Irad. That I know not ; but her air, 

If not her words, tells me she loves another. 

Japh. Ay, but not Anah : she but loves her God. 

Irad. Whate'er she loveth, so she loves thee not, 
What can it profit thee ? 

Japh. True, nothing ; but 

I love. 

Irad. And so did I. 

Japh. And now thou lov'st not, 

Or think'st thou lov'st not, art thou happier ? 

Irad. Yes. 

Japh. I pity thee. 

Irad. Me ! why ? 

Japh. For being happy, 

Deprived of that which makes my misery. 

Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper, 
And would not feel as thou dost for more shekels 
Than all our father's herds would bring if weigh'd 
Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
The yellow dust they try to barter with us, 
As if such useless and discolor'd trash, 
The refuse of the earth, could be received 
For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
Our flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
Sigh to the stars as wolves howl to the moon— 
I must back to my rest. 

Japh. And so would I 

If I could rest. 

Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 

Japh. No, Irad ; I will to the cavern, whose 
Mouth they say opens from the internal world 
To let the inner spirits of the earth 
Forth when they walk its surface. 

Irad. Wherefore so ? 

What would' st thou there ? 

Japh. Sooth further my sad spirit 

With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 
And I am hopeless. 

Irad. But 'tis dangerous ; 

Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with 

terrors. 
I must go with thee. 

Japh. Irad, no ; believe me 

I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 



Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more 
As not being of them : turn thy steps aside, 
Or let mine be with thine. 

Japh. No, neither, Irad : 

I must proceed alone. 

Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 

[Exit Irad. 

Japh. (solus.) Peace ! I have sought it where it 
should be found, 
In love — with love, too, which perhaps deserved it ; 
And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
A weakness of the spirit — listless days, 
And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? the calm 
Of desolation, and the stillness of 
The untrodden forest, only broken by 
The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs ; 
Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
Of my mind overworn. The earth's grown wicked, 
And many signs and portents have proclaim'd 
A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 
To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah ! 
"When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 
The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 
Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
The elements ; this bosom, which in vain 
Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vainly, 

While thine Oh, God ! at least remit to her 

Thy wrath ! for she is pure amid the failing 
As a.star in the clouds, which cannot quench, 
Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah ! 
How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst not ; 
And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 
When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 
By rock or shallow, the leviathan, 
Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 
Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 

[Exit Japhet. 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

Noah. Where is thy brother Japhet ? 

Shem. He went forth 

According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
Towards Anah's tents, round which he hovers 

nightly, 
Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest ; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 

Noah. What doth he there ? It is an evil spot 
Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
Than even wicked men resort there : he 
Still loves this daughter of a fated race, 
Although he could not wed her if she loved him, 
And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days, 
And that the hour approacheth, should indulge 
In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the way ; 
He must be sought for ! 

Shem. ' Go not forward, father ; 

I will seek Japhet. 

Noah. Do not fear for me : 

All evil things are powerless on the man 
Selected by Jehovah — let us on. 

Shem. To the tents of the father of the sisters ? 

Noah. No ; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 

[Exeunt Noah and Shem, 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



251 



SCENE III. 



The Mountains. — A Cavern, and the Rocks of 
Caucasus. 

Japh. (solus.) Ye wilds, that look eternal ; and 
thou cave 
Which seem'st unfathomable ; and ye mountains, 
So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
And toppling trees that twine their roots with stone 
In perpendicular places, where the foot 
Of man would tremble, could he reach them — yes, 
Ye look eternal ! Yet, in a few days, 
Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurl'd 
Before the mass of waters ; and yon cave, 
Which seems to lead into a lower world, 
Shall have its depth search'd by the sweeping wave, 
And dolphins gambol in the lion's den ! 

And man Oh, men ! my fellow-beings ! Who 

Shall weep above your universal grave, 

Save I ? Who shall be left to weep ? My kinsmen, 

Alas ! what am I better than ye are, 

That I must live beyond ye ? Where shall be 

The pleasant places where I thought of Anah 

While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 

Scarce less beloved, where I despair'd for her ? 

And can it be ! — Shall yon exulting peak, 

Whose glittering top is like a distant star, 

Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep ? 

No more to have the morning sun break forth, 

And scatter back the mists in floating folds 

From its tremendous brow ? no more to have 

Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 

Leaving it with a crown of many hues ? 

No more to be the beacon of the world 

For angels to alight on, as the spot 

Nearest the stars ? Andean those words " no more," 

Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us, 

And the predestined creeping things reserved 

By my sire to Jehovah's bidding ? May 

He preserve them, and / not have the power 

To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 

A doom which even some serpent, with his mate, 

Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd, 

To hiss and sting through some emerging world, 

Iteeking and dank from out the slime, whose ooze 

Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until 

The salt morass subside into a sphere 

Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 

The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre, 

Of yet quick myriads of all life ? How much 

Breath will be still'd at once ! All beauteous world ! 

So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 

With a cleft heart look on thee day by day, 

And night by night, thy number'd days and nights. 

I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 

Whose love had made me love thee more ; but as 

A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 

Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 

Such as — Oh God ! and canst thou [lie p>auses. 

A rushing sound from the cavern is heard, and shouts 
of laughter — afterwards a Spirit j)asses. 

Japh. In the name 

Of the Most High, what art thou ? 

Spirit, (laughs.) Ha! Ha! Ha! 

Japh. By all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 
Spirit, (laughs.) Ha ! Ha ! 



\ 



Japh. By the approaching deluge ! by the ear,th 
Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
The deep which will lay open all her fountains ! 
The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas, 
And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes ! 
Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct, 
Yet Awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me ! 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 

Spirit. Why weep'st thou 2 

Japh. For earth and all her children. 
Spirit. Ha! Ha! Ha! 

[Sjjirit vanishes. 
Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a world, 
The coming desolation of an orb, 
On which the sun shall rise and warm no life ' 
How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
Sleep too upon the. very eve of death ! 
AVhy should they wake to meet it ? What is here, 
Which look like death in life, and speak like things 
Born ere this dying world ? They come like clouds ! 
[Various Spirits pass from the cavern. 
Spirit. Rejoice ! 
The abbhorr'd race 
Which could not keep in Eden their high place; 

But listen'd to the voice 
Of knowledge without power, 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death ! 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow, 
Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sapping 
motion, 
Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
Earth shall be ocean ! 
And no breath, 
Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot : 
Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 

Shall lift its point to save. 
Or show the place where strong despair hath died, 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
For the expected ebb which cometh not ; 
All shall be void, 
Destroy'd ! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhorr'd 
Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each hue 
Of earth nought left but the unbroken blue ; 
And of the variegated mountain 
Shall nought remain 
Unchanged, nor of the level plain ; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain : 
All merged within the universal fountain, 
Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 
And sea and sky 
Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye 
Upon the foam 
Who shall erect a home ? 
Japh. (coming forward.) My sire ! 
Earth's seed shall not expire ! 
Only the evil shall be put away 

From day. 
Avaunt ! ye exulting demons of the waste 1 
Who howl your hideous joy 
When God destroys whom you dare not destroy, 
Hence ! haste ! 
Back to your inner caves ! 
Until the waves 
Shall search you in your secret place, 
And drive your sullen race 



252 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Forth, to be roll'd upon the tossing -winds 
In restless wretchedness along all space ; 
Spirit. Son of the saved ! 

"When thou and thine have braved 
The wide and warring element ; 
When the great barrier of the deep is rent, 
Shall thou and thine be good or happy ! — No ! 
Thy new world and new race shall be of wo — 
Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
Less than the glorious giants, who 
Yet walk the world in pride, 
The sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears. 
And art thou not ashamed 

Thus to survive, 
And eat, and drink, and wive ? 
With a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
As even to hear this wide destruction named, 
Without such grief and courage, as should rather 

Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
Than seek a shelter with thy favor' d father, 
And build thy city o'er the drown'd earth's grave 
Who would outlive their kind, 
Except the base and blind ? 
Mine 
Hateth thine, 
As of a different order in the sphere, 
But not our own. 
JLhere is not one who hath not left a throne 

Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here, 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 

Go, wretch ! and give 
A life like thine to other wretches — live ! 
And when the annihilating waters roar 
Above what they have done, 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more, 
And scorn thy sire as the surviving one ! 
Thyself for being his son ! 

Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 

Rejoice ! 
No more the human voice 
Shall vex our joys in middle air 
] With prayer ; 
No more 

Shall they adore ; 
And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 

The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
Is vice ; 
We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd, 
Until one element shall do the work 
Of all in chaos ; until they, 
The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 
In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 

Where even the brutes, in their despair, 
Shall cease to prey on man and on each other, 

And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother; 
Till all things shall be as they were, 
Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
While a brief truce 
Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
The little remnant of the past creation, 
To generate new nations for his use ; 

This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime, 



When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
Into a world, shall give again to time 
New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime — 
With all companionship of hate and toil, 

Until 

Japh. (interrupting them.) The eternal will 

Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of good and evil ; and redeem 

Unto himself all times, all things ; 
And, gather'd under his almighty wings, 
Abolish hell ! 
And to the expiated Earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth, 
Her Eden in an endless paradise, 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
And even the very demons shall do well ! 
Spirits. And when shall take effect this wondrous 

spell ? 
Japh. When the Redeemer cometh ; first in pain, 

And then in glory. 
Spirits. Meantime, still struggle in the mortal 
chain, 

Till earth wax hoary ; 
War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain, 

Until the clouds look gory 
With the blood reeking from each battle plain ; 
New times, new climes, new arts, new men ; but still 
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 
Shall be among your race in different forms ; 
But the same moral storms . 
Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
In a few hours the glorious giant's graves.* 

Chorus of Spirits. 

Brethren, rejoice ! 
Mortal, farewell ! 
Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 
The winds, too, plume their piercing wings . 
The clouds have nearly fill'd their springs ; 
The fountains of the great deep shall be broken, 

And heaven set wide her windows ; while mankind 
View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
Still, as they were, from the beginning, blind, 
We hear the sound they cannot hear, 
The mustering thunders of the threatening 
sphere ; 
Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd ; 
Their flashing banners, folded still on high, 
Yet undisplay'd, 
Save to the Spirit's all-pervading eye. 

Howl ! howl ! oh Earth ! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth ; 
Tremble, ye mountains ! soon to shrink below 

The ocean's overflow ! 
The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells, 

The little shells, of ocean's least things be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 
How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching swell ; — 
While man shall long in vain for his broad wings, 

The wings which could not save : — 
Where could he rest them, while the whole space 
brings 
Nought to his eye beyond the deep, his grave ? 



" And there were giants in the earth in those days, and after ; mighty 
men, which were of old men of renown." — Genesis. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



253 



Brethren, rejoice ! 
And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 
All die, 
Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — 

The seed of Seth, 
Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death,. 
But-«f the sons of Cain 
None shall remain; 
And all his goodly daughters 
Must lie beneath the desolating waters ; 
Or, floating upward, with their long hair laid 
Along the wave, the cruel heaven upbraid, 
Which would not spare 
Beings even in death so fan - . 
It is decreed, 
All die ! 
And to the universal human cry 
The universal silence shall succeed ! 
Fly, brethren, fly ! 
But still rejoice ! 
We fell ! 
They fall ! 
So perish all 
These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from hell ! 
[The Spirits disappear, soaring ziptvards. 
Japh. (solus.) God hath proclaim'd the destiny 
of earth ; 
My father's ark of safety hath announced it ; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves ; 
The scroll* of Enoch prophesied it long 
In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
More to the mind than thunder to the ear : 
And yet men listen'd not, nor listen ; but 
Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so nigh, 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty 

purpose, 
Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
No sign yet hangs its banner in the air ; 
The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture ; 
The sun will rise upon the earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of creation, when 
God said unto him, " Shine ! " and he broke forth 
Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
Before the human orison the earlier 
Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
"Which in the open firmament of heaven 
Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adamites : 
Their matims now draw nigh — the east is kindling — 
And they will sing ! and day will brRik ! Both near, 
So near the awful close ! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and day, 
After the bright course of a few brief morrows, — 
Ay, day will rise ; but upon what ? — a chaos, 
Which was ere day ; and which renew'd, makes time 
Nothing ! for, without life, what are the hours ? 
No more to dust than is eternity 
Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
Without him, even eternity would be 
A void : without man, time, as made for man, 
Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that deep 
Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 
Devour'd by that which drowns his infant world. — 
What have we here ? Shapes of both earth and air ? 
No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 



* The book of Enoch, prewired by the Ethiopians, is said by them to be 
anterior to the flood. 



I cannot trace their features ; but their forms, 

How lovelily they move along the side 

Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist ! 

And after the swart savage spirits, whose 

Infernal immortality pour'd forth 

Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 

Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 

To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 

For which I have so often pray'd — They come ! 

Anah ! oh, God ! and with her 

Enter Samiasa, Azaziel, Anah, and 
Aholibamah. 
Anah. Japhet ! 

Sam. Lo ! 

A son of Adam : 

Aza. What doth the earthborn here, 

While all his race are slumbering ? 

Japh. Angel ! what 

Dost thou on earth when thou should'st be on high ? 
Aza. Know'st thou not, or forget'st thou, that a 
part 
Of our great function is to guard thine earth ! 

Japh. But all good angels have forsaken earth, 
Which is condcmn'd ; nay even the evil fly 
The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah ! my 
In vain, and long, and still to be beloved ! 
Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those hours 
When no good spirit longer lights below ? 
Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee : yet, yet 

Forgive me • 

Japh. May the Heaven, which soon no more 

Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 
Aho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
We know thee not. 

Japh. The hour may come when thou 

May'st know me better ; and thy sister know 
Me still the same which I have ever been.. 

Sam. Son of the patriarch, who hath ever been 
Upright before his God, whate'er thy gifts, 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath, 
How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
Wrong ? 
Japh. Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs ; but 
thou 
Say 'st well, though she be dust, I did not, could not, 
Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
Children of Cain ? 
Aza. From what ? 

Japh. And is it so, 

That ye too know not ? Angels ! angels ! ye 
Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now must 
Partake his punishment ; or at the least 
My sorrow. 

Sam. Sorrow ! I ne'er -thought till now 

To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 

Japh. And hath not the Most High expounded 
them ? 
Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 

Aho. So be it ! 

If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare * 

An immortality of agonies 
With Samiasa ! 
Anah. Sister ! sister ! speak not 



254 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Thus. 

Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 

Anah. Yes, for thee : 

I would resign the greater remnant of 
This little life of mine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know a pang. 

Japh. It is for him, then ! for the seraph thou 
Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
Left thy God too, for unions like to these, 
Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
Upon the earth to toil and die : and they 
Are made to minister on high unto 
The Highest : But if he can save thee, soon 
The hour will come in which celestial aid 
Alone can do so. 

Anah. Ah ! he speaks of death. 

Sam. Of death to us ! and those who are ■with us ! 
But. that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
Could smile. 

Japh. I grieve not for myself, nor fear ; 

I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
His power was greater of redemption ! or 
That by exchanging my own life for hers, 
Who could alone have made mine happy, she, 
The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth ! 

Alio. And dost thou think that we 

With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, blood 
Warm in our veins, — strong Cain ! who was begotten 
In paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children ? 
Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril ! 
Our race hath always dwelt apart from thine 
From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 

Japh. I did not speak to thee, Aholibamah ! 
Too much of the forefather whom thou vauntest 
Has come down in that haughty blood which springs 
From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 
But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine, 
Albeit thou art not : 'tis a word I cannot 
Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah ! 
Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 
Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 
For all of them are fairest in their favor 

Aho. (interrupting him.) And wouldst thou have 
her like our father's foe 
In mind, in soul ? If / partook thy thought, 
And drcam'd that aught of Abel was in her ! — 
Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou makest strife. 

Japh. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so ! 

Aho. But 

He slew not Seth ; and what hast thou to do 
With other deeds between his God and him ? 

Japh. Thou speakest well: his God hath judged 
him, and 
I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
From what he had done. 

Aho. He was our father's father : 

The eldest born of man, the strongest, bravest, 
And most enduring : — Shall I blush for him 
From whom we had our being ? Look upon 
Our race ; behold their stature and their beauty, 



Their courage, strength, and length, of days 

Japh. They are number'd. 

Aho. Be it so ! but while yet their hours endure, 
I glory in my brethern and our fathers. 

Japh. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
Anah ! and thou ? 

Anah. Whate'er our God decrees, 

The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
And will endeavor patiently to obey. 
But could I dare to pray in this dread hour 
Of universal vengeance, (if such should be,) 
It would not be to live, alone exempt 
Of all my house. My sister ! oh, my sister ! 
What were the world, or other worlds, or all 
The brightest future, without the sweet past — 
Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 
The things which sprang up with me, like the ilara 
Making my dim existence radiant with 
Soft lights which were not mine ? Aholibamah . 
Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it ; 
I abhor death, because that thou must die. 

Aho. What ! hath this dreamer, with his father's 
ark, 
The bugbear he hath built to scare the world, 
Shaken my sister ? Are toe not the loved 
Of seraphs ? and if we were not, must we 
Cling to a son of Noah for our lives ? 

Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 

The worst of dreams, the phantasies engendered 
By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm earth, 
And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
Have seen them wear on their eternal way ? 
Who shall do this ? 

Japh. He whose one word produced them. 

Aho. Who heard that word ? 

Japh. The universe, which leap'd 

To life before it. Ah ! smilest thou still in scorn ! 
Turn to thy seraphs ; if they attest it not, 
They are none. 

Sam. Aholibamah, own thy God ! 

Aho. I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
As thine, and mine : a God of love, not sorrow. 

Japh. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow ? Even 
He who made earth in love had soon to grieve 
Above its first and best inhabitants. 

Aho. 'Tis said so. 

Japh. It is even so. 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

Noah. U Japhet! What 

Dost thou here with these children of the wicked ? 
Dread'st thou not to partake their coming doom. 

Japh. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
To save an earthborn being ; and behold, 
These are not of the sinful, since they have 
The fellowship of angels. 

Noah. These are they, then, 

Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
From out the race of Cain ; the sons of heaven, 
Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ? 

Aza. Patriarch ! 

Thou hast said it. 

Noah. Wo, wo, wo to such communion! 

Has not God made a barrier between earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind ? 

Sam. Was not man made in high Jehovah's 
image ? 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



255 



Did God not love what he had made ? And what 
Do we but imitate and emulate 
His love unto created love ? 

Noah. I am 

But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
Has deign'd to commune with me, and reveal 
His judgments, I reply, that the descent 
Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
Unto a perishable and perishing, 
Even on the very eve of perishing, world, 
Cannot be good. ■ 
Aza. What ! though it were to save ? 

Noah. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 
What he who made you glorious hath condemn'd. 
Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
And beautiful they are, but not the less 
Condemn'd. 
Japh. Oh father ! say it not. 
Noah. Son ! son ! 

If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
That they exist ; they soon shall cease to be, 
While thou shalt be the sire of a new world, 
And better. 
Japh. Let me die with this, and them ! 
Noah. Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shalt 
not ; he 
Who can redeems thee. 

Sam. And why him and thee, 

More than what he, thy son, prefers to both ? 
Noah. Ask him who made thee greater than my 
self 
And mine, but not less subject to his own 
Almightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 
Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 

Enter Raphael the Archangel. 
Raph. Spirits ! 

Whose seat is near the throne, 
What do ye here ? 
Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
Now that the hour is near 
When earth must be alone ? 
Return ! 
Adore and burn 
In glorious homage with the elected " seven," 
Your place is heaven. 
Sam. Raphael ! 

The first and fairest of the sons of God, 

How long hath this been law, 
That earth by angels must be left ualrod ? 

Earth ! which oft saw 
Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ! 
The world he loved, had made 
For love ; and oft have we obey'd 
His frequeut mission with delighted pinions, 

Adoring him in his least works display'd ; 
Watching this youngest star of his dominions ; 
And, as the latest birth of his great word, 
Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
Why is thy brow severe ? 
And wherefore speak'st thou of destruction near ? 
Raph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
In their true place, with the angelic choir, 
Written in fire 
They would have seen 
Jehovah's late decree, 
And not inquired their Maker's breath of me : 



But ignorance must ever be 
A part of sin ; 
And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 

As they wax proud within ; 
For Blindness is the first-born of Excess. 

When all good angels left the world, ye stayed, 
Stung with strange passions, and debased 

By mortal feelings for a mortal maid ; 
But ye are pardon'd thus far, and replaced 
With your pure equals. Hence ! away ! away ! 
Or stay. 
And lose eternity by that delay ! 
Aza. And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
In the decree 
To us until this moment hidden, 
Dost thou not err as we 
In being here ? 
Raph. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere, 
In the great name and at the word of God. 
Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 

That which I came to do : till now we trod 
Together the eternal space ; together 

Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die ! 
Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 
And much which she inherits ; but oh ! why 
Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd, 
Without involving ever some vast void 
In the immortal ranks ? immortal still 
In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
Our brother Satan fell ; his burning will 
Rather than long worship dared endure ! 
But ye who still are pure ! 
Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one, 

Think how he was undone ! 
And think if tempting man can compensate 
For heaven desired too late ! 
Long have I warr'd, 
Long must I war 
With him who deem'd it hard 
To be created, and to acknowledge him 
Who midst the cherubim 
Made him as suns to a dependent star, 
Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 

I loved him — beautiful he was : oh heaven ! 
Save his who made, what beauty and what power 
Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
The wish is impious : but, oh ye ! 
Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 

With him, or with his God, is in your choice • 
He hath not tempted you ; he cannot tempt 
The angels, from his further snares exempt : 

But man hath listen'd to his voice, 
And ye to woman's — beautiful she is, 
The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
The snake but vanquish'd dust ; but she will draw 
A second host from heaven, to break heaven's law. 
Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
Ye cannot die ; 
But they 
Shall pass away, 
While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky; 

For perishable clay, 
W_ose memory in your immortality 

Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day. 
Think how your essence differeth from theirs 
In all but suffering ! why partake 
The agony to which they must be heirs — 
Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with caret, 



256 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil ? 
Even had their days been left to toil their path 
Through time to dust, unshortened by God's wrath, 
Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 

Alio. Let them fly ! 

I hear the voice which says that all must die 

Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died ; 

And that on high 

An ocean is prepared, 

"While from below 

The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 

Few shall be spared, 
It seems ; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
Sister ! since it is so, 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would be implored 
For the remission of one hour of wo, 
Let us resign even what we have adored, 
And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword, 

If not unmoved, yet undismay'd. 
And wailing less for lis than those who shall 
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall, 

And, when the fatal waters' are allay'd, 
Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore, 
Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
Our portion is to die, 
And yours to live for ever : 
But which is best, a dead eternity, 
Or living, is but known to the great Giver. 
Obey him, as we shall obey ; 
I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
An hour beyond his will, 
Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
For all the mercy which Seth's race 
Find still. 
Fly!_ 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 

Samiasa ! 
And if I look up with a tearless eye, 

'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep. — 
Farewell ! Now rise, inexorable deep ! 
Anah. And must we die ? 

And must I lose thee too, 

Azaziel ? 
Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 

Thy prophecies were true ! 
And yet thou wert so happy too ! 
The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new ; 
But yet depart ! 
Ah ! why ? 
Yet let me not retain thee — fly ! 
My pangs can be but brief ; but thine would be 
Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
Too much already hast thou deign'd 
To one of Adam's race ! 
Our doom is sorrow ; not to us alone, 
But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
To love us, cometh anguish with disgrace. 
The first who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd 
From his once archangclic throne 
Into some unknown world : 
And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
Thou shalt not suffer wo 
For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
May'st suffer more not weeping : then forget 



Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling deep 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 

Japh. Oh say not so ! 

Father ! and thou, archangel, thou ! 

Surely celestial mercy lurks below 
That pure severe serenity of brow : 

Let them not meet this sea without a shore, 
Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 

Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace ! 
If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 

Do God no wrong ! 
Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 

Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint : 

Would'st thou have God commit a sin for thee ? 
Such would it be, 
To alter his intent 
For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 

Japh. Ay, father! but when they are gone, 

And we are all alone, 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 
The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 

And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 

Buried in its immeasurable breast, 
Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then com- 
mand ? 

Can we in desolation's peace have rest ? 
Oh God ! be thou a God, and spare 
Yet while 'tis time ! 
Renew not Adam's fall : 

Mankind were then but twain, 
But they are numerous now as are the waves 

And the tremendous rain, 
Whose drops shall be less thick than would then 
graves, 

Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 

Noah. Silence, vain boy ! each word of thine's a 
crime. 
Angel ! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 

Raph. Seraphs ! these mortals speak iu passion : 
Ye! 
Who are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
May now return with me. 

Sam. It may not be ; 

We have chosen, and will endure. 

Raph. Say'st thou ? 

Aza. He hath said it, and_I say, Ameni 

Raph. Again ! 

Then from this hour, 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
And aliens from your God, 
Farewell ! 

Japh. Alas ! where shall they dwell ? 

Hark, hark ! Deep sounds, and deeper still, 

Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
There's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 

Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom : 
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 

Noah. Hark, hark! the sea-birds cry ! 

In clouds they overspread the lurid sky, 
And hover round the mountain, where before 

Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 
Yet dared to soar, 

Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. 
Soon it shall be their only shore, 
And then, no more ! 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



257 



Japh. The sun ! the sun ! 

He riseth, but his better light is gone ; 
And a black circle, bound 
His glaring disk around, 
Proclaims earth's last of summer days hatlj shone ! 

The clouds return into the hues of night, 
Save where their brazen-color'd edges streak 
The verge where brighter morns were wont to break. 

Noah. And lo ! yon flash of light, 
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 

It cometh ! hence, away ! 
Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 
Its safe and reckless sides. 
Japh. Oh, father, stay ! 
Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides ! 
Noah. Must we Jiot leave all life to such ! Be- 
gone ! 
Japh. Not I. 

Noah. Then die 

With them ! 
How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 
And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
In overwhelming unison 
With just Jehovah's wrath ! 
Japh. Can rage and justice join in the same path ? 
Noah. Blasphemer ! darest thou murmur even 

now ? 
Raph. Patriarch, be still a father ! smooth thy 

brow : 
Thy son, despite his^folly, shall not sink ; 
He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 

With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ; 
But be, when passion passeth, good as thou, 
Nor perish like heaven's children with man's 

daughters. 
Alio. The tempest cometh ; heaven and earth 
unite 
For the annihilation of all life. 
Unequal is the strife 
Between our strength and the Eternal Might ! 
Sam. But ours is with thee ; we will bear ye far 
To some untroubled star, 
Where thou and Anah shalt partake our lot ; 

And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth, 
Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 
Anah. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my place of 
birth, 
And mountains, land, and woods ! when ye are 

not, 
Who shall dry up my tears ? 

Aza. Thy spirit-lord. 

Fear not ; though we are shut from heaven, 
Yet much is ours, whence we cannot be driven. 

Raph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds 
Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming sword, 
Which chased the first-born out of Paradise, 
Still flashes in the angelic hands. 

Aza. It cannot slay us : threaten dust with death, 
And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds. 
What are thy swords in our immortal eyes ? 
Raph. The moment cometh to approve thy 
strength ; 
And learn at length 
How vain to war with what thy God commands : 
Thy former force was in thy faith. 

Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 
33 



Chorus of Mortals. 

The heavens and earth are mingling — God ! oh God ! 

What have we done ? Yet spare ! 

Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth their pray'r I 

The dragon crawls from out his den, 

To herd, in terror, innocent with men ; 
And the birds scream their agony through air. 
Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw thy rod 
Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair ! 
Hear not man only but all nature plead ! 

Raph- Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched sons of 
clay 
I cannot, must not, aid you. 'Tis decreed ! 

[Exit Raphael. 

Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures for their 
prey, 
While others fix'd as rocks, await the word 
At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
No azure more shall robe the firmament, 
Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death hath risen ; 
In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
Hath wound itself around the dying air. 

Aza. Come, Anah! quit this chaos-founded prison, 
To which the elements again repair, 
To turn it into what it was : beneath 
The shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe, 
As was the eagle's nestling once w r ithin 
Its mother's. — Let the coming chaos chafe 
With all its elements ! Heed not their din ! 
A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 
Ethereal life, will we explore : 
These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 

[Azaziel and Samiasa fly off and disappear 
with Anah and Aholibamah. 

Japh. They are gone ! They have disappear'd amid 
the roar 
Of the forsaken world ; and never more, 
Whether they live, or die with all earth's life 
Now near its last, can aught restore 
Anah unto these eyes. 

Chorus of Mortals. 

Oh son of Noah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
What ! wilt thou leave us all — all — all behind ? 
While safe amid the elemental strife, 
Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark ? 
A mother, (offering her infant to Japhet.) Oh 
let this child embark ! 
I brought him forth in wo, 

But thought it joy 
To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
Why was he born ? 
What hath he done — 
My unwean'd son — 
To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
What is there in this milk of mine, that death 
Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 

My boy, 
And roll the waters o'er his placid breath ? 
Save him, fhou seed of Seth ! 
Or cursed be — with him who made 
Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd 1 
Japh. Peace ! 'tis no hour for curses, but fof 
prayer ! 

Chorus of Mortals. 

For prayer ! ! ! 
And where 



258 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Shall prayer ascend, 
When the swoln clouds unto the mountains bend 

And burst, 
And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 
Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
Accurst 
Be he who made thee and thy sire ! 
We deem our curses vain ; we must expire : 

But as we know the worst, 
Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be 

bent 
Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
Since we must fall the same ? 
If he hath made earth, let it be his shame, 
To make a world for torture.— Lo ! they come, 
The loathsome waters, in their rage ! 
And with their roar make wholesome nature dumb ! 

The forest's trees, (coeval with the hour 
When Paradise upsprung, 

Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 
Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung,) 

So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 
Are overtopt, 

Their summer blossoms by the surges lopt, 
Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 

They meet the seas, 
And shut our God from our beseeching eyes 

Fly, son of Noah, fly ! and take thine ease, 
In thine allotted ocean-tent ; 
And view, all floating o'er the element, 
The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
Then to Jehovah raise 
Thy song of praise ! 
A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
Who die in the Lord ! 
And though the waters be o'er earth outspread, 
Yet, as his word, 
Be the decree adored ! 
He gave me life — he taketh but 
The breath which is his own : 
And though these eyes should be for ever shut, 
Not longer this weak voice before his throne 
Be heard in supplicating tone, 

Still blessed be the Lord, 



For what is past, 
For that which is : 
For all are his, 
From first to last — 
Time — space — eternity— -life — death — 

The vast known and immeasurable unknown, 
He made, and can unmake ; 

And shall 7, for a little gasp of breath 
Blaspheme and groan ? 

No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith, 
Nor quiver, though the universe may quake. 

Chorus of Mortals. 
Where shall we fly ? 
Not to the mountains high ; 
For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 

To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
Already grasps each drowning hill, 
Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 

Enter a Woman. 
Woman. Oh, save me, save ! 
Our valley is no more : 

My father and my father's tent, 
My brethren and my brethren's herds, 

The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent 
And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 
The little rivulet which freshen'd all 
Our pastures green, 
No more are to be seen. 
When to the mountain cliff I climb'd this mom, 

I turn'd to bless the spot, 
And not a leaf appear'd about to fall ; — 

And now they are not ! — 
Why was I born ? 

Japh. To die ! in youth to die ; 
And happier in that doom, 
Than to behold the universal tomb, 

Which I 
Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 
Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? 

[The waters rise; Men fly in every direction ; 
many are overtaken by the waves ; the Chorus 
of Mortals disperses in search of safety up the 
mountains : Japhet remains upon a rock, while 
the Ark floats towards him in the distance. 



CAIN; 
A MYSTERY. 

•Wow the Serpent was more subtile than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made." — Genesis, ch. Bi. ver. L 



TO 

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

THIS MYSTERY OF CAIN IS INSCRIBED, 
BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 

The following scenes axe entitled " a Mystery," 
in conformity with the ancient title annexed to 
dramas upon similar subjects, which were styled 
" Mysteries, or Moralities." The author has by no 
means taken the same liberties with his subject 
which were common formerly, as may be seen by 
any reader curious enough to refer to those very 
profane productions, whether in English, French, 
Italian, or Spanish. The author has endeavored to 
preserve the language adapted to his characters ; 
and where it is (and this is but rarely) taken from 
actual Scripture, he has made as little alteration, 
even of words, as the rhythm would permit. The 
reader will recollect that the book of Genesis does 
not state that Eve was tempted by a demon, but by 
" the Serpent ; " and that only because he was " the 
most subtile of all the beasts of the field." What- 
ever interpretation the Rabbins and the Fathers 
may have put upon this, I must take the words as I 
find them, and reply with Bishop Watson upon 
similar occasions, when the Fathers were quoted to 
him, as Moderator in the schools of Cambridge, 
"Behold the Book!" — holding up the Scripture. 
It is to be recollected that my present subject has 
nothing to* do with the New Testament, to which 
no reference can be here made without anachron- 
ism. With the poems upon similar topics I have 
not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty I 
have never read Milton; but I had read him so 
frequently before, that this may make little differ- 



ence. Gesner's "Death of Abel" I have never 
read since I was eight years of age, at Aberdeen 1 . 
Tho general impression of my recollection is delight ; 
but of the contents I remember only that Cain's 
wife was called Mahala, and Abel's Thirza : in the 
following pages I have called them " Adah " and 
" Zillah," the earliest female names which occur in 
Genesis ; they were those of Lamech's wives ; those 
of Cain and Abel are not called by their names. 
Whether, then, a coincidence of subject may have 
caused the same in expression, I know nothing, 
and care as little. 

The reader will please to bear in mind (what few 
choose to recollect) that there is no allusion to a 
future state in any of the books of Moses, nor 
indeed in the Old Testament. For a reason for 
this extraordinary omission lie may consult " War- 
burton's Divine Legation ; " whether satisfactory or 
not, no better has yet been assigned. I have there- 
fore supposed it new to Cain, without, I hope, any 
perversion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was 
difficult for me to make him tilk like a clergyman 
upon the same subjects ; but I have done what I 
could to restrain him within the bounds of spiritual 
politeness. 

If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape 
of the Serpent, it is only because the book of Gen- 
esis has not the most distant allusion to any thing 
of the kind, but merely to the Serpent in bis ser- 
pentine capacity. 

Note. — The reader will perceive that the author 



260 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



has partly adopted in this poem the notion of 
Cuvier, that the world had been destroyed several 
times before the creation of man. This specula- 
tion, derived from the different strata and the bones 
of enormous and unknown animals found in them, 
is not contrary to the Mosaic account, but rather 
eonfirms it; as no human bones have yet been 
discovered in those strata, although those of many 
known animals are found near the remains of the 
unknown. The assertion of Lucifer, that the pre- 
adamite world was also peopled by rational beings 
much more intelligent than man, and proportion- 
ably powerful to the mammoth, &c, &c, is, of 
course, a poetical fiction to help him to make out 
his case. 

I ought to add, that there is a " Tramelogedia " 
of Alfieri, called " Abele." — I have never read that 
nor any other of the posthumous works of the 
writer, except his Life. 



DRAMATIS PERSONJE. 

Men. — Adam. 
Cain. 
Abel. 

Spirits. — Angel of the Lord. 
Lucifer. 

Women. — Eve. 
Adah. 
Zillah. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 
The Land without Paradise. — Time, Sunrise. 

Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, offering 
a Sacrifice. 

Adam. God, the Eternal ! Infinite! all -wis e ! — 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
Light on the waters with a word — all hail ! 
Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 

Eve. God ! who didst name the day, and separate 
Morning from night, till then divided never — 
Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
Part of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 

Abel. God ! who didst call the elements into 
Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 
And night, and worlds which these illuminate 
Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them, 
And love both them and thee — all hail ! all hail ! 

Adah. God, the Eternal ! Parent of all things ! 
Who didst create these best and beauteous beings, 
To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 
Let me love thee and them : — All hail ! all hail ! 

Zillah. Oh, God ! who loving, making, blessing 
all, 
Yet didst permit the serpent to creep in, 
And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
Keep us from further evil : — Hail ! all hail ! 



Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore art 
thou silent ? 

Cain. Why should I speak ? 

Adam. To pray. 

Cain. Have ye not pray'd ? 

Adam. We have, most fervently. 

Cain. And loudly : I 

Have heard you. 

Adam. So will God, I trust. 

Abel. Amen ! 

Adam. But thou, my eldest-born, art silent still. 

Cain. 'Tis better I should be so. 

Adam. Wherefore so ? 

Cain. I have nought to ask. 

Adam. Nor aught to thank for ? 

Cain. No. 

Adam. Dost thou not live ? 

Cain. Must I not die ? 

Eve. Alas ! 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To fall. 

Adam. And we must gather it again. 
Oh, God ! why didst thou plant the tree of 
knowledge ! 

Cain. And wherefore plucked ye not the trea 
of life ? 
Ye might have then defied him. 

Adam. Oh ! my son 

Blaspheme not : these are serpent's words. 

Cain. Why not ? 

The snake spoke truth : it was the tree of knowledge ; 
It teas the tree of life : knowledge is good, 
And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 

Eve. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke in sin. 
Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
My misery in thine. I have repented. 
Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Which e'en in Paradise destroy'd his parents. 
Content thee with what is. Had we been so, 
Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my son. 

Adam. Our orisons completed, let us hence, 
Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
Needful : the earth is young, and yields us kindly 
Her fruits with little labor. 

Eve. Cain, my son, 

Behold thy father cheerful and resigned, 
And do as he doth. [Exeunt Adam and Eve. 

Zillah. Wilt thou not, my brother ? 

Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy 
brow, 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Eternal anger ? 

Adah. My beloved Cain, 

Wilt thou frown even on me ? 

Cain. No, Adah; no; 

I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I'm sick at heart ; but it will pass : 
Precede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind, 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
I'll follow you anon. 

Adah. If not, I will 

Return to seek you here. 

Abel. The peace of God 

Be on your spirit, brother ! 

[Exeunt Abel, Zillah, and Adah. 

Cain, (solus.) And this is 

Life ! — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? — because 



CAIN. 



My father could not keep his place in Eden. 

What had / done in this ?— I was unborn, 

I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 

To which that birth has brought me. Why did he 

Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or, 

Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 

The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 

If not, why place him near it, where it grew 

The fairest in the centre ? They have but 

One answer to all questions, " 'twas his will, 

And he is good." How know I that ? Because 

He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow ? 

I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 

Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 

Whom have we here ? — A shape like to the angels, 

Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect 

Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 

Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 

Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 

Before the gates round which I linger oft, 

In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 

Gardens which are my just inheritance, 

Ere the night closes o'er inhibited walls 

And the immortal trees which overtop 

The cherubim-defended battlements ? 

If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels, 

Why should I quail from him who now approaches ? 

Yet he seems mightier far than they, nor less 

Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 

As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 

Half of his immortality. And is it 

So ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? 

He cometh. 

Enter Lucifer. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

Cain. Spirit, who art thou ? 

Lucifer. Master of spirits. 

Cain. And being so, canst thou 

Leave them, and walk with dust ? 

Lucifer. I know the thoughts 

Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 

Cain. How ! 

You know my thoughts ? 

Lucifer. They are the thoughts of all 

Worthy of thought ; — 'tis your immortal part 
Which speaks within you. 

Cain. What immortal part ? 

This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life 
Was withheld from us by my father's folly, 
While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
Was pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death ! 

Lucifer. They have deceived thee ; thou shalt live. 

Cain. I live, 

But live to die : and, living, see no thing 
To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
A loathsome and yet all invincible 
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 

Lucifer. Thou livest, and must live for ever : 
think not 
The earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, is 
Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
No less than thou art now. 

Cain. No less I and why 

No more ? 

Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we. 

Cain. And ye ? 

Lucifer. Are everlasting, 



261 

Are ye happy ? 



Cain. 

Lucifer. We are mighty. 

Cain. Are ye happy ? 

Lucifer. No ; art thou ? 

Cain. How should I be so ? Look on me ! 

Lucifer. Poor clay ! 

And thou pretendest to be WTetched ! Thou ! 

Cain. I am : — and thou, with all thy might, what 
art thou ? 

Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made thee, 
and 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 

Cain. Ah ! 

Thou look'st almost a god ; and 

Lucifer. I am none, 

And having fail'd to be one, would be nought 
Save what I am. He conquer' d ; let him reign ! 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

Cain. ' And heaven's, 

And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith. 

Lucifer. They say — what they must sing and say, 
on pain 
Of being that which I am — and thou art — 
Of spirits and of men. 

Cain. • And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — 
Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
His everlasting face, and tell him, that 
His evil is not good ! If he has made, 
As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 
But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : 
We are immortal ! — nay, he'd have us so, 
That he may torture : — let him ! He is great, 
But, in his greatness, is no happier than 
We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 
Evil ; and what else hath he made ? But let him 
Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 
Creating worlds, to make eternity 
Less burdensome to his immense existence 
And unparticipated solitude ! 
Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 
Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ! 
Could he but crush himself, 'twere the best boon 
He ever granted : but let him reign on, 
And multiply himself in misery ! 
Spirits and men, at least we sympathize ; 
And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 
Innumerable, more endurable, 
By the unbounded sympathy of all — 
With all ! but He ! so wretched in his height, 
So restless in his wretchedness, must still 
Create, and re-create 

Cain. Thou speak'st to me of things which long 
have swum 
In visions through my thought : I never could 
Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
My father and my mother talk to me 
Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 
The gates of what they call their Paradise 
Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim, 
Which shut them out, and me : I feel the weight 
Of daily toil, and constant thought; I look 
Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
Could master all things :— but I thought alone 
This misery was mine. — My father is 
Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 



262 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
A -watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
The earth yield nothing to us without sweat. 
My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
Than the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my 
Own and beloved, she too understands not 
The mind which overwhelms me : never till 
Now met I aught to sympathize with me. 
'Tis well — I rather would consort with spirits. 

Lucifer. And hadst thou not been fit by thine 
own soul 
For such companionship, I would not now 
Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 

Cain. Ah ! didst thou tempt my mother ? 

Lucifer. I tempt none, 

Save with the truth : was not the tree, the tree 
Of knowledge ? and was not the tree of life" 
Still fruitful ? Did / bid her pluck them not ? 
Did / plant things prohibited within 
The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
By their own innocence ? I would have made ye 
Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth, so thrust ye 
Because " ye should not eat the fruits of life, 
And become gods, as we." Were those his words ? 

Cain. They were, as I have heard from those who 
heard them, 
In thunder. 

Lucifer. Then w r ho was the demon ? He 
Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
And power of knowledge ? 

Cain. Would they had snatch'd both 

The fruits, or neither ! 

Lucifer. One is yours already ; 

The other may be still. 

Cain. How so ? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
To sway. 

Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents ? 

Lucifer. I ? 

Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how ? 

Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit. 

Lucifer. Who 

Saith that ? It is not written so on high : 
The proud One will not so far falsify, 
Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
His own low failing. The snake was the snake — 
No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted, 
In nature being earth also — more in wisdom, 
Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Think'st thou I'd take the shape of things that die ? 

Cain. But the thing had a demon ? 

Lucifer. He but woke one 

In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages 
Have roll'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's, 
The seed of the then world may thus array 
Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 



That bows to him, who made things but to bend 

Before his sullen, sole eternity ; 

But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 

Fond parents listen'd to a creeping thing, 

And fell. For what should spirits tempt them ? What 

Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 

Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 

Space but I speak to thee of what thou know'st 

not, 
With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Cain. But thou canst not 

Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know, 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 

Lucifer. And heart to look on ? 

Cain. Be it proved. 

Lucifer. Dar'st thou to look on Death ? 

Cain. He has not yet 

Been seen. 

Lucifer. But must be undergone. 

Cain. My father 

Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
Weeps when he is named ; and Abel lifts his eyes 
To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 
And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
And speaks not. 

Lucifer. And thou ? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 

Crowd in my breast to burning, when I heai 
Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems 
Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
I wrestled with the lion, when a boy 
In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 

Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb all 
things 
That bear the form of earth-born being. 

Cain. Ah ! 

I thought it was a being : who could do 
Such evil things to beings save a being ? 

Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 

Cain. Who ? 

Lucifer. The Maker — call him 

Which name thou wilt : he makes but to destroy. 

Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since I 
heard 
Of death : although I know not what it is, 
Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 
In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
The umbrage of the walls of Eden, checker'd 
By the far-flashing of the cherub's swords, 
I watch'd for what I thought his coming ; for 
With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
What 'twas which shook us all — but nothing came. 
And then I turn'd my weary eyes from off 
Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
Up to the lights above us, in the azure, I 

Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ! 

Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both thme 
and thee. 

Cain. I'm glad of that ; I would not have them die. 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 
I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
I cannot compass; 'tis denounced against us, 
Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill — 
What ill ? 

Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 

Cain. But shall I know it ? 

Lucifer. ■ As I know not death, 



CAIN. 



263 



I cannot answer. 

Cain. "Were I quiet earth, 

That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
Aught else but dust ! 

Lucifer. That is a grov'ling wish, 

Less than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 

Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
The life-tree ? 
Lucifer. He was hinder'd. 
Cain. Deadly error ! 

Not to snatch first that fruit : — but ere he pluck'd 
The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is, 
And yet I fear it — fear I know not what ! 

Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear nothing ; 
see 
What is true knowledge. 

Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 

Lucifer Ay, upon one condition. 

Cain. Name it. 

Lucifer. That 

Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 

Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 

Lucifer. No. 

Cain. His equal ? 

Lucifer. No ; — I have nought in common with 
him ! 
Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath — 
Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
His power. I dwell apart : but I am great ; — 
Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou among the first. 

Cain. I never 

As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although my brother Abel oft implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice :— 
Why should I bow to thee ? 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 

To him ? 

Cain. Have I not said it ! — need I say it ? 
Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that ? 

Lucifer. He who bows not to him has bow'd to me : 

Cain. But I will bend to neither. 

Lucifer. Ne'er the less 

Thou art my worshipper ; not worshipping 
Him makes thee mine the same. 

Cain. And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Thou'lt know here — and hereafter. 

Cain. Let me but 

Be taught the mystery of my being. 

Lucifer. Follow 

Where I will lead thee. 

Cain But I must retire 
To till the earth — for I had promised 

Lucifer. What ! 

Cain. To cull some first-fruits, 

Lacifer. Why ? 

Cain. To offer up 

With Abel on an altar. 

Lucifer. Saidst thou not 

Thou ne'er hadst bent to him who made thee ? 

Cain. Yes — 
But Abel's earnest prayer wrought upon me ; 
The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 

Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate ? 

Cain. She is my sister, 



Bear all — and worship aught. 

Lucifer. Then follow me ! 

Cain. I will. 

Enter Adah. 

Adah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 

It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
Have less without thee. Thou hast labor'd not 
This morn ; but I have done thy task : the fruits 
Are ripe and glowing as the light which ripens ; 
Come away. 

Cain. See'st thou not ? 

Adah. I see an angel ; 

We have seen many : will he share our hour 
Of rest ? — he is welcome. 

Cain. But he is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

Adah. Are there, then, others ? 

But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
To be our guests — will he ? 

Cain, (to Lucifer.) . Wilt thou ? 

Lucifer. I ask 

Thee to be mine. 

Cain. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us ? 

Cain. Ay ! 

Adah. And me ? 

Cain. Beloved Adah ! 

Adah. Let me go with thee ? 

Lucifer. No, she must not. 

Adah. Who 

Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 

Cain. He is a god. 

Adah. How know'st thou ? 

Cain. He speaks like 

A god. 

Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 

Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah ! — was not the tree 
that 
Of knowledge ? 

Adah. Ay — to qjir eternal sorrow. 

Lucifer. And yet that grief was knowledge — so he 
lied not: 
And if he did betray you, 'twas with truth ; 
And truth in its own essence cannot be 
But good. 

Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
Evil on ill : expulsion from our home, 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness : 
Remorse of that which was — and hope of that 
Which cometh not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit. 
Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
Love thee. 

Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire ? 

Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too ? 

Lucifer. No, not yet ; 

It one day will be in your children. 

Adah. What ! 

Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 

Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 
Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Shall they not love and bring forth things that love 
Out of their love ? have they not drawn their milk 
Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, 
Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me ? did we not love each other ? and 
In multiplying our being multiply 
Things which will love each other as we love 



Born on the same day, of the same womb ; and 

She wrung from me, with tears, this promise ; and iThem ? And as I love thee, my Cain ! go not 

Rather than see her weep, I would, methinks, 'Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 



264 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Lucife- . Tb'i sin I speak of is not of niy making, 
And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
It seem in those who will replace ye in 
Mortality. 

Adah. What is the sin which is not 

Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
Of 

Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves ; and 
higher 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of torture 
To the smooth agonies of adulation 
In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
It is omnipotent, and not from love, 
But terror and self-hope. 

Adah. Omnipotence 

Must be all goodness. 

Lucifer. Was it so in Eden? 

Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; thou art 
fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

Lucifer. As true. 

Ask Eve, your mother : bears she not the knowledge 
Of good and evil ? 

Adah. Oh, my mother ! thou 

Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
Than to thyself ; thou at the least hast past 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with happy spirits ; 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girt about by demons, who assume 
The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most fiush'd 
And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
I cannot answer this immortal thing 
Which stands before me ; I cannot abhor him ; 
I look upon him with a pleasing fear, 
And yet I fly not from him ; in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction which 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near, 
Nearer and nearer : — Cain — Cain — save me from him ! 

Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. 

Adah. He is not God — nor God's : I have beheld 
The cherubs and the seraphs : he looks not 
Like them. 

Vain. But there are spirits loftier still — 

The archangels. 

Lucifer. And still loftier than the archangels. 

Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 

Lucifer. If the blessedness 

Consists in slavery — no. 

Adah. I have heard it said, 

The seraphs love most — cherubim knoio most — 
And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. 

Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge quenches 
love, 
What must he be you cannot love when known ? 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
lhat they are not compatible, the doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
No other choice : your sire hath chosen already : 
His worship is but fear. 

Adah. Oh, Cain ! choose love. 



Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was 
Born with me — but I love nought else. 

Adah. Our parents ! 

Cain. Did they love us when they snatch'd from 
the tree 
That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 

Adah. We were not born then — and if we had 
been, 
Should we not love them and our children, Cain ? 
• Cain. My little Enoch ! and his lisping sister 1 
Could I but deem them happy, I would ffalf 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 

Shall men love the remembrance of the man 

Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 

In the same hour ! They pluck'd the tree of science 

And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow. 

Begot me — thee — and all the few that are, 

And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 

Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 

To inherit agonies accumulated 

By ages ! — and J must be sire of such things ! 

Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy, 

The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 

All we love in our children and each other, 

But lead them and ourselves through many years 

Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 

Interchcck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 

To Death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree of 

knowledge 
Hath not fuifill'd its promise : — if they sinn'd, 
At least they ought to have known all things that 

are 
Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that ? 

Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happy 

Cain. Be thou happy then alone — 

I will have nought to do with happiness, 
Which humbles me and mine. 

Adah. Alone I could not, 

Nor would be happy ; but with those around us, 
I think I could be so, despite of death, 
Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

Lucifer. And thou couldst not 

Alone, thou say'st be happy ? 

Adah. Alone ! Oh, my God ! 

Who could be happy and alone, or good ? 
To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 
His brother, and our children, and our parents. 

Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone, and is he happy ? 
Lonely and good ? 

Adah. He is not so ; he hath 

The angeks and the mortals to make happy, 
And thus becomes so in diffusing joy ? 
What else can joy be but the spreading joy ? 

Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from 
Eden ; 
Or of his first-born son ; ask your own heart ; 
It is not tranquil. 

Adah. Alas ! no ! and you — 

Are you of heaven ? 

Lucifer. If I am not, inquire 

The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 



CAIN. 



265 



Maker of life and living things ; it is 

His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 

And some of us resist, and both in vain, 

His seraphs say : but it is worth the trial, 

Since better may not be without : there is 

A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 

To right as in the dim blue air the eye 

Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 

The star which watches, welcoming the morn. 

Adah. It is a beautiful star ; I love it for 
Its beauty. 

Lucifer. And why not adore ? 

Adah. Our father 

Adores the Invisible only. 

Lucifer. But the symbols 

Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
Is leader of the host of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
Who made him and our mother. 

Lucifer. Hast thou seen him ? 

Adah. Yes — in his works. 

Lucifer. But in his being ? 

Adah. No- 

Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming : as the silent sunny noon, 
All light they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 
Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
With things that look as if they would be suns ; 
So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, 
Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, 
They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
Thou seem'st unhappy : do not make us so, 
And I will weep for thee. 

Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 

Couldst thou but know what oceans will be shed — 

Adah. By me ? 

Lucifer. By all. 

Adah. What all? 

Lucifer. The million millions — 

The m)'riad myriads— the all-peopled earth — 
The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled hell, 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. 

Adah. Cain ! 

This spirit curseth us. 

Cain. Let him say on ; 

Him will I follow. 

Adah. Whither ? 

Lucifer. To a place 

Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour ; 
But in that hour see things of many days. 

Adah. How can that be ? 

Lucifer. Did not your Maker make 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
Or hath destroy'd in few ? 

Cain. Lead on. 

Adah. Will he 

In sooth return within an hour ? 

Lucifer. He shall. 

With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
Or stretch an hour into eternity : 

34 



We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 
But that's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 

Adah. Will he return ? 

Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 

Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
Who shall return, save One) — shall come back to 

thee 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

Adah. Where dwellest thou ? 

Lucifer. Throughout all space. Where should I 
dwell ? Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
Divided with me ; life and death — and time — 
Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
Those who once peopled or shall people both — 
These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
■His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
His. If I were not that which I have said, 
Could I stand here ? His angels are within 
Your vision. 

Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 
Spoke with our mother first. 

Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast heard. 

If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
That thirst ; nor ask thee to partake of fruits 
Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 

Cain. Spirit, I have said it. 

[Exeunt Lucifer and Cain. 

Adah (follows, exclaiming) Cain ! my brother ! 
Cain ! 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

The Abyss of Space. 

Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
To sink. 

Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 

Lucifer. Believe — and sink not ! doubt — and 
perish ! thus 
Would run the edictof the other God, 
Who names me demon to his angels ; they 
Echo the sound to miserable things, 
Which, knowing nought beyond their shallow senses, 
Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 
Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
In their abasement. I will have none such : 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The wovlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
Amerced, for doubts beyond thy little life, 
With torture of my dooming. There will come 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, 
And walk the waters ; " and the man shall walk 
The billows and be safe. I will not say, 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 



266 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



What thou dar'st not deny, the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
Is yon our earth ? 

Lucifer. Dost thou not recognise 

The dust which form'd your father ? 

Cain. Can it be ? 

Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
With an inferior circlet near it still, 
Which looks like that which lit our earthly night ? 
Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls, 
And they who guard them ? 

Lucifer. Point me out the site 

Of Paradise. 

Cain. How should I ? As we move 

Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
And as it waxes little, and then less, 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone the roundest of the stars when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
Increase their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 

Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 
Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched, 
What wouldst thou think ? 

Cain. I should be proud of thought 

Which knew such things. 

Lucifer. But if that high thought were 
Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and, 
Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 
And science still beyond them, were chain'd down 
To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
A most enervating and filthy cheat, 
To lure thee on to the renewal of 
Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
As frail, and few so happy 

Cain. Spirit ! I 

Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life ; a heritage not happy, 
If I may judge till now. But, spirit ! if 
It be as thou hast said, (and I within v 

Feel the prophetic torture of its truth,) 
Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propagating death, 
And multiplying murder. 

Lucifer. Thou canst not 

All die — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 

Lucifer. I am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am ? 

Cain. I know not what thou art : I see thy power, 
And see thou show'st me things beyond my power, 
Beyond pll power of my born faculties, 
Although inferior still to my desires 



And my conceptions. 

Lucifer. What are they, which dwell 

So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay ? 

Cain. And what art thou who dwellest 

So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful ? 

Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal ? 

Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 

Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
This until lately — but since it mast be, 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 

Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 

Cain. How ? 

Lucifer. By suffering. 

Cain. And must torture be immortal ? 

Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, 
behold ; 
Is it not glorious ? 

Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 

And unimaginable ether ! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion, at which my soul aches to think, 
Intoxicated with eternity ? 
Oh God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die, 
(If that they die,) or know ye in your might 
And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 

Lucifer. Art thou not nearer ? look back to thine 
earth ! 

Cain. Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
Of most innumerable lights. 

Lucifer. Look there ! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 

Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 

Cain. That, yonder! 

Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so ? 

Why I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, 
Each bright and sparkling — what dost think of 
them? 

Cain. That they are beautiful in their own sphere, 
And that the night, which mak*es both beautiful, 
The little shining fire-fly in its flight, 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided. 

Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 

Cain. Show me. 

Lucifer Dar'st thou behold ? 

Cain. How know I what 



CAIN. 



267 



I dare behold ? as yet, thou hast shown nought 
I dare not gaze on further. 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal ? 
Cain. Why, what are things ? 
Lucifer. Both partly : but what doth 

Sit next thy heart ? 

Cain. The things I see. 

Lucifer. But what 

Sate nearest it ? 

Cain. The things I have net seen, 
Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 
Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things which 
have died, 
As I have shown thee much which cannot die ? 
Cain. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, then ! on our mighty wings. 

Cain. Oh ! how we cleave the blue ! The stars 
fade from us ! 
The earth ! where is my earth ? let me look on it, 
For I was made of it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee, 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it : 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust ; 
"lis part of thy eternity, and mine. 
Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? 
Lucifer. To what was before thee ! 

The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
Is but the wreck. 

Cain. What ! is it not then new ? 

Lucifer. No more than life is ; and that was ere 
thou 
Or 7" were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either : many things will have 
No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thou ; and mighter things have been extinct 
To make way for much meaner than we can 
Surmise ; for moments only and the space 
Have been and must be all unchangeable. 
But changes make not death, except to clay ; 
But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend 
That which was clay, and such thou shalt behold. 
Cain. Clay, spirit ! What thou wilt, I can survey. 
Lucifer. Away, then ! 

Cain. But the lights fade from me fast, 

And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
And wore the look of worlds. 
Lucifer. And such they are. 

Cain. And Edens in them ? 
Lucifer. It may be. 

Cain. And men ? 

Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 
Cain. Ay ! and serpents too ? 

Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them ? 
must no reptiles 
Breathe save the erect ones ? 

Cain. How the lights recede ! 

Where fly we ? 

Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 

Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 

Cain. But it grows dark, and dark — the stars are 

gone ! 
Lucifer. And yet thou seest. 
Cain. 'Tis a fearful light ! 

No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable ; 
The very blue of the empurpled night 
Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 



Huge dusky masses ; but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took 
Like them the featureu of fair earth : — instead, 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death and dead things ? 

Cain. I seek it not ; but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
And all that we inherit, liable 
To such, I would behold at once, what I 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer. Behold ! 

Cain. 'Tis darkness. 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
Unfold its gates ! 

Cain. Enormous vapors roll 

Apart — what's this ? 

Lucifer. Enter! 

Cain. Can I return ? 

Lucifer. Return ! be sure : how else should death 
be peopled ? 
Its present realm is thin to what it will be, 
Through thee and thine. 

Cain. The clouds still open wido 

And wider, and make widening circles round us 

Lucifer. Advance ! 

Cain. And thou ! 

Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 

Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 

[They disaptpear through the clouds. 



SCENE II. 
Hades. 

Enter Lucifer and Cain. 

Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim 
worlds ! 
For they seem more than one, and yet more peopled 
Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 
So thickly in the upper air, that I 
Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 
Of some all unimaginable heaven 
Than things to be inhabited themselves, 
But that on drawing near them I beheld 
Their swelling into palpable immensity 
Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell on, 
Rather than life itself. But here, all is 
So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 
It speaks of a day past. 

Lucifer. It is the realm 

Of death. — Wouldst have it present ? 

Cain. Till I know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if it be as I have heard my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, 'tis a thing — 
Oh God ! I dare not think on't ! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads to death ! 
Or the dull mass of life, that being life 
Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
Even for the innocent ! 

Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father? 



268 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me my birth ? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 

Lucifer. Thou say'st well : 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and brother ? 

Cain. Let them share it 

With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
Bequeath'd to me ? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh ye interminable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
Mighty and melancholy — what are ye ? 
Live ye, or have ye lived ? 
Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 

Cain. Then what is death 'i 

Lucifer. What ? hath not he who made ye 

Said 'tis another life ? 

Cain. Till now he hath 

Said nothing, save that all shall die. 

Lucifer. Perhaps 

He one day will unfold that further secret. 
Cain. Happy the day ! 

Lucifer. Yes, happy ! when unfolded 

Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
All to be animated for this only ! 

Cain. What are these mighty phantoms which I 
see 
Floating around me ? — they wear not the form 
Of the intelligences I have seen 
Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
In Adam's and in Abel's, and in mine, 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's : 
And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 
Of men nor angels, looks like something, which, 
If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
Haughty and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape, for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face of man, 
Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 
As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 
Lucifer. Yet they lived. 

Cain. Where ? 

Lucifer. Where 

Thou livest. 

Cain. When ? 

Lucifer. On what thou callest earth 

They did inhabit. 

Cain. Adam is the first. 

Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — but too mean to be 
The last of these. 

Cain. And what are they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

Thou shalt be. 

Cain. But what were they ? 

Lucifer. Living high, 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As much superior unto all thy sire, 
Adam, could ere have been in Eden, as 
The sixty-thousandth generation shall be 
In its drll damp degeneracy, to 
Thee and thy son ; — and how weak they are, judge 



By thy own flesh. 

Cain. Ah me ! and did they perish ? 

Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade 

from thine. 
Cain. But was mine theirs ? 

Lucifer. It was. 

Cain. But not as now, 

It is too little and too lowly to 
Sustain such creatures. 

Lucifer. ~ True, it was more glorious. 

Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 

Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 

Cain. But how ? 

Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 

Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
Subsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 

Cain. 'Tis awful! 

Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms ! thej 
were once 
Material as thou art. 

Cain. And must I be 

Like them ? 

Lucifer. Let he who made thee answer that. 
I show thee what thy predecessors are, 
And what they ivcre thou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ye in common have with what they had 
Is life, and what ye shall have — death ; the rest 
Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness — 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were ; 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth, thy task — I'll waft thee there in safety. 

Cain. No : I'll stay here. 

Lucifer. How long ? 

Cain. For ever ! since 

I must one day return her.2 from the earth, 
I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 

Lucifer. It cannot be : thou now beholdest as 
A vision that which is reality. 
To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
Must pass through what the things thou see'st havt 

pass'd — 
The gates of death. 

Cain. By what gate have we enter'd; 

Even now ? 

Lucifer. By mine ! but, plighted to return, 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

Cain. And these, too ; can they ne'er repass 
To earth again ? 

Lucifer. Their earth is gone for ever — 

So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 
Of its new scarcely harden'd surface — 'twas — 
Oh, what a beautiful world it was ! 



CAIN. 



269 



Cain. And is. 

. t is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful untoiling, 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
"With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

Lucifer. What thy world is, thou see'st, 

But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That which it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures, 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd, 
Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Boar nightly in the forest, but tenfold 
In magnitude and terror : taller than 
The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them, 
And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
Their bark and branches — what were they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

The Mammoth is in thy world ; — but these lie 
By myriads underneath its surface. 

Cain. But 

None on it ? 

Lucifer. No ; for thy frail race to war 
"With them would render the curse on it useless — 
'Twould be destroy'd so early. 

Cain. But why mw? 

Lucifer. You have forgotten the denunciation 
"Which drove your race from Eden — war with all 

things, 
And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the fruits 
Of the fobidden tree. 

Cain. But animals — 

Did they too eat of it, that they must die ? 
Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, they were made for 

you, 

As you for him. — You would not have their doom 
Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 

Cain. Alas ! the hopeless wretches ! 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons ; 
Like them, too, without having shared the apple ; 
Like them, too, without the so dear-bought know- 
ledge ! 
It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least it promised knowledge at the price 
Of death — but knowledge still : but what knoios man ? 

Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highest 
knowledge ; 
And being of all things the sole thing certain, 
At least leads to the surest science ; therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly. 

Cain. These dim realms ! 

I see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer. Because 

Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly — but 'tis something 
To know there are such realms 

Cain. We knew already 

That there was death. 

Lucifer. But not what was beyond it. 

Cain. Nor know I now. 

Lucifer. Thou knowest that there is 

A state, and many states beyond thine own— 
And this thou knewest not this morn. 



Cain. Eut all 

Seems dim and shadowy. 

Lucifer. Be content ; it will 

Seem clearer to thine immortality. 

Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
The river which flows out of Paradise 
Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
What is it ? 

Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell near it — 'tis the phantasm of an ocean. 

Cain. 'Tis like another world ; a liquid sun — 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface ? 

Lucifer. Are its habitants, 

The past leviathans. 

Cain. And yon immense 

Serpent, which rears his chipping mane and vasty 
Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
The tree in Eden ? 

Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, best 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 

Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt the otflei 
Had more of beauty. 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him ? 

Cain. Many of the same kind, (at least so call'd "> 
But never that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect 

Lucifer. Your father saw him not ? 

Cain. No : 'twas my mother 

Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 

Lucifer. Good man ! whene' er thy wife, or thy 
sons wives, 
Tempt thee or them to aught that's new or strange, 
Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 

Cain. Thy precept comes too late : there is no 
more 
For serpents to tempt woman to. 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may tempt 

man to, 
And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it ! 
My council is a kind one ; for 'tis even 
Given chiefly at my own expense : 'tis true, 
'Twill not be follow'd, so there's little lost. 

Cain. I understand not this. 

Lucifer. The happier thou ! — 

Thy world and thou art still too young ! Tho a 

thinkest 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not so ? 

Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
I have felt much. 

Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 

Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil, 
Of soitow — and thou sufferest, are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
Thou shortly may'st be ; and that state again, 
In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating, 
In generations like to dust, (which they 
In fact but add to,) shall endure and do. — 
Now let us back to earth ! 



270 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Cain. And wherefore didst thou 

Lead me here only to inform me this ? 

Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 

Cain. Yes : as being 

The road to happiness. 

Lucifer. If truth be so, 

Thou hast it. 

Cain. Then my father's God did well 

When he prohibited the fatal tree. 

Lucifer. But had done better in not planting it. 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 
From evil ; it must still roll on the same 
A part of all things. 

Cain. Not of all things. No : 

I'll not believe it — for I thirst for good. 

Lucifer. And who and what doth not ? Who 
covets evil 
For its own bitter sake ? — None — nothing ! 'tis 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 

Cain. Within those glorious orbs which we behold, 
Distant and dazzling, and innumerable, 
Ere we came down into this phantom realm, ■ 

111 cannot come : they are too beautiful. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar. 

Cain. And what of that ? 

Distance can but diminish glory — they 
When nearer must be more ineffable. 

Lucifer. Approach the things of earth most 
beautiful, 
And judge their beauty near. 

Cain. I have done this — 

The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 

Lucifer. Then there must be delusion — what is 
that 
Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 

Cain. My sister Adah. — All the stars of heaven, 
The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
His setting indescribable, which fills 
My eyes with pleasant tears, as I behold 
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
Along that western paradise of clouds — > 
The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's 

< voice — 
The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
And mingles with the song of cherubim, 
As the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart, 
Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
To gaze on it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis frail as fair mortality, 

In the first dawn and bloom of young creation, 
And earliest embraces of earth's parents, 
Can make its offspring ; still it is delusion. 

Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

My brotherhood's with those who have no children. 

Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 

Lucifer. It maybe that thine own shall be for me. 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
Why art thou wretched ? 

Cain. Why do I exist ? 

Why art thou wretched ? why are all things so ? 
Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 
Can surely never be the task of joy, 



And yet my sire says he's omnipotent : 

Then why is evil — he being good ? I ask'd 

This question of my father : and he said, 

Because this evil only was the path 

To good. Strange good, that must arise from out 

Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 

A lamb stung by a reptile : the poor suckling 

Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 

And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 

My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 

The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 

Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 

The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 

Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 

Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from eyil 

Springs good ! 

Lucifer. What didst thou answer ? 

Cain. Nothing; tot 

He is my father : but I thoiight, that 'twere 
A better portion for the animal 
Never to have been stung at all, than to 
Purchase renewal of its little life 
With agonies unutterable, though 
Dispell'd by antidotes. 

Lucifer. But as thou saidst 

Of all beloved things thou lovest her 
Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
Unto thy children 

Cain. Most assuredly : 

What should I be without her ? 

Lucifer. What am I ? 

Cain. Dost though love nothing ? 

Lucifer. What does thy God love ? 

Cain. All things, my father says : but I confess 
I see it not in their allotment here. 

Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst not see if 1 
love 
Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 
To which particular things must melt like snows. 

Cain. Snows ! what are they ? 

Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 

What thy remoter offspring must encounter ; 
But bask beneath the clime which knows no winter ! 

Cain. But dost thou not love something like 
thyself ? 

Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself '? 

Cain. Yes, but love more 

What makes my feelings more endurable, 
And is more than myself, because I love it. 

Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 'tis beautiful, 
As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like any other appetite. 

Cain. Cease to be beautiful ? how can that be ? 

Lucifer. With time. 

Cain. B#t time has past, and hitherto 

Even Adam and my mother both are fair : 
Not fair like Adah andthe seraphim — 
But very fair. 

Lucifer. All that must pass away 

In them and her. 

Cain. I'm sorry for it ; but 

Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 
And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
He who creates all beauty will lose more 
Than me in seeing perish such a work. 

Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what must perish. 

Cain. And I thee who lov'st nothing. 

Lucifer. And thy crother— 



CAIN. 



271 



Bits he not near thy heart ? 

Cain. Why should he not ? 

Lucifer. Thy father loves him well— so does thy 
God. 

Cain. And so do I. 

Lucifer. 'Tis well and meekly done. 

Cain. Meekly ! 

Lucifer. He is the second born of flesh, 

And his mother's favorite. 

Cain. Let him keep 

Her favor, since the serpent was the first 
To win it. 

Lucifer. And his father's. 

Cain. What is that 

To me ? should I not love that which all love ? 

Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord 
And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 

Cain. I 

Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 

Lucifer. But you have seen his angels. 

Cain. Rarely. 

Lucifer. But 

Sufficiently to see they love your brother : 
His sacrifices are acceptable. 

Cain. So be they ! wherefore speak to me of this ? 

Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this ere 
now. 

Cain. And if 

I have thought, why recall a thought that (he 

pauses as agitated) — Spirit ! 
Here we are in thy world ; speak not of mine. , 
Thou hast shown me wonders ; thou hast shown me 

those 
Mighty Pre-Adamites who walk'd the earth 
Of which ours is the wreck ; thou hast pointed out 
Myriads of stary worlds, of which our own 
Is the dim and remote companion, in 
Infinity of life : thou hast shown me shadows 
Of that existence with the dreaded name 
Which my sire brought us — Death ; thou hast 

shown me much — 
But not all : show me where Jehovah dwells, 
In his especial Paradise — or thine : 
Where is it ? 

Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 

Cain. But ye 
Have some allotted dwelling — as all things ; 
Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants ; 
All temporary breathing creatures their 
Peculiar element ; and things which have 
Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, 

thou say'st ; 
And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
Ye do not dwell together ? 

Lticifer. No, we reign 

Together ; but our dwellings are asunder. 

Cain. Would there were only one of ye ! perchance 
An unity of purpose might make union 
In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 
How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 
Your essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 

Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 

Cain. We are brethren, 

And so we shall remain ; but were it not so, 
Is spirit like to flesh ? can it fall out ? 
Infinity with Immortality ? 
Jarring and turning space to misery — 



For what ? 

Lucifer. To reign. 

Cain. Did ye not tell me that 

Ye are both eternal ? 

Lucifer. Yea ! 

Cain. And what I have seen. 

Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 

Lucifer. Ay. 

Cain. And cannot ye both reign then ? — is there 
not 
Enough ? — why should ye differ ? 

Lucifer. We both reign. 

Cain. But one of you makes evil. 

Lucifer. Which ? 

Cain. Thou ! for 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 

Lucifer. And why not he who made ? / made ye 
not: 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

Cain. Then leave us 

His creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 
Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 

Lucifer. I could show thee 

Both ; but the time will come thou shalt see one 
Of them for evermore. 

Cain. And why not now ? 

Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to 
gather 
The little I have shown thee into calm 
And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 
To the great double Mysteries ! the two Principles ! 
And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 
Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 

Cain. And let me perish, so I see them ! 

Lucifer. There 

The son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 
But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them; 
That sight is for the other state. 

Cain. Of death ? 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Then I dread it less, 

Now that I know it leads to something definite. 

Lticifer. And now I will convey thee to thy world, 
Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 
Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 

Cain. And to what end have I beheld these things 
Which thou hast shown me ? 

Lticifer. Didst thou not require 

Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I show'd, 
Taught thee to know thyself ? 

Cain. Alas ! I seem 

Nothing. 

Lticifer. And this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness ; 
Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
'Twill spare them many tortures. 

Cain. Haughty spirit ! 

Thou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself, though proud, 
Hast a superior. 

Lticifer. No ! By heaven, which He 

Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
Of worlds and life, which I hold with him — No ! 
I have a victor — true ; but no superior. 
Homage he has from all — but none from me ; 
I battle it against him, as I battled 
In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 
And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
And the interminable realms of space, 



272 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And the infinity of endless ages, 

All, all, will I dispute ! And world by world, 

And star by star, and universe by universe 

Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 

Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 

Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd ! 

And what can quench our immortality, 

Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 

He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 

Evil; but what will be the good he gives ? 

Were I the victor, his works would be deem'd 

The only evil ones. And you, ye new 

And scarce-born mortals, what have been his gifts 

To you already in your little world ? 

Cain. But few ; and some of those but bitter. 

Lucifer. Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
Of his celestial boons to ye and yours, 
Evil and good are things in their own essence, 
And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 
Evil springs from him, do not name it mine, 
Till ye know better its true font : and judge 
Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
Of your existence, such as it must be. 
One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
Your reason : — let it not be oversway'd 
By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
'Gainst all external sense and inward feeling: 
Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
In your own bosom — where the outward fails ; 
So shall your nearer be the spiritual 
Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 

[They disappear. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

The Earth, near Eden, as in Act 1. 

Enter Cain and Ad.vh. 

Adah. Hush ! tread softly, Cain. 

Cain. I will ! but wherefore ? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
, Of leaves beneath the cypress. 

Cain. Cypress ! 'tis 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose it 
For our child's canopy ? 

Adah. Because its branches 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
Fitting to shadow slumber. 

Cain. Ay, the last — 

And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[They go up to the child. 
How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
In their pure incarnation, vying with 
The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 

Adah. And his lips, too, 

How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
'Tis closed. 

Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 



My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit— 
Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 
Which were not thine nor mine ? But now sleep on ! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream — 
Of what ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, 
My disinherited boy ! 'Tis but a dream ; 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 

Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our 
son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
Can we not make another ? 

Cam. Where ? 

Adah. Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth ? 

Cain. Yes — death, too, is among the debts we 
owe her. 

Adah. Cain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew 
thee hence, 
Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
"Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him, 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

Cain. . So soon ! 

Adah. 'Tis scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
To me, but only hours upon the sun. 

Cain. And yet I have approach'd that sun, and 
seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

Adah. Hardly hours. 

Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
And measures it by that which it beholds, 
Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
I had beheld the immemorial works 
Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds ; 
And, gazing on eternity, methought 
I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
From its immensity ; but now I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
That I was nothing ! 

Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 

Jehovah said not that. 

Cain. No : he contents him 

With making us the nothing which w r e are ; 
And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
Eden and Immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what ? 

Adah. Thou know'st— 



CAIN. 



273 



Even for our parents' error. 

Cain. What is that 

To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ? 

Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that 
thought 
Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would / could die for them, so they might live ! 

Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
Might satiate the insatiable of life, 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 
Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, 
Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 

Adah. How know we that some such atonement 
one day 
May not redeem our race ? 

Cain. By sacrificing 

The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
Were there ? why, we are innocent : what have we 
Done that we must be victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 

Adah. Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain : thy 
words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Cain. Then leave me ! 

Adah. Never, 

Though thy God left thee. 

Cain. Say, what have we here ? 

Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A sacrifice to God on thy return. 

Cain. And how knew he that I would be so ready 
With the burnt offerings, which he daily brings 
With a meek brow, whose base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
To the Creator ? 

Adah. Surely, 'tis well done. 

Cain. One altar may suffice : / have no offering. 

Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and fruits ; 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 

Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the 
sun, 
According to the curse : — must I do more ? 
For what should I be gentle ? for a war 
With all the elements ere they will yield 
The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful ? 
For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 
Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing — 
For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, 
And seem well pleased with pain ? For what should I 
Be contrite ? for my father's sin, already 
Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
And to be more than expiated by 
The ages prophesied, upon our seed ? 
Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, 
The germs of an eternal misery 
To myriads is within him ! better 'twere 
I snatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 
The rocks, than let him live to 

Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Touch not the child — my child ! thy child ! Oh Cain ! 

Cain. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the 
power 
Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 

Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 
35 



Cain. I said 

'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; hut since 
That saying jars you, let us only say — 
'Twere better that he never had been born. 
Adah. Oh, do not say so! Where were then the 

The mothers joys of watching, nourishing, 
And loving him ? Soft ! he awakes. Sweet Enoch! 
[■S^e goes to the child. 
Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 
How like to me, how like to thee, when gentle, 
For then we are all alike ; is't not so, Cain ? 
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflected in each other ; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 
And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 
To hail his father ; while his little form 
Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! 
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too. 

Cain. Bless thee, boy ! 

If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 

Adah. It shall. 

Surely a father's blessing may avert 
A reptile's subtlety. 

Cain. Of that I doubt ; 

But bless him ne'er the less. 

Adah. Our brother comes. 

Cain. Thy brother Abel. 

Enter Abel. 

Abel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 

The peace of God be on thee ! 

Cain. Abel, hail ! 

Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast been 
wandering 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken with, like to our father ? 

Cain. No. 

Abel. "Why then commune with him ? he may be 
A foe to the Most High. 

Cain. And friend to man. 

Has the Most High been so — if so you term him ? 

Abel. Term him ! your words are strange, to-day, 
my brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
We mean to sacrifice. 

Adah. Farewell, my Cain ; 

But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
To peace and holiness ! 

\~Exit Adah with her child. 

Abel. Where hast thou been ? 

Cain. I know not. 

Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 

Cain. The dead 

The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent, 
The overpowering mysteries of space — 
The innumerable worlds that were and are — 



m 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A whirlwind of such overwhelming things, 

Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced 

spheres 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 

Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural 
light— 
Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue — 
Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — 
What may this mean ? 

Cam. It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

Abel. Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed 

together. 
Cain. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 
Abel. Both well, I hope. 

Cain. But thee the better : I care not for that, 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I am : 
Revere him, then — but let it be alone — 
At least, without me. 

Abel. Brother, I should ill 

Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
If as my elder I revered thee not, 
And in the worship of our God call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 'tis thy place. 

Cain. But I have ne'er 

Asserted it. 

Abel. The mort my grief ; I pray thee 

To do so now : thy soul seems laboring in 
Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 

Cain. No ; 

Nothing can calm me more. Calm ! say I ? Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave me ! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 

Abel. Neither; we must perform our task together. 
Spurn me not. 

Cain. If it must be so — well, then, 

What shall I do ? 
Abel. Choose one of those two altars. 

Cain. Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
And stone. 

Abel. Choose thou ! 

Cain. I have chosen. 

Abel. 'Tis the highest, 

And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thine ? 

Abel. Behold them here — 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof — 
A shepherd's humble offering. 

Cain. I have no flocks ; 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 

[He gathers fruits. 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 
[They dress their altars, and kindle a flame 
upon them. 
Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

Cain. No — I am new to this ; lead thou the way, 
And I will follow — as I may. 

Abel, (kneeling.) Oh God! 

Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His children all lost, as they might have been, 
Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 



The mercy which is thy delight, as to 

Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 

Compared with our great crimes : — Sole Lord of light, 

Of good, and glory, and eternity ; 

Without whom all were evil, and with whom 

Nothing can err, except to some good end 

Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 

Inscrutable, but still to be fulfilled — 

Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 

First of the first-born flocks — an offering, 

In itself nothing — as what offering can be 

Aught unto thee ? — but yet accept it for 

The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 

The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 

Even to the dust, of which he is, in honor 

Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 

Cain, (standing erect during this speech.) Spirit . 
whate'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil ; 
Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
And it may be with other names, because 
Thine attributes seem many, as thy works : — 
If thou must be propitiated with prayers, 
Take them ! If thou must be induced with altars, 
And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, which 

smokes 
On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 
In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
In sanguinary incense to thy skies ; 
Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth, 
And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 
I spread them on now offers in the face 
Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 
Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
Suffer'd in limb or life, and rather form 
A sample of thy works, than supplication 
To look on ours ! If. a shrine without victim, 
And altar without gore, may win thy favor, 
Look on it ! and for him who dresseth it, 
He is — such as thou mad'st him ; and seeks nothing 
Which must be won by kneeling : if he's evil, 
Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and may'st — 
For what can he oppose ? If he be good, 
Strike him, or spare him, as thomwilt ! since all 
Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 
To have no power themselves, save in thy will ; 
And whether that be good or ill I know not, 
Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 
Omnipotence, but merely to endure 
Its mandate ; which thus far I have endured. 

[The fire tipon the altar of Abel kindles into a 
column of the brightest flame, and ascends to 
heaven; while a whirlwind throtos down the 
altar of Cain, and scatters the fruits abroad 
upon the earth. 

Abel, (kneeling.) Oh, brother, pray ! Jehovah's 
wroth with thee. 

Cain. Why so ? 

Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 

Cain. From earth they came, to earth let them 
return ; 
Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the summer : 
Thy burnt flesh-off 'ring prospers better, see 
How Heav'n licks up the flames, when thick with 
blood ! 

Abel. Think not upon my offering's acceptance, 



CAIN. 



275 



But make another of thine own before 
It is too late. 

Cain. I will build no more altars, 

Nor suffer any. — 

Abel, (rising.) Cain ! what meanest thou ? 

Cain. To cast down yon vile flatt'rer of the clouds, 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs— 
Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids, 
Which fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. 

Abel, (opposing him.) Thou shalt not: — add not 
impious works to impious 
"Words ! let that altar stand — 'tis hallow'd now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
In his acceptance of the victims. 

Cain. His ! 

His pleasure ! what was his high pleasure in 
The fumes of scorching flesh' and smoking blood, 
To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
Still yearn for their dead offspring ? or the pangs 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody record 
Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 

Abel. Brother, give back ! thou shall not touch 
my altar 
With violence ; if that thou wilt adopt it, 
To try another sacrifice, 'tis thine. • 

Cain. Another sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
That sacrifice may be 

Abel. What mean'st thou ? 

Cain. Give — 

Give way ! — thy God loves blood ! — then look to it : — 
Give way, ere he hath more ! 

Abel. In His great name, 

I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
Had his acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov'st thyself, 
Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 
Its native soil : — else 

Abel, (opposing him.) I love God far more 
Than life. 

Cain, (striking him with a brand, on the temples, 
which he snatches from the altar.) Then 
take thy life unto thy God, 
Since ne loves lives. 

Abel, (fails.) What hast thou done, my brother ? 

Cain. Brother ! 

Abel. Oh, God ! receive thy servant, and 

Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
He did. — Cain, give me — give me thy hand; and 

tell 
Toor Zillah 

Cain, (after a moment's stupefaction.) My hand ! 
'tis all red, and with — 
What ? [A long pause. — Looking sloioly round. 

Where am I ? alone ! Where's Abel ? where 
Cain ? Can it be that I am he ? My brother, 
Awake ! — why liest thou so on the green earth ? 
'Tis not the hour of slumber : — why so pale ? 

What, hast thou ! thou wert full of life this morn ! 

Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 

Too fiercely but not fatally. Ah, why 

Would'st thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 

And only done to daunt me : — as a blow — 

And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir! 

Why, so— that's well ! — thou breath'st ! breathe 

upon me ! 
Oh, God ! Oh, God ! 

Abel, (very faintly.) What's he who speaks of 
God? 



Cain. Thy murderer. 

Abel. Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 

Comfort poor Zillah : — she has but one brother 
Now. [Abel dies. 

Cain. And I none ! — Who makes me brotherless ? 
His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
Death is like sleep : and sleep shuts down our lids. 
His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ; 
And yet I feel it not. — His heart ! his heart ! — 

Let me see, doth it beat ? methinks No ! — no ! 

This is a vision, else I am become 
The native of another and worse world. 
The earth swims round me : — what is this ? 'tis wet : 
[Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks at it. 
And yet there are no dews ! 'Tis blood — my blood — 
My brother's and my own ; and shed by me ! 
Then what have I further to do with life, 
Since I have taken life from my own flesh ? 
But he cannot be dead ! — Is silence death ? 
No ; he will wake : then let mc watch by him. 
Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since — 
What shall I say to him ? — My brother ! — No : 
He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter Zillah. 

Zillah. I heard a heavy sound : what can it be ? 
'Tis Cain ; and watching by my husband. What 
Dost thou there, brother ? Doth he sleep ? Oh ! 

heav'n ! 
What means this paleness, and yon stream ? — No ! 

no ! 
It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
Abel ! what's this ? — who hath done this ? He 

moves not ; 
He breathes not : and his hands drop down from 

mine. 
With stony lifelessness : Ah ! cruel Cain ; 
Why cam'st thou not in time to save him from 
This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
Thou wert the stronger, and should'st have stepp'd 

in 
Between him and aggression ! Father ! — Eve ! — 
Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world ! 

[Exit Zillah, calling on her Parents, S;c. 
Cain, (solus.) And who hath brought him there ?— 

I — who abhor 
The name of Death so deeply, that the thought 
Impoison'd all my life, before I knew 
His aspect — I have led him here, and giv'n 
My brother to his cold and still embrace, 
As if he would not have asserted his 
Inexorable claim without my aid. 
I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
Had madden'd me ; — but he shall ne'er awake ! 

Enter Adam, Eye, Adah, and Zillah. 

Adam. A voice of wo from Zillah brings me here, — 
What do I see ? — 'Tis true ! — My son ! — my son ! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 

[To Eve. 

Eve. Oh ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fangs 
Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 



276 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Adam. Who, 

Or what hath done this deed ? — speak, Cain, since 

thou 
Wert present ; was it some more hostile angel, 
Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
Brute of the forest ? 

Eve. Ah ! a livid light 
Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud ! yon brand, 
Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from off the altar, 
And black with smoke, and red with 

Adam. Speak, my son ! 

Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are, 
That we are not more miserable still. 

Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou ! 

Eve. It was. 

I see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 

Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 

Eve. Hear, Jehovah ! 
May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
For he was fitter for his breed than ours. 
May all his days be desolate ! May 

Adah. Hold ! 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
And my betroth'd. 

Eve. He hath left thee no brother— 

Zillah no husband — me no son! — for thus 
I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us, as he broke 

That of his nature, in yon Oh death ! death ! 

Why didst thou not take me, who first incurr'd thee ? 
Why dost thou not so now ? 

Adam. Eve ! let not this, 

Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

Eve, (pointing to Cain.) His will! ! the will of 
yon incarnate spirit 
Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
From Eden, till his children do by him 
As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his path — 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim ! 
His waking a continual dread of death ! 
May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip ! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he live in the pangs which others die Avith ! 
And death itself wax something worse than death 
To him who first acquainted him with man ! 
Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain. 
Through all the coming myriads of mankind, 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou wort their sire ! 
May the grass wither from thy feet ! the woods 
Deny thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
A grave ! the sun his light ! and heaven her God ! 

[Exit Eve. 



Adam. Cain ! get thee forth : we dwell no more 
together. 
Depart ! and leave the dead to me — I am 
Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 

Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my father : dc 
not 
Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 

Adam. I curse him not : his spirit be his curse. 
Come, Zillah ! 

Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse, 

Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah ! 

Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 

And those lips once so warm — my heart ! my heart ! 
[Exeunt Adam and Zillah toeeping. 

Adah. Cain ! thou hast heard, we must go forth. 
I am ready, 
So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 
To me — thine own. 

Cain. Leave me ! 

Adah. Why, all have left thee. 

Cain. Anf[ wherefore lingerest thou ? Dost thou 
not fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this ? 

Adah. I fear 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from within exclaims, Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah. Hear'st thou that voice ? 

The Voice within. Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone. 

Enter the Angel of the Lord. 

Angel. Where is thy brother Abel ? 

Cain. Am I then 

My brother's keeper ? 

Angel. Cain ! what hast thou done ? 

The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries out, 

Even from the ground, unto the Lord ! — Now art 
thou 
Cursed from the earth, which open'd late her mouth 
To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, it shall 

not 
Yield thee her strength : a fugitive shalt thou 
Be from this day, and vagabond' on earth ! 

Adah. This punishment is more than he can bear. 
Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth, 
And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
'Twill come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
Shall slay him. 

Cain. Would they could ! but who are they 

Shall slay me ? where are these on the lone earth 
As yet unpeopled ? 

Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 

And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 

Adah. Angel of Light ! be merciful, nor say 
That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in my boy, and of his father, 

Angel. Then he would but be what his father is. 
Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now see'st so besmear'd with blood ? 



CAIN. 



277 



The fratricide might well engender parricides. — 
But it shall not be so— the Lord thy God 
And mine commandeth me to set his seal 
On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither ! 

Cain. . What 

Would' st thou with me ? 

Angel. 'To mark upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 
Cain. No, let me die ! 
Angel. It must not be. 

[The Angel sets the mark on Cain's brow. 
Cain. It burns 

My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 
Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn from 
the womb, 
As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 
Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended. 
Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
The serpent, and my sire mourn'd for Eden. 
That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
For life, nor did I make myself; but could I 
With my own death redeem him from the dust — 
And why not so ? let him return to-day, 
And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
By God the life to him he loved ; and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 
Angel. Who shall heal murder ? what is done is 
done. 
Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds, 
Unlike the last ! [The Angel disappears. 

Adah. He's gone, let us go forth ; 

I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah ! little knows he what he weeps for ! 
And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears ! 
But the four rivers * would not cleanse my soul. 
Think'st thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 
Adah. If I thought he would not, I would — 



* The " four rirers " which flowed round Eden, and conaequently the 
only waters vrth wliich Cain was acquainted upon the earth. 



Cain, (interrupting her.) No ! 

No more of threats : we have had too many of them : 
Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 

Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
Let us depart together. 

Cain. Oh ! thou dead 

And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou wow art, 
I know not ! but if thou see'st what / am, 
I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell ! 
I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee. 
I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drain'd 
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own, 
In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
To do that for thee, which thou should'st have done 
For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
The first grave yet dug for mortality, 
But who hath dug that grave ? Oh, earth ! Oh, earth ! 
For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 
Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. 

[Adah stoops doicn and kisses the body of Abel. 

Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother 
Has been thy lot ! Of all who mourn for thee, 
I alone must not weep. My office is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them ; 
But yet of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 

Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our way ; 
'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 

Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and may 
our God 
Be thine ! Now let Us carry forth our children. 

Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
Have dried the fountain of a gentle race, 
Which might have graced his recent marriage couch, 
And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine, 
Uniting with our children Abel's offspring ! 
Abel ! 

Adah. Peace be with him ! 

'Cain. But with me ! 

[Exeunt. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



1 Dux inquieti turbidus Adriae." — Horace. 



PREFACE. 

The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is 
one of the most remarkable events in the annals 
of the most singular government, city, and people 
of modern history. It occurred in the year 1355. 
Every thing about Venice is, or was, extraordinary 
— her aspect is like a dream, and her history is like 
a romance. The story of the Doge is to be found 
in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed in 
the " Lives of the Doges," by Marin Sanuto, which 
is given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly 
related, and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than 
,any scenes which can be founded upon the subject. 

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of 
talents and of courage. I find him commander-in- 
chief of the land forces at the siege of Zara, whore 
he beat the king of Hungary and his army of 80,000 
men, killing 8000 men, and keeping the besieged at 
the same time in check ; an exploit of which I 
know none similar in history except that of Caesar 
at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He 
was afterwards commander of the fleet in the same 
war. He took Capo dTstria. He was ambassador 
at Genoa and Rome, at which last he received the 
news of his election to the dukedom ; his absence 
being a proof that he sought it by no intrigue, 
since he was apprized of his predecessor's death 
and his own succession at the same moment. But 
he appears to have been of an ungovernable temper. 
A story is told by Sanuto, of his having, many 
years before, when podesta and captain at Treviso, 
boxed the ears of the bishop, who was somewhat 
tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest Sanuto 
" saddles him with a judgment," as Thwackum did 
Square ; but he does not tell us whether he was 
punished or rebuked by the Senate for this outrage 
at the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, 
to have been afterwards at peace with the church, 
for we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested 
with the fief of Val di Marino, in the march of 
Treviso, and with the title of Count, by Lorenzo 
Count-Bishop of Ceneda. For these facts my 



authorities are Sanuto, Vetter Oandi, Andrea 'SHo.<- 
agero, and the account of the Biege of Zara, first 
published by the indefatigable Abate Morelli, in his 

Monument! Veneziani di varia Letteratura," 
printed in 1796, all of which I have looked over in 
the original language. The moderns, Daru, Sis- 
mondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient 
chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to 
his jealousy ; but I find this no where asserted by 
the national historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, 

says, that " Altri scrissero che dalla 

gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michel 
Steno) staccar con violenza," &c. &c. ; but this 
appears to have been by no means the general 
opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or by Nav- 
agero, and Sa^idi himself adds, a moment after, 
that " per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che 
non il solo desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alia 
congiura ma anche la innata abituale'ambizion sua, 
per cui anel ava a farsi principe independente." 
The first motive appears to have been excited by 
the gross affront pi the words written by Michel 
Steno on the ducal chair, and by the light and 
inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender, 
who was one of their "tre Capi." The attentions 
of Steno himself appear to have been directed 
towards one of her damsels, and not to the " Doga- 
ressa" herself, against whose fame not the slightest 
insinuation appears, while she is praised for her 
beauty, and remarked for her youth. Neither do I 
find it asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an 
assertion) that the Doge was actuated by jealousy 
of his wife; but rather by respect for. her, and for 
his own honor, warranted by his past services and 
present dignity . 

I know not that the historical facts are alluded 
to in English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of 
Italy. His account is false and flippant, full of stale 
jests about old men and young wives, and wonder- 
ing at so great an effect from so slight a cause. 
How so acute and severe an observer of mankind 
as the author of Zeluco could wonder at this is 
inconceivable. He knew that a basin of water spilt 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



borough of In, omm , ^ ^ plunged 

fnTthem^ delating wars because his master 
w nettled at his finding fault with .* window^ and 
wished to give him another occupation— that Helen 
ost Tro^that Lucretia expelled the Tarqums from 
Rome-and that Cava brought the Moors to Spam- 
5SS insulted husband led the Gauls to Clusmm 



and thence to Rome— that a sing'_ 
!SkH of Prussia on the Abbe de Bernis, and a 
•est on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of 
Eoshach-that the elopement of Dearbhorgd with 

Mac Murchad conducted the English to the slavery 
of Ireland-that a personal pique between Maria 
Antoinette and the duke of Orleans precipitated 
the first expulsion of the Bourbons— and, not to 
multiply instances, that Commodus, Domitian, and 
Caligula fell victims not to their public tyranny, 
but to private vengeance-and that an order to 
make Cromwell disembark from the ship m which 
he would have sailed to America destroyed both 
king and commonwealth. After these instances, 
on the least reflection, it is indeed extraordinary in 
Dr. Moore to seem surprised that a man used to 
command, who had served and swayed in the most 
important offices, should fiercely resent, ma fierce 
age, an unpunished affront, the grossest that can 



279 

character; surely truth belongs to the dead, and to 
the unfortunate, and they who have died upon a 
scaffold, have generally had faults enough of their 
own, without attributing to them that which the 
very incurring of the perils which conducted them 
to their violent death renders, of all others, the 
most improbable. The black veil which is painted 
over the place of Marino Faliero amongst the 
a, doges, and the Giants' Staircase where he was 
le verse of Fred- downed, and discrowned, and decapitated struck 
forcibly upon my imagination, as did his fiery 
character and strange story. I went in 1819, in 
search of his tomb more than once to the church 
San Giovanni e San Paolo, and as I was standing 
before the monument of another family, a priest 
came up to me and said, "I can show you finer 
monuments than that." I told him that I 
search of that of the Faliero family, and partic- 
ularly of the Doge Marino's. "Oh," said he, 
"I will show it you;" and conducting me to the 
outside, pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with 
an illegible inscription. He said that it had been 
in a convent adjoining, but was removed after the 
French came, and placed in its present situation ; 
that he had seen the tomb opened at its removal; 
there were still some bones remaining, but no 
positive vestige of the decapitation. The eques- 
trian statue of which I have made mention in the 



can man siaiuc ^i .....~— 

* s ^, «~ ~~r- T1 I tllirt i ac t as before that church is not, however, ot a 

be offered to a man, be he prince or peasant The third ^actasl ^ ^^ ^.^ 

age of Faliero is little to the purpose, unless to rahe^but "^ date . Thcrc wer e two other 
favor it. Do^es of this family prior to Marino: Ordelafo, 

.. The voun S ,Ws wrath is like straw o« fire, , . li i» Wtle at Zara in 1117, (where his 

who fell m battle at ziara in i ^ 
descendant afterwards conquered the Huns ) ana 
Vital Faliero, who reigned in 1082. The family, 
originally from Fano, was of the most illustrious in 



' Young: men soon give and soon forget affronts, 
Old a°"e is slow at both." 



e nelle ambasciate, gli avevano acquistato la stoma 
e la fiducia de' cittadini, ed avevano untiti 1 suffiragj 
per collocarlo alia testa della republica. Innakato 
ad un grado che terminava gloriosamenta la sua 
vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria leggiera insmuo 
nel suo cuore tal velenO che basto a corrompere le 
antiche sue qualita, e a condurlo al termme del 
scellerati ; serio essempio, che prova non **£•**> 
in cui laprudenza umana Si a sicura, e che ™K™™> 
restano sinpre passioni capacv adzsonamrlo, guando 
non inmgili sopra se stesso. "-Lazier, Italu 
translation, vol. iv. page 30, 31. 

Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Fa hero 
be-ed his life? I have searched the chroniclers, 
and find nothing of the kind; it is true that he 
avowed all. He was conducted to the place of 
torture, but there is no mention made of any 
application for mercy on his part; and the very 
circumstance of their having taken him to the rack 
seems to argue anything hut his having .shown a 
want of firmness, which would doubtless have been 



Hitve «*** j.^i*«v 

historical fact worthy of commemoration 

It is now four years that I have meditated this 
work, and, before I had sufficiently examined the 
records, I was rather disposed to have made it turn 
on a jealousy in Faliero. But perceiving no found- 
ation for this in historical truth, and aware that 
tealousy is an exhausted passion in the drama 1 
have given it a more historical form. I was, be- 
sides well advised by the late Matthew Lewis on 
that point, in talking with him of my intention, at 
Venice, in 1817. " H you make him jealous, said 
he " recollect that you have to contend with estab- 
lished writers, to say nothing of Shakspears, and 
an exhausted subject ;-stick to the old fiery Doge s 
natural character, which will bear you out, if prop- 
erly drawn ; and make your plot as regular as you 
ca n "—Sir William Drummond gave me nearly the 
same counsel. How far I have followed these in- 
structions, or whether they have availed me, is not 
for me to decide. I have had no view to the sta e , 
in its present state it is, perhaps, not a very exa 



want of firmness, which would doubtless have been m .us in s^ -— ™ ^ e been t00 muc h 

So mentioned by those minute historians who by object .am ^ . £e» ^ ^ ^ 

no means favor him: such, indeed, won d be ^ beh nd |he ^ f ^ any man of irritable 

trary to his character as a soldier, to the age in time And lea m ercies of an audi- 

wh h he lived, and at which he died as it is to the feeling puttog ^self £tt ^ w ^ 

Lth of history. I know no justification at any ra tee.-— th. sneer ng rea ^ ^ distanl 
distance of time for calumniating an historical and the tait rcMew, 



280 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



calamities ; but the trampling of an intelligent or 
of an ignorant audience on a production which, be 
it good or bad, has been a mental labor to the 
writer, is a palpable and immediate grievance, 
heightened by a man's doubt of their competency 
to judge, and his certainty of his own imprudence 
in electing them his judges. Were I capable of 
writing a play which could be deemed stage worthy, 
success would give me no pleasure, and failure 
great pain. It is for this reason that even durin 
the time of being one of the committee of one of 
the theatres, I never made the attempt, and never 
will.* But surely there is dramatic power some- 
where, where Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and 
John Wilson exist. The " City of the Plague " 
and the "Fall of Jerusalem" are full of the best 
" materiel" for tragedy that has been seen since 
Horace Walpole, except passages of Ethwald and 
De Montfort. It is the fashion to underrate Horace 
Walpole ; firstly, because he was a nobleman, and 
secondly, because he was a gentleman ; but to say 
nothing of the composition of his incomparable 
letters, and of the Castle of Otranto, he is the 
" TJltimus Romanorum," the author of the Myste- 
rious Mother, a tragedy of the higher order, and 
not a puling love-play. He is the father of the first 
romance and of the last tragedy in our language, 
and surely worthy of a higher place than any living- 
writer, be he who he may. 

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I 
forgot to mention that the desire of preserving, 
though still too remote, a nearer approach to unity 
than the irregularity, which is the reproach of the 
English theatrical compositions, permits, has in- 
duced me to represent the conspiracy as already 
formed, and the Doge acceding to it, whereas, in 
fact, it was of his own preparation and that of Is- 
rael Bertuccio. The other characters (except that 
of the duchess), incidents, and almost the time, 
which was wonderfully short for such a design in 
real life, are strictly historical, except that all the 
consultations took place in the palace. Had I fol- 
lowed this, the unity would have been better pre- 
served ; but I wished to produce the Doge in the 
full assembly of the conspirators, instead of monot- 
onously placing him always in dialogue with the 



* While I was in the sub-committee of Drury Lane Theatre, 1 can vouch 
for my colleagues, and I hope for myself, that we did our best to bring back the 
legitimate drama. I tried what 1 could to get " De Montfort" revived, but 
in vain, and equally in vain in favor of Sotheby's " Ivan," which was 
thought an acting play ; and 1 endeavored also to wake Mr. Coleridge to 
write a tragedy. Those who are not in the secret will hardly believe that the 
*' School for Scandal " is the play which has brought least inoney, averaging 
the number of times it has been acted since its production : so Manager 
Dibdin assured me. Of what has occurred since Maturin's " Bertram," I 
am not aware ; so that I may be traducing, through ignorance, some excel- 
lent new writer ; if so, I beg their pardon. 1 have been absent from England 
nearly five years, and, till hist year, I never read an English newspaper 
since my departure, and am now only aware of theatrical matters through 
the medium of the Parisian Gazette of Galignani, and only for the last twelve 
months. Let me then deprecate all offence to tragic or comic writers, to 
whom I wish well, and of whom I know nothing. The long complaints of 
the actual suite of the drama arise, however, from no fault of the performers. 
I can conceive nothing b-m-'r than Kemble, Cooke, and Kean in their very dif- 
ferent manners, or than Elliston in gentleman's comedy, and in some parts of 
tragedy. Miss O'Neill I never saw, having made and kept a determination to 
■ee nothing which should divide or disturb my recollection of Siddons. Siddons 
and Kemble were the ideal of tragic action ; 1 never saw any thing at all 
resembling them even in person ; for this reason, we shall never see again 
Coriolanus or Macbeth. When Kean is blamed for want of dignity, we 
should remember that it is a grace and not an art, and not to be attained by 
study. In all not super-natural parts, he is perfect ; even his very defects 
belong, or seem to belong, to the parts themselves, and appear truer to 
nature. But of Kemble we may say, with reference to his acting, what the 
Cardinal De AeU. said of the Marquis of Montrose, " that he was the only 
man he ever saw who reminded him of the heroes of Plutarch." 



same individuals. For the real facts, I refer to the 
extracts given in the Appendix in the Italian, with 
translation. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Men. 



> Conspirators. 



J 



Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
Bertuccio Faliero, Nepheio of the Doge. 
Lioxi, a Patrician and Senator. 
Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
Michel Steno, one of the three Capi of 

the Forty. 
Israel Bertuccio, Chief 

of the Arsenal, 

Philip Calendaro, 

Dagolino, 

Bertram, 

") " Signore di Notte," 

.,„,..,! one of the Officers 
Signor of the Night, \ odm J ufm(J f Q the 

J Republic. 
First Citizen. 
Second Citizen. 
Third Citizen. 

VlXCENZO, - 

Pietro, 
Battista, 
Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
Guards, Consjiiratois, Citizens, The 
Council of Ten, The Giants, £$c, <S,c. 
Women. — Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
Marianna, her Friend. 
Female Attendants, ^c. 

Scene Venice — in the year 1355. 



Officers belonging to the 
Ducal Palace. 



• ACT I. 

SCENE I. 
An Antechamber in the Ducal Palace. 

Pietro speaks, in entering, to Battista. 

Pie. Is not the messenger returned ? 

Bat. Not yet; 

I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
But still the Sigorny is deep in council, 
And long debate on Steno's accusation. 

Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 

Bat. How bears he 

These moments of suspense ? 

Pie. With struggling patience. 

Placed at the ducal table, covered o'er 
With all the apparel of the state ; petitions, 
Despatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports, 
He sits as rapt in duty ; but whene'er 
He hears the jarring of a distant door, 
Or aught that intimates a coming step, 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders, 
And he will start up from his chair, then pause, 
And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
Upon some edict ; but I have observed 
For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



281 



Bat. 'Tis said he is much moved, and doubtless 
'twas 
Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 

Pie. Ay, if a poor man : Steno's a patrician, 
Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 

Bat. Then you think 

He will not be judged hardly ? 

pi e , 'Twere enough 

He be judged justly ; but 'tis not for us 
To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 

Bat. And here it comes. — What news, Vincenzo ? 

Enter Vincenzo. 
Vin. . 'Tis 

Decided ; but as yet his doom's unknown : 
I saw the president in act to seal 
The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment 
Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

The Ducal Chamber. 

Marino Faliero, Doge; and his JSlep>hew, Ber- 
tuccio Faliero. 

Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice. 

Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori did, 
Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 

Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him ; such 
an act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. 

Doge. Know you not Venice ? Know you not the 
Forty ? 
But we shall see anon. 

Ber. F. (addressing Vincenzo, then entering.) 

How now — what tidings ? 

Vin. I am charged to tell his highness that the 
court 
Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 
As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 
The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
In the mean time the Forty doth salute 
The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
His acceptation of their duty. 

Doge. Yes — 

They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble. 
Sentence is past, you say ? 

Vin. It is, your highness : 

The president was sealing it, when I 
Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimation due 
Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
But the complainant, both in one united. 

Ber. F. Are you aware, from aught you have per- 
ceived, 
Of their decision ? 

Vin. no, my lord ! you know 
The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 

Ber. F- True ; but there still is something given 
to guess, 
Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch 

at; 
A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
The Forty are but men — most worthy men, 
And wise, and just, and cautious — this I grant — 

36 



And secret as the grave to which they doom 
The guilty ; but with all this, in their aspects — 
At least in some, the juniors of the number — 
A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 

Vin. my lord, I came away upon the moment, 
And had no leisure to take note of that 
Which pass'd among the judges, even in seeming: 
My station near the accused, too, Michel Steno, 
Made me 

Doge, (abruptly.) And how look'd he? deliver 
that. 

Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 
To the decree, whate'er it were ; — but lo ! 
It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 

Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 

Sec. The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief Magistrate of Venice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence past on Michel Steno, born 
Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 
Contain'd, together with its penalty, 
Within the rescript which I now present. 

Doge. Retire, and wait without. 

[Exeunt Secretary and Vincenzo. 
Take thou this paper : 
The misty letters vanish from my eyes : 
I cannot fix them. 

Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 

Why do you tremble thus ? — nay, doubt not, all 
Will be as could be wish'd. 

Doge. Say on. 

Ber. F. (reading.) " Decreed, 

In council, without one dissenting voice, 
That Michel Steno, by his own confession, 
Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 
The following words " 

Doge. Would'st thou repeat them ? 

Would'st thou repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonor of our house, 
Dishonor'd in its chief — that chief the prince 
Of Venice, first of cities ? — To the sentence. 

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey — 
(Reads.) " That Michel Steno be detain'd a month 
In close arrest." 

Doge. Proceed. 

Ber. F. My lord, 'tis finish'd. 

Doge. How say you ? — finish'd ! Do I dream ?— 
'tis false — 
Give me the paper — (Snatches the paper and reads)— 

" 'Tis decreed in council 
That Michel Steno " Nephew, thine arm ! 

Ber. F. Nay, 

Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uncall'd for — 
Let me seek some assistance. 

Doge. Stop, sir — Stir not— 

'Tis past. 

Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you 
The sentence is too slight for the offence — 
It is not honorable in the Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty to that 
Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects ; but 'tis not 
Yet without remedy : you can appeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
Who, seeing that true justice is wr'thheld, 



282 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



Will now take up the cause they once declined, 
And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you stand 
So fix'd ? You heed me not : — I pray you, hear me ! 

Dogefr( dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offer- 
ing to tram-pie vpon it, exclaims, as he is 
withheld by his nepheio,) 
Oh . that the Saracen were in St. Mark's ! 
Thus would I do him homage. 

Ber. F. For the sake 
Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord 

Doge. Away ! 

Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
Were ranged around the palace ! 

Ber. F. 'Tis not well 

In Venice' Duke to say so. 

Doge. Venice' Duke ! 

Who now is Duke in Venice ? let me see him, 
That he may do me right. 

Ber. F. If you forged 

Your office, and its dignity and duty, 
Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
The Duke of Venice 

Doge, (interrupting him.) There is no such thing — 
It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by-word : 
The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless 

wretch, 
Who begs his bread, if 'tis refused by one, 
May win it from another kinder heart ; 
But he, who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar — he's a slave — 
And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
May spit upon us : — where is our redress ? 

Ber. F. The law, my prince — 

Doge, (interrupting him.) You see what it has 
done — 
I ask'd no remedy but from the law — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
I call'd no judges but those named by law — 
As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my subjects, 
The very subjects who had made me sovereign, 
And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
The rights of place and choice, of birth and service, 
Honors and years, these scars, these hoary hairs, 
The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, 
The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest 

stain, 
The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting ! 
And this is to be borne ! 

Ber. F. I say not that : — 

In case your fresh appeal should be rejected, 
We will find other means to make all even. 

Doge. Appeal again ! art thou my brother's son ? 
A scion of the house of Faliero ? 
The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
Which hath already given three dukes to Venice ? 
But thou say'st well — we must be humble now. 
Ber. F. My princely uncle ! you are too much 
moved : — 
I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
Left without fitting punishment : but still 
This fury doth exceed the provocation, 
Or any provocation ; if we are wrong'd, 



We will ask justice ; if it be denied, 
We'll take it ; but may do all this in calmness- 
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence. 
I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 
I love our house, I honor you, its chief, 
The guardian of my youth, and its instructor— 
But though I understand your grief, and enter 
In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 
To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 
O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 

Doge. I tell thee — must I tell thee — what thy 
father 
Would have required no words to comprehend ? 
Hast thou no feejing save the external sense 
Of torture from the touch ? hast thou no soul — 
No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honor ? 

Ber. F. 'Tis the first time that honor has been 
doubted, 
And were the last from any other skeptic. 

Doge. You know the full offence of this born 
villain, 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel, 
And on the honar of — Oh God ! — my wife, 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honor, 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comments, 
And villainous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guise, 
Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them — a courteous wittol, 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonor. 

Ber. F. But still it was a lie — you knew it false, 
And so did all men. 

Doge. Nephew, the high Roman 

Said, " Cajsar's wife must not even be suspected," 
And put her from him. 

Ber. F. True — but in those days^— 

Doge. What is it that a Roman would not suffer, 
That a Venetian prince must bear ? Old Dandolo 
Refused the diadem of all the Caesars, 
And wore the ducal cap I trample on, 
Because 'tis now degraded. 

Ber. F. 'Tis even so. 

Doge. It is — it is : — I did not visit on 
The innocent creature thus most vilely slander'd, 
Because she took an old man for her lord, 
For that he had been long her father's friend 
And patron of her house, as if there were 
No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 
Visit the villain's infamy on her, 
But crdved my country's justice on his head, 
The justice due unto the humblest being 
Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 
Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 
"Who hath a name whose honor's all to him, 
When these are tainted by the accursing breath 
Of calumny and scorn. 

Ber. F. And what redress 

Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 

Doge. Death ! was I not the sovereign of the 
state — 
Insulted on his very throne, and made 
A mockery to the men who should obey me ? 
Was I not injured as a husband ? scorn'd 
As a man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ? 
Was not offence like his a complication 
Of insult and of treason ? — and he lives ! 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



281 



Had he instead of on the Doge's throne 
Stampt the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 
His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the carle 
Had stabbed him on the instant. 

Ber. F. Do not doubt it, 

He shall not live till sunset — leave to me 
The means, and calm yourself. 

Doge. Hold, nephew : this 

Would have sufficed but yesterday : at present 
I have no further wrath against this man. 
Ber. F. What mean you ? is not the offence re- 
doubled 
By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd ? 
Doge. It is redoubled, but not now by him ; 
• The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
We must obey the Forty. 

Ber. F.9 Obey them ! 

Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 
Doge. Why yes ; — boy, you perceive it then at 
last : 
Whether as fellow-citizen who sues 
For justice, or as sovereign who commands it, 
They have defrauded me of both my lights, 
(For here the sovereign is a citizen ;) 
But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 
Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you left 
to me 
The mode and means : if you had calmly heard me, 
I never meant this miscreant should escape, 
But wish'd you to suppress such gusts of passion, 
That we more surely might devise together 
His taking off. 

Doge. No, nephew, he must live ; 

At least, just now, — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour ; in th' olden time 
Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim, 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. 

Ber. F. Your wishes are my law ; and yet I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honor of our house must ever be. 
Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and place of 
proof : 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
I pray you, pardon me. 

Ber. F. Why that's my uncle ! 

The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself ! 
I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
All prudence in your fury at these years, 

Although the cause 

Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 

Forget it not : — When you lie down to rest, 
Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand between 
The sun and you, as an ill omen'd cloud 
Upon a summer-day of festival : 
So will it stand to me ; — but speak not, stir not, — 
Leave all to me ; — we shall have much to do, 
And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 
'Tis fit I were alone. 
Ber. F. (taking tip a?id placing the ducal bonnet 
071 the table.) Ere I depart, 

I pray you to resume what you have spurn'd, 
Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
Aiid now I take my leave, imploring you 



In all things to rely upon my duty 

As doth become your near and faithful kinsman, 

And not less loyal citizen and subject. 

[Exit Beetuccio Faliero. 
Doge, (solus.) Adieu my worthy nephew. — Hol- 
low bauble ! [Taking up the ducal cap. 
Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 
Without investing the insulted brow 
With the all-swaying majesty of kings ; 
Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy, 
Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Puts it on. 
How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my templea 
Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
Could I not turn thee to a diadem : 
Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
Making the people nothing, and the prince 
A pageant ? In my life I have achieved 
Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them, 
Who thus repay me ! — Can I not requite them ? 
Oh for one year ! Oh ! but for even a day 
Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
My soul as serves the generous steed his lord, 
I would have dash'd among them, asking few 
In aid to overthrow these swoll'n patricians ; 
But now I must look round for other hands 
To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall plan 
In such a sort as will not leave the task 
Herculean, though as yet it is but a chaos 
Of darkly brooding thoughts : my fancy is 
In her first work, more nearly to the light 
Holding the sleeping images of things 
For the selection of the pausing judgment. — 
The troops are few in 

Enter Vincenzo. 

Vin. There is one without 

Craves audience of your highness. 

Doge. I'm unwell — 

I can see no one, not even a patrician — 
Let him refer his business to the council. 

Vin. My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 
It cannot much import — he's a plebeian, 
The master of a galley, I believe. 

Doge. How ! did you say the patron of a galley ? 
That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

[Exit Vixcenzo. 

Doge, (solus.) This patron may be sounded; I 
will try him. 

I know the people to be discontented ; 
They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day, 
When Genoa conquer'd ; they have further cause, 
Since' they are nothing in the state, and in 
The city worse than nothing — mere machines, 
To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 
The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised, 
And murmur deeply — any hope of change 
Will draw them forward : they shall pay themselves 
With plunder : — but the priests — I doubt the priest- 
hood 

Will not be with us ; they have hated me 

Since that rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 

I I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso, 
Quickening his holy march ; yet, ne'ertheless, 
They may be won, at least their chief at Rome, 
By some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
All things, I must be speedy ; at my hour 
Of twilight little light of life remains. 



284 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 

I had lived too long, and willingly would sleep 

Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting this, 

Better that sixty of my fourscore, years 

Had been already where — how soon, I care not — 

The whole must be extinguish'd ; — better that 

They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 

The thing these arch-oppressors fain would make 

me. 
Let me consider — of efficient troops 
There are three thousand posted at 

Enter Vincenzo and Israel Bertuccio. 

Vin. May it please 

Your highness, the same patron whom I spake of 
Is here to crave your patience. 

Doge. Leave the chamber 

Vincenzo. — [Exit Vincenzo. 

Sir, you may advance — what would you ? 

I. Ber. Redress. 

Doge. Of whom ? 

I. Ber. Of God and of the Doge 

Doge. Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
You must address the council. 

I. Ber. 'T were in vain; 

For he who injured me is one of them. 

Doge. There's blood upon thy face — how came it 
there ? 

I. Ber. 'Tis mine, and not the first I've shed for 
Venice, 
But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
A noble smote me. 

Doge. Doth he live ? 

I. Ber. Not long — 

But for the hope I had and have, that you, 
My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
Him whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
Permit not to protect himself; — if not — 
I say no more. 

Doge. But something you would do — 

Is it not so ? 

/. Ber. I am a man, my lord. 

Doge. Why so is he who smote you. 

I. Ber. He is call'd so : 

Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
But since he hath forgotten that I am one, 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn — 
'Tis said the worm will. 

Doge. Say — his name and lineage ? 

I. Ber. Barbaro. 

Doge. What was the cause ? or the pretext ? 

I. Ber. I am the chief of the arsenal, employ'd 
At present in repairing certain galleys 
But roughly used by the Genoese last year. 
This morning comes the noble Barbaro 
Full of reproof, because our artisans 
Had left some frivolous order of his house, 
To execute the state's decree ; I dared 
To justify the men — he raised his hand : — 
Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er flow'd 
Dishonorably. 

Doge. Have you long time served ? 

I. Ber. So long as to remember Zara's siege, 
And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns 

there, 
Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. — 

Dogs. How ! are we comrades ? — the state's ducal 
robes 



Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 

Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 

So that I recognized y*ou not. Who placed you ? 

J. Ber. The late Doge : keeping still my old 
command 
As patron of a galley : my new office 
Was given as a reward of certain scars, 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say ;) 
I little thought this bounty would conduct me 
To his successor as a helpless plaintiff; 
At least, in such a cause. 

Doge. Are you much hurt ? 

I. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 

Doge. Speak out ; fear nothing : being stung at 
heart, 
What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 

I. Ber. That which I dare not name, and yet will 
do. 

Doge. Then wherefore came you here ?• 

/. Ber. I come for justice, 

Because my general is Doge, and will not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any, 
Save Faliero, fill'd the ducal throne, 
This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 

Doge. You come to me for justice — unto me? 
The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it ; 
I cannot even obtain it — 'Twas denied 
To me most solemnly an hour ago. 

I. Ber. How says your highness ? 

Doge Steno is condemn'd 

To a month's confinement. 

I. Ber. What ! the same who dared 

To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, 
That have cried shame to every ear in Venice ? 

Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the 
arsenal, 
Keeping due time with every hammer's clink, 
As a good jest to jolly artisans ; 
Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
In the vile tune of every galley-slave, 
Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
He was not a shamed dotard like the Doge. 

/. Ber. Is't possible ? a month's imprisonment ! 
No more for Steno ? 

Doge. You have heard the offence, 

And now you know his punishment ; and then 
You ask redress of me ! Go to the Forty, 
Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno ; 
They'll do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 

/. Ber. Ah ! dared I speak my feelings ! 

Doge. Give them breath. 

Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

I. Ber. Then, in a word, it rests but on your word 
To punish and avenge — I will not say 
Mg petty wrong, for what is a mere blow, 
However vile, to such a thing as I am ? 
But the base insult done your state and person. 

Doge. You overrate my power, which is a pageant. 
This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these robes 
Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags ; 
Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 

I. Ber. Wouldst thou be king ? 

Doge. Yes— of a happy people. 

I. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of 
Venice ? 

Doge. Ay, 

If that the people shared that sovereignty. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



285 



So that nor they nor I were further slaves 
To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra, 
The poisonous heads of whose envenom'd body 
Have breathed a pestilence upon us all. 
/. Ber. Yet, thou wast born and still hast lived 

patrician. 
Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Hath made me Doge to be insulted : but 
I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
Of Venice and her people, not the senate ; 
Their good and my own honor were my guerdon. 
1 have fought and bled ; commanded, ay, and con- 
quered : 
Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies, 
A.s it might chance to be our country's vantage ; 
Have traversed land and sea in constant duty, 
Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear spires, 
Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
It was reward enough for me to view 
Once more ; but not for any knot of men, 
Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
But would you know why I have done all this ? 
Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bird a voice, 
She'd tell thee 'twas for all her little ones. 
I. Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 
Doge. They made me so : 

I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
Returning from my Roman embassy, 
And never having hitherto refused 
Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not, 
At these late years decline what was the highest 
Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
In what we have to do and to endure : 
Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject, 
When I can neither right myself nor thee. 

I. Ber. You shall do both, if you possess the will, 
And man) r thousands more not less oppress'd, 
"Who wait but for a signal — will you give it ? 
Doge. You speak in riddles. 
/. Ber. Which shall soon be read 

At peril of my life ; if you disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 
Doge. Say on. 

I. Ber. Not thou, 

Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
Contemn'd and trampled on ; but the whole people 
Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs. 
The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
The native mariners, and civic troops, 
Feel with their friends ; for who is he ambng them 
Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, 
Have not partook oppression, or pollution, 
From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 
Against the Genoese, which is still maintain'd 
With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
From their hard earnings, has inflamed them further ; 
Even now — but, I forget that speaking thus, 
Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! » 
Doge. And suffering what thou hast done — fear'st 
thou death ? 
Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
By those for whom thou hast bled. 

/. Ber. No, I will speak 

At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
Should turn delator, be the shame on him, 
And sorrow too ; for he will lose far more 



Than I. 
Doge. From me fear nothing ; out with it ! 
I. Ber. Know, then, that there are met and sworn 
in secret 
A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true; 
Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 
Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 
To do so ; having served her in all climes, 
And having rescued her from foreign foes, 
Would do the same from those within her walls. 
They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
For their great purpose ; they have arms, and means, 
And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient 
courage. 
Doge. For what then do they pause ? 
/. Ber. An hour to strike. 

Doge, (aside.) Saint Mark's shall strike that hour ! 
/. Ber. I now have placed 

My life, my honor, all my earthly hopes 
Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause, 
Will generate one vengeance : should it be so, 
Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 
Doge. How many are ye ? 
/. Ber. I'll not answer that 

Till I am answer'd. 
Doge. How, sir ! do you menace 

I. Ber. No ; I affirm. I have bctray'd myself ; 
But there's no torture in the mystic wells 
Which undermine your palace, nor in those 
Not less appalling cells, the "leaden roofs," 
To force a single name from me of others. 
The Pozzi and the Piombi were in vain ; 
They might wring blood from me, but treachery never, 
And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of Sighs," 
Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
Between the murderers and the murdcr'd, washing 
The prison and the palace walls : there are 
Those who would live to think on't, tflid avenge me. 
Doge. If such your power and purpose, why come 
here 
To sue for justice, being in the course 
To do yourself due right ? 

I. Ber. Because the man, 

Who claims protection from authority, 
Showing his confidence and his submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made me 
A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd, 
And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
I had another reason. 

Doge. What was that ? 

/. Ber. Some rumors that the Doge was greatly 
moved 
By the reference of the Avogadori 
Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
Had reached me. I had serv'd you, honor'd you, 
And felt that you were dangerously insulted, 
Being of an order of such spirits, as 
Requite the tenfold both good and evil : 'twas 
My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
Now you know all : and that I speak the truth, 
My peril be the proof. 
Doge. You have deeply ventured ; 



286 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But all must do so who would greatly win : 
Thus far I'll answer you — your secret's safe. 

I. Ber. And is this all ? 

Doge. Unless with all intrusted, 

What would you have me answer ? 

/. Ber. I would have you 

Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 

Doge. But I must know your plan, your names, 
and numbers : 
The last may then be doubled, and the former 
Matured and strengthen'd. 

/. Ber. We're enough already ; 

You are the sole ally we covet now. 

Doge. But bring me to the knowledge of your 
chiefs. 

I. Ber. That shall be done upon your formal 
pledge 
To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 

Doge. When ? where ? 

/. Ber. This night I'll bring to your apartments 
Two of tbe principals ; a great number 
Were Hazardous. 

Doge. Stay, I must think of this. 

What if I were to trust myself among you, 
And leave the palace ? 

I. Ber. You must come alone. 

Doge. With but my nephew. 

/. Ber. Not were he your son. 

Doge. Wretch ! darest thou name my son ? He 
died in arms 
At Sapienza for this faithless state. 
Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes ! 
Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 
I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 

/. Ber. Not one of all those strangers whom thou 
doubtcst 
But will regard thee with a filial feeling, 
So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 

Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of 
meeting ? 

I. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 
Where'er your highness pleases to direct me, 
To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
Upon our project. 

Doge. At what hour arises 

The moon ? 

/. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick and 
dusky ; 
'Tis a sirocco. 

Doge. At the midnight hour, then, 

Near to the church where sleep my sires ; the same, 
Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul ; 
A gondola, 2 with one oar osly, will 
Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 
Be there. 

I. Ber. I will not fail. 

Doge. And now retire 

J. Ber. In full hope your highness will not falter 
In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Israel Bertuccio. 

Doge, (solus. J At midnight, by the church Saints 
John and Paul, 
Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair — 
To what ? to hold a council in the dark 
With common ruffians leagued to ruin states ! 
And will not my great sires leap from the vault, 
Where lie two doges who preceded me, 
And pluck me down among them ? Would they could, 



For I should rest in honor with the honor'd ; 
Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
Who have made me thus unworthy of a name 
Noble and brave as aught of consular 
On Roman marbles ; but I will redeem it 
Back to its antique lustre in our annals, 
By sweet revenge on all that's base in Venice, 
And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
To all the growing calumnies of time, 
Which never spare the fame of him who fails, 
But try the Caesar, or the Catiline, 
By the true touchstone of desert — success. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

An Apartment in the Ducal Palace. 

Angiolina (wife of the DogeJ and Mariannjl. 

Ang. What was the Doge's answer ? 

Mar. That he wa« 

That moment summon' d to a conference : 
But 'tis by this time ended. I perceived 
Not long ago the senators embarking ; 
And the last gondola may now be seen 
Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
The glittering waters. 

Ang. Would he were return'd ! 

He has been much disquieted of late ; 
And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit, 
Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 
Which seems to be more nourished by a soul 
So quick and restless that it would consume 
Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 
On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
To other spirits of his order, who, 
In the first burst of passion, pour away 
Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him 
An aspect of eternity : his thoughts, 
His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 
Have nothing of old age ; and his bold brow 
Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, 
Not their decrepitude : and he of late 
Has been more agitated than his wont. 
Would he were come ! for I alone have power 
Upon his troubled spirit. 

Mar. It is true, 

His highness has of late been greatly moved 
By the affront of Steno, and with cause ; 
But the offender doubtless even now 
Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
To female virtue, and to noble blood. 

Ang. 'Twas a gross insult ; but I heed it not 
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself, 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, 
The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
To all save me ; I tremble when I think 
To what it may conduct. 

Mar. Assuredly 

The Doge cannot suspect you ? 

Ang. Suspect me! 

Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd his lie, 



MARINO FALIERO, 

Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmering 

light, 
His own still conscience smote him for the act, 
And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame 
Upon his coward calumny. 

Mar. 'Twere fit 

He should be punish'd grievously. 

Ang. He is s0 - 

Mar. What ! is the sentence pass'd ? is he con- 
demn'd ? 

Ang. I know not that, but he has been detected. 

Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul 
scorn ? 

Ang. I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno ; 
But if his insults sink no deeper in 
The minds of the inquisitors than they 
Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 

Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 

Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words ? 
The dying Eomen said, " 'twas but a name : " 
It were indeed no more, if human breath 
Could make or mar it. 

Mar. Yet full many a dame, 

Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies, 
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
And all-inexorable in their cry 
For justice. 

Ang. This but proves it is the name 

And not the quality they prize : the first 
Have found it a hard task to hold their honor, 
If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 
And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
As they would look out for an ornament 
Of which they feel the want, but not because 
They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts, 
And would seem honest as they must seem fair. 

Mar. You have strange thoughts for a patrician 
dame. 

Ang. And yet they were my father's ; with his 
name 
The sole inheritance he left. 

Mar. You want none ; 

Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 

Ang. I should have sought none though a 
peasant's bride, 
But feel not less the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend, 
The Count Val di Marino, now our doge. 

Mar. And with that hand did he bestow your 
heart ? 

Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 

Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in your 
years, 
And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 
Might make the world doubt whether such an union 
Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 

Ang. The world will think with worldings ; but 
my heart 
Has still been in my duties, which are many, 
Bnt never difficult. 

Mar. And do you love him ? 

Ang. I love all noble qualities which merit 
Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me 



DOGE OF VENICE. 287 

To single out what we should love in others, 

And to subdue all tendency to lend 

The best and purest feelings of our nature 

To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 

Upon Faliero : he had known him noble, 

Brave, generous, rich in all the qualities 

Of soldier, citizen, and friend; in all 

Such have I found him as my father said. 

His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms 

Of men who have commanded : too much pride, 

And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 

The uses of patricians, and a life 

Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 

From the quick sense of honor, which becomes 

A duty to a certain sign, a vice 

When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 

And then he has been rash from his youth upwards, 

Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 

In such sort, that the wariest of republics 

Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him, 

From his first fight to his last embassy, 

From which on his return the dukedom met him. 

Mar. But previous to this marriage, had your 
heart 
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, 
Such as in years had been more meet to match 
Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er seen 
One, who, if your fair hand were still to give, 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter ? 

Ang. I answer'd your first question when I said 
I married. 

Mar. And the second ? 

Ang. Needs no answer. 

Mar. I pray your pardon, if I have offended. 

Ang. I feel no WTath, but some surprise : I knew 
not 
That wedded*bosoms could permit themselves 
To ponder upon what they now might choose, 
Or aught save their past choice. 

Mar. 'Tis their past choice 

That far too often makes them deem they would 
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 

Ang. It may be so, I knew not of such thoughts. 

Mar. Here comes the Doge — shall I retire ? 

Ang. It may 

Be better you shoirid quit me ; he seems rapt 
In thought. — How pensively he takes his way ! 

{Exit Marianna. 

Enter the Doge and Pietro. 

Doge, (musing.) There is a certain Philip Calen- 
daro 
Now in the arsenal, who holds command 
Of eighty men, and has great influence 
Besides on all the spirits of his comrades : 
This man, I hear, is bold and popular, 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; 'twould 
Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, 
But fain would be 

Pie. My lord, pray pardon me 

For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, 
Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you 

Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see — 
Say in the second hour of night. [Exit Pietro. 

Ang. My lord ! 

Doge. My dearest child, forgive me — why delay 



288 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



So long approaching me ? — I saw you not. 

Ang. You were absorb'd in thought, and he who 
now 
Has parted from you might have words of weight 
To bear you from the senate. 

Doge. From the senate ? 

Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

Doge. The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 

'Tis we who owe all service to the senate. 

Ang. I thought the Duke had held command in 
Venice. 

Doge. He shall. — But let that pass. — "We will be 
jocund. 
How fares it with you ? have you been abroad ? 
The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
Favors the gondolier's light skimming oar ; 
Or have you held a levee of your friends ? 
Or has your music made you solitary ? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
The little sway now left the Duke ? or aught 
Of fitting splendor, or of honest pleasure, 
Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, 
To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved with many cares ? 
Speak, and 'tis done. 

Ang. You're ever kind to me — 

I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
Except to see you oftencr and calmer. 

Doge. Calmer ? 

Ang. Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 

Do you still keep apart, and walk alone, 
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, 
As not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

Doge. Disclose too much ! — of what ? 

What is there to disclose ? 

Ang. A heart so ill 

At ease. 

Doge. 'Tis nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering from Genoese without, 
And malcontents within — 'tis this which makes me 
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 

Ang. Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me ; there is something at your heart 
More than the mere discharge of public duties, 
Which long use and a talent like to yours 
Have rendered light, naj, a. necessity, 
To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 
You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, 
And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and can look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 
Were civil fury raging in St. Mark's, 
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, 
As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow — 
Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 

Doge. Pride ! Angiolina ? Alas ! none is left me. 

Ang. Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels, 
And of all sins more easily besets 
Mortalc the nearest to the angelic nature : 
The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. 



Doge. I had the pride of honor, of your honor, 
Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. 

Ang. Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your kind- 
ness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
From your distress : were it of public import, 
You know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed, 
And I would sooth you back to what you were. 

Doge. To what I was ! — have you heard Steno'f 
sentence ? 

Ang. No. 

Doge. A month's arrest. 

Ang. Is it not enough ? 

Doge. Enough ! — yes, for a drunken galley slave, 
Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master; 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady's and a prince's honor 
Even on the throne of his authority. 

Ang. There seems to me enough in the conviction 
Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood: 
All other punishment were light unto 
His loss of honor. 

Doge. Such men have no honor ; 

They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. 

Ang. You would not have him die for this offence ? 

Doge. Not now : — being still alive, I'd have him 
live 
Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges. 
And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 

Ang. Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have 

known 
A joyless hour, or dreamless slumber more. 

Doge. Does not the law of heaven say blood for 
blood ? 
And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it ; 
Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows, 
That makes such deadly to the sense of man ? 
Do not the laws of man say blood for honor ? 
And, less than honor, for a little gold ? 
Say not the laws of nations blood for treason ? 
Is't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison 
For their once healthful current ? is it nothing 
To have stain'd your name and mine — the noblest 

names ? 
Is't nothing to have brought into contempt 
A prince before his people ? to have fail'd 
In the respect accorded by mankind 
To youth in woman, and old age in man ? 
To virtue in your sex, and dignity 
In ours ? — but let them look to it who have saved him. 

Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 

Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own ? Is Satan 
saved 
From wrath eternal ? 

Ang. Do not speak thus wildly — 

Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 

Doge. Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! 

Ang. And will you ? 

Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! 

Ang. And not till then ? 

Doge. What matters my forgiveness ? an old man's. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



289 



Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters 

then 
My pardon more than my resentment, both 
Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too long, — 
But let us change the argument. — My child, 
My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 
The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 
Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 
That he was linking thee to shame ? — Alas ! 
Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst 

thou 
But had a different husband, any husband 
In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, 
This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 
So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, 
To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 

Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still love me, 
And trust, and honor me ; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true : what more 
Could I require, or you command ? 

Doge. 'Tis well, 

And maji be better ; but whate'er betide, 
Be thou at least kind to my memory. 
Ang. Whyspeak you thus ? 

Doge. It is no matter why : 

But I would still, whatever others think, 
Have your respect both now and in my grave. 
Ang. Why should you doubt it ? has it ever fail'd ? 
Doge. Come hither, child ; I would a word with 
you. 
Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
Which bind the good more firmly: when, opprest 
With his last malady, he will'd our union, 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 
His object was to place your orphan beauty 
In honorable safety from the perils, 
Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 
Think with him, but would not oppose the thought 
Which soothed his death-bed. 

Ang. I have not forgotten 

The nobleness with which you bade me speak 
If my young heart held any preference 
Which would have made me happier ; nor your offer 
To make my dowry equal to the rank 
Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
My father's last injunction gave you. 

Doge. Thus, 

'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
I sway'd such passions ; nor.was this my age 
Infected with that leprosy of lust 
Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
Making them ransack to the very last 
The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 
Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest, 
Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer 
Your father's choice. 

Ang. I did so ; I would do so 

In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 
Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours, 
In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 
37 



Doge. I knew my heart would never treat you 
harshly ; 
I knew my days could not disturb you long; 
And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 
His worthy daughter, free to choose again, 
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
By passing these probationary years, 
Inheriting a prince's name and riches, 
Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
An old man for some summers, against all 
That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
Have urged against her right; my best friend's child 
Would choose more fitly in respect of years, 
And not less truly in a faithful heart. 

Ang. My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes. 
Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 
For doing all its duties, and replying 
With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 
Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and 

should 
The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 

Doge. I do believe you ; and I know you true : 
For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 
And could not be so now, did such exist. 
But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
A free compliance with all honest wishes 
A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings 
As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew 
You had been won, but thought the change your 

choice, 
A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct, — 
A trust in you — a patriarchal love, 
And not a doting homage — friendship, faith- 
Such estimation in your eyes as these 
Might claim, I hoped for. 

Ang. And have ever had. 

Doge. I think so. For the difference in our years 
You knew it, choosing me, and chose : I trusted 
Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
In such, nor outward ornaments of nature, 
Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; 
I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
God gave you — to the truths your father taught 

you— 
To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — 
To your own faith and honor, for my own. 

Ang. You have done well. — I thank you for the* 
trust, 
Which I have never for one moment ceased 
To honor you the more for. 

Doge. Where is honor, 

Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 
Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream 
Of honest}' in such infected blood, 
Although 'twere wed to him it covets most : 
An incarnation of the poet's god 
In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 



290 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The demi-deity* Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not ; 
It is consistency which forms and proves it : 
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
The once fall'n woman must for ever fall ; 
For vice must have variety, while virtue 
Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 

Ang. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in 
others, 
(I pray you pardon me ;) but wherefore yield you 
To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
Of such a thing as Steno ? 

Doge. You mistake me. 
It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
Had it been so, he should but let that pass. 

Ang. What is't you feel so deeply, then, even 
now ? 

Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
At once insulted in her lord and laws. 

Ang. Alas ! why will you thus consider it ? 

Doge. I have thought on't till but let me lead 

you back 
To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 
I wedded you ; the world then did me justice 
Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
They did me right, while yours was all to praise : 
You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
From me and mine ; and, born of those who made 
Princes at home, and swept kings from their 

thrones 
On foreign shores, in all these things you appear'd 
Worthy to be our first of native dames. 

Ang. To what does this conduct ? 

Doge. To thus much — that 

A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, 
Even in the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
1'he blighting venom of his sweltering heart, 
And this shall spread itself in general poison ; 
And woman's innocence, man's honor, pass 
Into a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
Amidst the noblest of Our dames in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion, 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort, 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

Ang. But he has" been condemn'd into captivity. 

Doge. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; 
And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I've done with him ; 
The rest must be with you. 

Ang. With me, my lord ? 

Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel ; I 
Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
My life cannot be long ; and fain would have you 
Regard the injunctions you will find within 

This scroll. (Giving her a paper) Fear not ; they 

are for your advantage : 
Read them nereafter at the fitting hour. 

Ang. My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
Be honor'd still by me : but may your days 
Be many yet — and happier than the present ! 



This passion will give way, and you will be 
Serene, and what you should be — what you were. 

Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing ; 
But never more — oh ! never, never more, 
O'er the few days or hours which yet await 
The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
Sweet Quiet shed her sunset ! Never more 
Those summer shadows rising from the past 
Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life, 
Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 
Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. 
I had but little more to task, or hope, 
Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, 
And the soul's labor through which I had toil'd 
To make my country honor'd. As her servant — 
Her servant, though her chief — I would have gome 
Down to my fathers with a name serene 
And pure as theirs ; but. this has been denied me.— 
Would I had died at Zara ! 

Ang. There you saved 

The state ; then live to save her still. A day, 
Another day like that would be the best 
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 

Doge. But one such day occurs within an age ; 
My life is little less than one, and 'tis ' 
Enough for Fortune to have granted once, 
That which scarce one more favor'd citizen 
May win in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that day — 
Then why should I remember it ? — Farewell, 
Sweet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet ; 
There's much for me to do — and the hour hastens. 

Any. Remember what you were. 

Doge. It were in vain '. 

Joy's recollection is no longer joy, 
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 

Ang. At least, whate'er may urge, let me im- 
plore 
That you will take some little pause of rest ' 
Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid 
That it had been relief to have awaked you, 
Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower 
At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers 

thus. 
An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 

Doge. I cannot — 

I must not, if I could ; for never was 
Such reason to be watchful : yet a few — 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
And I shall slumber well — but where ? — no matter, 
Adieu, my Angiolina. 

Ang. Let me be 

An instant — yet an instant your companion ! 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

Doge. Come then, 

My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made 
For better fortunes than to share in mine, 
Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale 
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping 

shadow. 
When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
Within — above- — around, that in this city 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
When I am nothing, let that which I was 
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



291 



Which would not have thee mourn it, but remem- 
ber, — 
Let us begone, my child— the time is pressing. 

[Exeunt 



SCENE II. 

A retired Spot near the Arsenal. 

Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro. 

Cat. How sped you, Israel, in your late com- 
plaint ? 

I. Ber. Why, well. 

Cal. Is't possible ! will he be punish'd ? 

J. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. With what ? a mulct or an arrest ? 

I. Ber. With death !— 

Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 
Such as I counsell'd you, with your own hand. 

/. Ber. Yes ; and for one sole draught of hate, 
forego 
The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 
Leaving one scorpion crush'd, and thousands stinging 
My friends, my family, my countrymen ! 
No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood, 
Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 

For their requital But not only his ; 

We will not strike for private wrongs alone : 
Such are for selfish passions and rash men, 
But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 

Cal. You have more patience than I care to boast. 
Had I been present when you bore this insult, 
I must have slain him, or expired myself 
In the vain effort to repress my wrath. 

I. Ber. Thank Heaven, you were not — all had else 
been marr'd : 
As 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still. 

Cal. You saw 

The Doge — what answer gave he ? 

/. Ber. That there was 

No punishment for such as Barbaro. 

Cal. I told you so before, and that 'twas idle 
To think of justice from such hands. 

/. Ber. At least, 

It lull'd suspicion, showing confidence. 
Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 

Cal. But wherefore not address you to the 
Council ? 
The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him ? 

I. Ber. You shall know that hereafter. 

Cal. Why not now ? 

/. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get your 
musters, 
And bid our friends prepare their companies : — 
Set all in readiness to strike the blow, 
Perhaps in a few hours ; we have long waited 
For a fit time — that hour is on the dial, 
It may be, of to-morrow's sun ; delay 
Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
That all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
Who will remain among the troops to wait 



The signal. 

Cal. These brave words have breathed new life 
Into my veins ; I am sick of these protracted 
And hesitating councils : day on day 
Crawl'd on, and added but another link 
To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
Inflicted on our brethern or ourselves, 
Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
For the result, which must be death or freedom ! 
I'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 

I. Ber. We will be free in life or death ! the grave 
Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
And are the sixteen companies completed 
To sixty ? 

Cal. All save two, in which there are 
Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 

/. Ber. No matter ; we can do without. Whose are 
they? 

Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 
Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 

/. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 
Who are not restless, cold : but there exists 
Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 

CM. I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bertram 
There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
To enterprise like ours : I've seen that man 
Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
Of others, heedless of his own, though greater ; 
And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's. 

I. Ber. The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, 
And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
I have known Bertram long ; there doth not breathe 
A soul more full of honor. 

Cal. It may be so : 

I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 
Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife, 
To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 
He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 
A woman or a child had made him less 
Than either in resolve. 

/. Ber. Such ties are not 

For those who are call'd to the high destinies 
Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 
We must forget all feelings save the one — 
We must resign all passions save our purpose — 
We must behold no object save our country — 
And only look on death as beautiful, 
So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven 
And draw down freedom on her evermore. 

Cal. But if we fail 

/. Ber. They never fail who die 

In a great cause : the block may soak their gore ; 
Their heads may sodden in the sun ; their limbs 
Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years. 
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom, 
They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts- 
Which overpower all others, and conduct 
The world at last to freedom : What were we, 
If Brutus had not lived ? He died in giving 
Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — 
A name which is a virtue, and a soul 
"Which multiplies itself thoughout all time, 
When wicked men wax mighty, and a state 
Turns servile : he and his high friend were styled 



292 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" The last of Romans ! " Let us be the first 
Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 

Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 
On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 
To own a thousand despots in his place. 
Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms masters ! 
The first at least was man, and used his sword 
As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things 
Command our swords, and rule them with a word 
As with a spell. 

/. Ber. It shall be broken soon. 

You say that all things are in readiness ; 
To-day I have not been the usual round, 
And why thou knowest ; but thy vigilance 
Will better have supplied my care : these orders 
In recent council to redouble now 
Our efforts \o repair the galleys, have 
Lent a fair color to the introduction 
Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
As new artificers for their equipment, 
Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with arms ? 

Cal. All who were deom'd trustworthy : there are 
some 
Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 
Till it be time to strike, and then supply them : 
When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
They have no opportunity to pause, 
But needs must on with those who will surround 
them. 

1. Ber. You have said well. Have you remark'd all 
such ? 

Cal. I've noted most ; and caused the other chiefs 
To use like caution with their companies. 
As far as I have seen, we are enough 
To make the enterprise secure, if 'tis 
Commenced to-morrow ; but, till 'tis begun, 
Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perils. 

I. Ber. Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted hour, 
Except Soranzo, Nicolctto Blondo, 
And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
Within the arsenal, and hold all ready, 
Expectant of the signal we will fix on. 

Cal. We will not fail. 

L Ber. Let all the rest be there ; 

I have a stranger to present to them. 

Cal. A stranger ! doth he know the secret ? 

J. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. And have you dared to peril your friends' lives 
On a rash confidence in one we know not ? 

/. Ber. I have risk'dno man's life except my own — 
Of that be certain : he is one who may 
Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
His aid ; and if reluctant, he no less 
Is in our power : he comes alone with me, 
And cannot 'scape us ; but he will not swerve. 

Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know him : 
Is he one of our order ? 

J. Ber. Ay, in spirit, 

Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
Who would become a throne, or overthrow one — 
One who has done great deeds, and seen great 

changes ; 
No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny ; 
Valiant in war, and sage in council ; noble 
In natur?, although haughty ; quick, though wary ; 
Yet for all this, so full of certain passions, 



That if once stirr'd and baffled, as he has been 

Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury 

In Grecian story like to that which wrings 

His vitals with her burning hands, till he 

Grows capable of all things for revenge; 

And add too, that his mind is liberal, 

He sees and feels the people are oppress'd, 

And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all, 

Wc have need of such, and such have need of us. 

Cal. And what part would you have him tako 
with us ? 

I. Ber. It may be, that of chief. 

Cal. "What ! and resign 

Your own command as leader ? 

I. Ber. Even so. 

My object is to make your cause end well, 
And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me out 
To act in trust as your commander, till 
Some worthier should appear : if I have found such 
As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you 
That I would hesitate from selfishness, 
And, covetous of brief authority, 
Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, 
Rather than yield to one above me in 
All leading qualities ? No, Calendaro, 
Know your friend better ; but you all shall judge.— 
Away ! and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 

Cal. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever 
Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
AVhat I have still been prompt to execute. 
For my own part, I seek no other chief; 
What the rest will decide I know not, but 
I am with you, as I have ever been, 
In all our undertakings. Now farewell, 
Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

Scene, the Space behoeen the Canal and the Church 
of San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian 
Statue before it. — A Gondola lies in the Canal at 
some distance. 

Enter the Doge alone, disguised. 

Doge, (solus.) I am before the hour, the hour 

whose voice, 
Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
These palaces with ominous tottering, 
And rock their marbles to the corner-stone, 
Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream 
Of indistinct but awful augury 
Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! 
Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which 

makes thee 
A lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
Is forced upon me, I have sought it not; 
And therefore was I punish'd, seeing this 
Patrician-pestilence spread on and on, 
Until at length it smote me in my slumbers, 
And I am tainted, and must wash away 
The plague-spots in the healing wave. Tall fa He ! 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



293 



Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues shadow 

The floor which doth divide us from the dead, 

"Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood, 

Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 

In one shrunk heap, what once made many heroes, 

When what is now a handful shook the earth — 

Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house ! 

Vault where two doges rest — my sires ! who died 

The one of toil, the other in the field, 

With a long race of other lineal chiefs 

And sages, whose great labors, wounds, and state 

I have inherited, — let the graves gape, 

Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 

And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me ! 

I call them up, and them and thee to witness 

What it hath been which put me to this task — 

Their pure high blood, their blazon roll of glories, 

Their mighty name dishonor'd all in me, 

Not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles 

We fought to make our equals, not our lords : — 

And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, 

Who perish'd in the field, where I since conquer'd, 

Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 

Of thine and Venice* foes, there ofTer'd up 

By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ? 

Spirits ! smile down upon me ; for my cause 

Is yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 

Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 

And in the future fortunes of our race ! 

Let me but prosper, and I make this city 

Free and immortal, and our house's name 

Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter ! 

Enter Israel Bertuccio. 

I. Ber. Who goes there ? 

Doge. A friend to Venice. 

I. Ber. 'Tis he. 

Welcome, my lord, — you are before the time. 

Doge. I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 

I. Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and pleased 
to see 
Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 
Since our last meeting, then, are all dispell'd ? 

Doge. Not so — but I have set my little left 
Of life upon this cast: the die was thrown 
When I first listen'd to jour treason — Start not ! 
That is the word : I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable black deeds into smooth names, 
Though I be wrought on to commit them. When 
I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
To have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may, 
If it so please you, do as much by me. 

J. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most un- 
merited : 
1 am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 

Doge. We — we ! — no matter — you have earn'd the 
right 
To talk of us. — But to the point. — If this 
Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 
And flourishing, when we are in our graves, 
Conducts her generations to our tombs, 
And makes her children with their little hands 
Strew flowers o'er their deliverers' ashes, then 
The consequence will sanctify the deed, 
And we shall be like the two Bruti in 
The annals of hereafter; but if not, 
If we should fail, employing bloody means 
And secret plot, although to a good end, 



Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 
No less than he who was thy sovereign 
Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

/. Ber. 'Tis not the moment to consider thus, 
Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
Or we may be observed in lingering here. 

Doge. We are observed, and have been. 

I- Ber. We observed ! 

Let me discover — and this steel 

Doge. Put up ; 

Here are no human witnesses : look there — 
What see you ? 

/. Ber. Only a tall warrior's statue 

Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
Of the dull moon. 

Doge. That warrior was the sire 

Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by the twice rescued city : — 
Think you that he looks down on us or no ? 

I. Ber. My lord, these are mere phantasies ; there 
are 
No eyes in marble. 

Doge. But there are in Death. 

I tell thee man, there is a spirit in 
Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though felt ; 
And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
'Tis in such deeds as we are now upon. 
Decm'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief, 
Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves 
With stung plebeians ? 

/. Ber. It had been as well 

To have ponder'd this before, — ere you embark' d 
In our great enterprise. — Do you repent ? 

Doge. No — but I feel, and shall do to the last. 
I cannot quench a glorious life at once, 
Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be, 
And take men's lives by stealth, without some 

pause : 
Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling, 
And knowing what has wrung me to be thus, 
Which is your best security. There's not 
A roused mechanic in your busy plot 
So wrong'd as I, so fall'n, so loudly call'd 
To his redress : the very means I am forced 
By these fell tyrants to adopt is such, 
That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
Which I must do to pay them back for theirs. 

/. Ber. Let us away — hark — the hour strikes. 

Doge. On— on— 

It is our knell, or that of Venice — On. 

/. Ber. Say rather, 'tis her freedom's rising peal 

Of triumph This way — we are near the place. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

The House where the Conspirators meet. 

Dagolino, Doro, Bertram, Fedele Trevisano. 

Calendaro, Antonio delle Bende, &c., &c 

Cal. (entering.) Are all here ? 

Dag. All with you ; except the three 

On duty, and our leader Israel, 
Who is expected momently. 

Cal. Where's Bertram ? 

Ber. Here! 

Cal. Have you not been able to complete 

The number wanting in your company ? 



294 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ber. I had mark'd out some: but I have not 
dared 
To trust them with the secret, till assured 
That they were worthy faith. 

Cal. There is no need 

Of trusting to their faith : who, save ourselves 
And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
Fully of our intent ? they think themselves 3 
Engaged in secret to the Signory, 
To punish some more' dissolute young nobles 
Who have defied the law in their excesses ; 
But once drawn up, and their new swords well- 

flesh'd 
In the rank hearts of the more odious senators, 
They will not hesitate to follow up 
Their blow upon the others, when they see 
The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
Will set them such, that they for very shame 
And safety will not pause till all have perished. 

Ber. Row say you ? all ! 

Cal. Whom wouldst thou spare ? 

Ber. I spare ? 

I have no power to spare. I only question'd, 
Thinking that even among these wicked men 
There might be some, whose age and qualities 
Might mark them out for pity. 

Cal. Yes, such pity 

As when the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun 
In the last energy of venomous life, 
Deserve and have. Why, I should think as soon 
Of pitying some particular fang which made 
One in the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
Of saving one of these : they form but links 
Of one long chain ; one mass, one breath, one body : 
They eat, and drink, and live, and breed together, 
Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, 
So let them die as one! 

Dag. Should one survive. 

He would be dangerous as the whole ; it is not 
Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
The spirit of this aristocracy 
Which must be rooted out ; and if there were 
A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
'Twould fasten in the soil, and spring again 
To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
Bertram, we must be firm ! 

Cal. Look to it well, 

Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 

Ber. Who 

Distrusts me ? 

Cal. Not I ; for if I did so, 

Thou wouldst now be there to talk of trust : 
It is thy softness, not thy want of faith, 
Which makes thee to be doubted. 

Ber. You should know 

\Vho hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppression ; 
A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
Of you have found me ; and if brave or no, 
Ycu, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have seen me 
Put to the proof; or, if you should have doubts, 
I'll clear them on your person ! 

Cal. You are welcome, 

When once our enterprise is o'er, which must not 
Be interrupted by a private brawl. 

Ber. I am no brawler ; but can bear myself 
As far among the foe as any he 
Who hears me ; else why have I been selected 



To be of your chief comrades ? but no less 
I own my natural weakness ; I have not 
Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
Without some sense of shuddering ; and the sight 
Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not 
To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
Of men surprised a glory. Well — too well 
I know that we must do such things on those 
Whose acts have raised up such avengers ; but 
If there were some of these who could be saved 
From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
And for our honor, to take off some stain 
Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly, 
I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
For sneer, nor for suspicion ! 

Dag. Calm thee, Bertram ; 

For we suspect thee not, and take good heart. 
It is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
Such actions from our hands : we'll wash away 
All stains in Freedom's fountain ! 

Enter Israel Bertuccio, and the Doge, disguised. 

Dag. Welcome, Israel. 

Consp. Most welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, thou art 
late — 
Who is this stranger ? 

Cal. It is time to name him, 

Our comrades are even now prepared to greet him 
In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
Approved by thee, and thus approved by all, 
Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
Let him unfold himself. 

/. Ber. Stranger, step forth ! 

[The Doge discovers himself. 

Consji. To arms ! — we are betray'd — it is the Doge i 
Down with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
The tyrant he hath sold us to. 

Cal. (drawing his sword.) Hold ! Hold! 
Who moves a step against them, dies. Hold ! hear 
Bertuccio — What ! arc you appall'd to see 
A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
Among you ? — Israel, speak ! what means this mys- 
tery ? 

I. Ber. Let them advance and strike at their own 
bosoms, 
Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
Depend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes. 

Doge. Strike ! — If I dreaded death, a death more 
fearful 
Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
I should not now be here : — Oh, noble Courage ! 
The eldest born of Fear, which makes you brave 
Against this solitary hoary head ! 
See the bold chiefs, who would reform a state 
And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread, 
At sight of one patrician ! — Butcher me, 
You can ; I care not. — Israel, are these men 
The mighty hearts you spoke of ? look upon them ! 

Cal. Faith ! he has shamed us, and deservedly. 
Was this your trust in your true Chief Bertuccio, 
To turn your swords against him and his guest ? 
Sheathe them, and hear him. 

I. Ber. I disdain to speak. 

They might and must have known a heart like mine 
Incapable of treachery ; and the power 
They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
To further their design was ne'er abused. 
They might be certain that whoe'er was brought 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



295 



By me into this council had been led 

To take his choice— as brother, or as victim. 

Doge. And which am I to be r your actions leave 
Some cause to doubt the freedom of the choice. 

I. Ber. My lord, we would have perish'd here 
together, 
Had these rash men proceeded ; but, behold, 
They are ashamed of that mad moment's impulse, 
And droop their heads ; believe me, they are such 
As I described them — Speak to them. 

Cal. Ay, speak ; 

We are all listening in wonder. 

/. Ber. (addressing the conspirators.) You are 
safe, 
Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen, then, 
And know my words for truth. 

Doge. You sec me here, 

As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd, 
Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw me 
Presiding in the hall of ducal state, 
Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
Robed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which is not mine, 
Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
"Why I was there you know or think you know ; 
Why I am here, he who hath been most wronged, 
He who among you hath been most insulted, 
Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
If he be worm or no, may answer for me, 
Asking of his own heart what brought him here ? 
You know my recent story, all men know it, 
And judge of it far differently from those 
Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
But spare me the recital — it is here, 
Here at my heart the outrage — but my words, 
Already spent in unavailing plaints, 
Would only show my feebleness the more, 
And I come here to strengthen even the strong, 
And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
With woman's weapons ; but I need not urge you. 
Our private wrongs have sprung from public vices 
In this — I cannot call it commonwealth 
Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor people, 
But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
Without its virtues — temperance and valor. 
The lords of Lacedemon were true soldiers, 
But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved ; 
Although drest out to head a pageant, as 
The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to form 
A pastime for thoir children. You are met 
To overthrow this monster of a state, 
This mockery of a government, this spectre, 
Which must be exorcised with blood, and then 
We will renew the times of truth and justice, 
Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 
Not rash equality but equal rights, 
Proportion'd like the columns to the temple, 
Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 
And making firm the whole with grace and beauty, 
So that no part could be removed without 
Infringement of the general symmetry. 
In operating this great change, I claim 
To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 
If not, strike home, — my life is compromised, 
And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 
Than live another day TO act the tyrant, 
As delegate of tyrants ; such I am not, 
And never have been — read it in our annals ; 



I can appeal to my past government 

In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 

If I were an oppressor, or a man 

Feeling and thinking for my fellow men. 

Haply had I been what the senate sought, 

A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 

To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 

A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 

A stickler for the Senate and " the Forty," 

A skeptic of all measures which had not 

The sanction of " the Ten," a council-fawner, 

A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 

Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 

Has reach'd me through my pity for the people ; 

That many know, and they who know not yet 

Will one day learn : meantime I do devote, 

Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 

My present power such as it is, not that 

Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 

Before he was degraded to a Doge, 

And still has individual means and mind ; 

I stake my fame (and I had fame) — my breath — 

(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) — 

My heart — my hope — my soul' — upon this cast ! 

Such as I am, I offer me to you 

And to your chiefs — accept me or reject me — 

A prince who fain would be a citizen 

Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so 

Cal. Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall be free i 

Consp. Long live Faliero ! 

I. Ber. Comrades ! did I well ? 

Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 

Doge. This is no time for eulogies, nor place 
For exultation. Am I one of you ? 

Cal. Ay, and the first among us, as thou hast been 
Of Venice — be our general and chief. 

Doge. Chief ! — general ! — I was general at Zara, 
And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in Venice: 

I cannot stoop that is, I am not fit 

To lead a band of patriots ; when I lay 

Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
'Tis not to put on others, but to be 
Mate to my fellows — but now to the point : 
Israel has stated to me your whole plan — 
'Tis bold, but feasible if I assist it, 
And must be set in motion instantly. 

Cal. E'en when thou wilt — is it not so, my 
friends ? 
I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
When shall it be then ? 

Doge. At sunrise. 

Ber. So soon ? 

Doge. So soon ? so late — each hour accumulates 
Peril on peril, and the more so now 
Since I have mingled with you ; know you not 
The Council, and " the Ten ? " the spies, the eyes 
Of the patricians dubious of their slaves, 
And now more dubious of the prince they had made 

one ? 
I tell you you must strike, and suddenly, 
Full to the Hydra's heart — its heads will follow. 

Cal. With all my soul and sword I yield assent : 
Our companies are ready, sixty each, 
And all now under arms by Israel's order ; 
Each at their different place of rendezvous, 
And vigilant, expectant of some blow ; 
Let each repair for action to his post ! 
And now, my lord, the signal ? 

Doge. W T hen you hear 



296 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The great bell of St. Mark's, which may not be 
Struck without special order of the Doge, 
(The last poor privilege they leave their prince,) 
March on Saint Mark's ! 
/. Ber. And there ? — 

Doge. By different routes 

Let your march be directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, and still 
Upon the way let your cry be of war 
And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dawn 
Discern'd before the port ; form round the palace, 
AVithin whose court will be drawn out in arms 
My nephew and the clients of our house, 
Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on, 
Shout ye, "Saint Mark ! — the foe is on our waters ! " 
Cal. I see it now — but on, my noble lord. 
Doge. All the patricians flocking to the Council, 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's proud tower,) 
Will then be gather'd in unto the harvest, 
And we will reap them with the sword for sickle. 
If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
'Twill be but to be taken faint and single, 
When the majority are put to rest. 

Cal. Would that the hour were come ! we will 
not scotch, 
But kill. 

Bcr. Once more, sir, with your pardon, I 
Would now repeat the question which I ask'd 
Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 
And therefore safer, and as such admits 
Som^. dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims — must all perish in this slaughter ? 

Cal. All who encounter me and mine, be sure, 
The mercy they have shown, I show. 

Consp. All! all! 

Is this a time to talk of pity ? when 
Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it ? 

/. Ber. , Bertram, 

This false compassion is a folly, and 
Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 
Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
The fallen ? and how distinguish now the innocent 
From out the guilty ? all their acts are one — 
A single emanation from one body, 
Together knit for our oppression ! 'Tis 
Much that we let their children live ; I doubt 
If all of these even should be set apart. 
The hunter may reserve some single cub 
From out the tiger's litter, but whoe'er 
Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam, 
Unless to perish by then fangs ? however, 
I will abide by Doge Faliero's counsel : 
Let him decide if any should be saved. 
Doge. Ask me not — tempt me not with such a 
question — 
Decide yourselves. 

I. Ber. You know their private virtues 

Far better than we can, to whom alone 
Their public vices, and most foul oppression, 
Have made them deadly ; if there be among them 
One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 

Doge. Dolfino's father was my friend, and Lando 
Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro shared 
My Genoese embassy : I saved the life 
Of Veniero — shall I save it twice ? 
Wiuld that I could save them and Venice also ! 



All these men, or their fathers, were my friends 
Till they became my subjects ; then fell from me 
As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown flower, 
And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk, 
Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing ; 
So, as they let me wither, let them perish ! 

Cal. They cannot coexist with Venice' freedom ! 
Doge. Ye, though you know and feel our mutual 
mass 
Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 
What fatal poison to the springs of life, 
To human ties, and all that's good and dear, 
Lurks in the present institutes of Venice : 
All these men were my friends ; 1 loved them, they 
Requited honorably my regards ; 
We served and fought ; we smiled and wept in 

concert ; 
We revell'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; 
We made alliances of blood and marriage ; 
We grew in years and honors fairly, till 
Their own desire, not my ambition, made 
Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell ! 
Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 
In common ! and sweet bonds which link old friend- 
ships, 
When the survivors of long years and actions, 
Which now belong to history, soothe the days 
Which yet remain by treasuring each other, 
And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
Of half a century on his brother's brow, 
And sees a hundred beings, now in earth, 
Flit round them whispering of the days gone by, 
And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band, 
Which once were one and many, still retain 
A breath to sigh for them, a tonsrue to speak 

Of deeds that else were silent, save on marble 

Oime ! Oime ! — and must I do this deed ? 
/. Ber. My lord, you are much moved : it is not 
now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 

Doge. Your patience 

A moment — I recede not : mark with me 

The gloomy vices of this government. 

From the hour that made me Doge, the Doge they 
made me — 

Farewell the past ! I died to all that had been, 

Or rather they to me : no friends, no kindness, 

No privacy of life — all were cut off: 

They came not near me, such approach gave um- 
brage ; 

They could not love me, such was not the law ; 

They thwarted me, 'twas the state's policy ; 

They baffled me, 'twas a patrician's duty ; 

They wrong'd me, for such was to right the state ; 

They could not right me, that would give suspicion. ; 

So that I was a slave to my own subjects ; 

So that I was a foe to my own friends ; 

Begirt with spies for guards — with robes for power — 

With pomp for freedom — gaolers for a council — 

Inquisitors for friends — and hell for life ! 

I had oae only fount of quiet left, 

And that they poisoned ! My pure household gods 

Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er then shrine 

Sate grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 
I. Ber. You have been deeply wrong'd, and now 
shall be 

Nobly avenged before ( anotner night. 
Doge. I had borne all — it hurt me, but I bore it— 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



297 



Till this last running over of the cup 
Of bitterness— until this last loud insult, 
Not only unredress'd, but sanction'd ; then, 
And thus, I cast all further feelings from me— 
The feelings which they crush'd for me, long, long 
Before, even in their oath of false allegiance ! 
Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
Their friend and made a sovereign, as boys make 
Playthings, to do their pleasure and be broken ! 
I from that hour have soen but senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear ; 
They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 
From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
To me, then, these men have no private life, 
Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others ; 
As senators for arbitrary acts 
Amenable, I look on them — as such 
Let them be dealt upon. 

Cal. And now to action ! 

Hence, brethern, to our posts, and may this be 
The last night of mere words : I'd fain be doing ! 
Saint Mark's great bell at dawn shall find me 
wakeful ! 
I. Ber. Disperse then to your posts : be firm and 
vigilant ; 
Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we claim. 
This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
Watch for the signal, and then march. I go 
To join my band ; let each be prompt to marshal 
His separate charge : the Doge will now return 
To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
"We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 

Cal. Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to 
you 
Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 

Doge. No ; let him be reserved unto the last, 
Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey, 
Till nobler game is quarried : his offence 
Was a mere ebullition of the vice, 
The general corruption generated 
By the foul aristocracy ; he could not — 
He dared not in more honorable days 
Have risk'd it ! I have merged all private wrath, 
Against him in the thought of our great purpose. 
A slave insults me — I require his punishment 
From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 
The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 

Cal. Yet, as the immediate cause of the alliance 
Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
I owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 
I would repay him as he merits ; may I ? , 

Doge. You would but lop the hand, and I the head ; 
You would but smite the scholar, I the master ; 
You would but punish Steno, I the senate. | 

I cannot pause on individual hate, 
In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 
Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, must blast 
Without distinction, as it fell of yore, 
Where the Dead Sea hath quench'd two cities' ashes. 
/. Ber. Away, then, to your posts ! I but remain 
A momemt to accompany the Doge 
To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
To where my allotted band is under arms. 
Cal. Farewell, then, until dawn ! 
J. Ber. Success go with you ! 

Consp. We will not fail — away ! My lord, farewell ! 
\The conspirators salute the Doge and Israel 
38 



Bertuccio, and retire, headed by Philip 
Calendaro. The Doge and Israel Ber- 
tuccio remain. 

I. Ber We have them in the toil — it cannot fail ! 
Now thou'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
A name immortal greater than the greatest : 
Free citizens have struck at kings ere now ; 
Csesars have fallen, and even patrician hands 
Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel 
Has reach'd patricians ; but until this hour, 
What prince has plotted for his people's freedom ? 
Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects ? 
For ever, and for ever, they conspire 
Against the people, to abuse their hands 
To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
On yoke, and slavery and death may whet, 
Not glut, the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
Now, my lord, to otir enterprise ; 'tis great, 
And greater the reward ; why stand you rapt ? 
A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 

Doge. And it is then decided ! must they die ? 

I. Ber. Who ? 

Doge. My own friends by blood and courtesy, 

And many deeds and days — the senators. 

i". Ber. You pass'd their sentence, and it is a just 
one. 

Doge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you ; 
You are a patriot, a plebeian Gracchus — 
The rebel's oracle, the people's tribune — 
I blame you not, you act in your vocation ; 
They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised 

you ; 

So they have me : but you ne'er spake with them ; 
You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt ; 
You never had their wine-cup at your lips ; 
You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, 
Nor held a revel in their company ; 
Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim' d their 

smile 

In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have : 
These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs, 
The elders of the council : I remember 
When all our locks were like the raven's wing, 
As we went forth to take our prey around 
The isles wrung from the false Mahometan ; 
And I can see them dabbled o'er with blood ! 
Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 

2". Ber. Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 
A child ; if you are not in second childhood, 
Call back^our nerves to your own purpose, nor 
Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens! I'drather 
Forego even now, or fail in our intent, 
Than see the man I venerate subside 
From high resolves into such shallow weakness ! 
You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
Your own and that of others ; can you shrink then 
From a few drops from veins of hoary vampires, 
Who but give back what they have drain'd from 
milions ? 

Doge. Bear with me ! Step by step, and blow on 
blow 
I will divide with you ; think not I waver : 
Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
But let these last and lingering thoughts have way, 
To which you only and the Night are conscious, 
And both regardless ; when the hour arrives, 



298 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"lis mine to sound the knell, and strike the blow, 

Which shall unpeople man)' palaces, 

And hew the highest gcnealogic trees 

Down to the earth, strew'd with their bleeding fruit, 

And crush their blossoms into barrenness : 

This toill I — must I — have I sworn to do, 

Nor aught can turn me from my destiny ; 

I3ut still I quiver to behold what I 

Must be, aiid think what I have been ! Bear with 

me. 
J. Bcr. Re-man your breast ; I feel no such 

remorse, 
I understand it not : why should I change ? 
You acted, and you act on your free will. 

Doge. Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor do I, 
Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder ; 
'You feel not — you go to this butcher-work 
As if these high-born men were steers for shambles ! 
When all is over, you'll be free and merry, 
And calmly wash those hands incarnadine ; 
But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
In this surpassing massacre, shall be, 
Shall see and feel — oh God ! oh God ! 'tis true 
And thou dost well to answer that it was 
" My own free will and act," and yet you err, 
For I will do this ! Doubt not — fear not ; I 
Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 
And yet I act no more on my free will, 
Nor my own feelings — both compel me back ; 
But there is hell within me and around, 
And like the demon who believes and trembles 
Must I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 
Get thee unto thy fellows, I will hie me 
To gather the retainers of our house. 
Doubt not, Saint Mark's great bell shall wake all 

Venice, 
Except her slaughter'd senate : ere the sun 
Be broad upon the Adriatic there 
Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall drown 
The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 
I am resolved — come on.- 

I. Ber. v With all my soul ! 

Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
Remember what these men have dealt to thee, 
And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
By ages of prosperity and freedom 
To this unshackled city : a true tyrant 
Would have depopulated empires, nor 
Have felt the strange compunction which hath wrung 

you 
To punish a few traitors to the people ! 
Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 
Done. Man, thou hast struck upon the chord 

which jars 
All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

Palazzo of the Patrician Lioni. Lioni laying 
aside the mask and cloak which the Venetian 
Nobles wore in public, attended by a Domestic. 



Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this revel. 
The gayest we have held for many moons, 
And yet, I know not why, it cheer'd me not ; 
There came a heaviness across my heart, 
Which, in the lightest movement of the dance, 
Though eye to eye, and hand in hand united 
Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd me, 
And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I strove 
To laugh the thought away, but 'twould not b» 
Through all the music ringing in my ears 
A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, 
Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
Rose o'er the city's murmur in the "night, 
Lashing against the outward Lido's bulwark : 
So that I left the festival before 
It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness, 
Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
The lamp within my chamber. 

Ant. Yes, my lord 

Command you no refreshment ? 

Lioni. Nought, save sleep, 

Which will not be commanded. Let me h&pe it, 

[Exit Antonio. 
Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will try 
Whether the air will calm my spirits : 'tis 
A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew 
From the Levant hath crept into its cave, 
And the broad moon has brighten'd. What a 

stillness ! 

[Goes to an open lattice. 
And what a contrast with the scene I left, 
Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, 
Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
\. dazzling mass of artificial light, 
Which show'd all things, but nothing as they were 
There Age essaying to recall the past, 
After long striving for the hues of youth 
At the sad labor of the toilet, and 
Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
Prankt forth in all the pride of ornament, 
Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
Of the indignant beams, which show, yet hide, 
Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 
There Youth, which needed not, nor thought of such 
Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and health, 
And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
Of flush'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure, 
And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 
On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should 

not 

Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
The music, and the banquet, and the wine — 
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers — 
The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments — 
The white arms and the raven hair — the b/aids 
And bracelets ; swanlike bosoms, and the necklace, 
An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
The eye like what it circled ; the thin robes, 
Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and 

heaven ; 
The many-twinkling feet so small and sylphlike, 
Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
Of the fair forms which terminate so well — 
All the delusion of the dizzy scene, 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



299 



Its false and true enchantments — art and nature, 

Which swarm before my giddy eyes, that drank 

xhe sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 

On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 

A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, 

Are gone. — Around me are the stars and waters — 

Worlds mirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 

Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 

And the great element, which is to space 

What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 

Soften'd with the first breathings of the spring ; 

The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 

Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 

Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, 

Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts, 

Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles, 

Like altars ranged along the broad canal, 

Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 

Rear'd up from out the waters, scarce less strangely 

Than those more massy and mysterious giants 

Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics, 

Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have 

No other record. All is gentle : nought 

Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night, 

Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 

The tinklings of some vigilant guitars 

Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress, 

And cautious opening of the casement, showing 

That he is not unheard ; while her young hand, 

Fair as the moonlight of which it seems a part, 

So delicately white, it trembles in 

The act of opening the forbidden lattice, 

To let in love through music, makes his heart 

Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight ; — the dash 

Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 

Of the far lights of skimming gondolas, 

And the responsive voices of the choir 

Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse ; 

Some dusky shadow checkering the Rialto ; 

Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire, 

Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade 

The ocean-born and earthrcommanding city — 

How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm ! 

I thank thee, Night ! for thou hast chased away 

Those horrid bo dements which, amidst the throng, 

I could not dissipate ; and with the blessing 

Of thy benign and quiet influence, — 

Now will I to my couch, although to rest 

Is almost wronging such a night as this 

[A knocking is heard from without. 
Hark ! what is that ? or who at such a moment ? 

Enter Antonio. 

Ant. My lord, a man without, on urgent business, 
Implores to be admitted. 

Lioni. Is he a stranger ? 

Ant. His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
His voice and gestures seem'd familiar to me ; 
I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
He sues to be permitted to approach you. 

Lioni. 'Tis a strange hour, and a suspicious 
bearing ! 
And yet there is slight peril : 'tis not in 
Their houses noblemen are struck at ; still, 
Although I know not that I have a foe 
In Venice, 'twill be wise to use some caution. 
Admit him and retire ; but call up quickly 
Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 



Who can this man be ? 

[Exit Antonio, and returns with Bertkam 
muffled. 

Ber. My good lord Lioni, 

I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
This menial hence ; I would be private with you. 

Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram — Go, Anto- 
nio. [Exit Antonio. 
Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 

Ber. (discovering himself'.) A boon, my noble 
patron ; you have granted 
Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
This one, and make him happy. 

Lioni. Thou hast known me 

From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement, which 
Beseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
Ere thy request was heard, but that the hour, 
Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysterious import — but say on — 
What has occurred, some rash and sudden broil ? — 
A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab ? — 
Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety ; 
But then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance, 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 

Ber. My lord, I thank you ; but 

Lioni. But what ? You have not 
Raised a rash hand against one of our order ? 
If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not ; 
I would not slay — but then I must not save thee ! 
He who has shed patrician blood 

Ber. I come 

To save patrician blood, and not to shed it ! ■• 
And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged 

sword, 
And is about to take, instead of sand, 
The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass ! — 
Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 

Lioni. Wherefore not ? 

What means this menace ? 

Ber. Do not seek its meaning, 

But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
Whate'er be stirring ; though the roar of crowds- 
The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes — 
The groans of men — the clash of arms — the sound 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
Peal in one wide alarum ! — Go not forth 
Until the tocsin's silent, nor even then 
Till I return ! 

Lioni. Again, what does this mean ? 

Ber. Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
Thou holdest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
To emulate them, and to leave behind 
Descendants worthy both of them and thee — 
By all thou hast of blest in hope or memory — 
By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
By all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
Good I would now repay with greater good, 
Remain within, trust to thy household gods, 
And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
As now I counsel — but if not, thou art lost ! 

Lioni. I am indeed already lest in wonder ; 
Surely thou ravest ! what have / to dread ? 



300 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Who are my foes ? or if there be such, why 

Art thou leagued with them ? — thou ! or if so leagued, 

Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 

And not before ? 

Ber. I cannot answer this. 

Wilt thou go forth in spite of this true warning ? 

Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle threats, 
The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

Ber. Say not so ! 

Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 

Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which shall 
impede me ! 

Ber. Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul ! — 
Farewell ! [Going. 

Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my own 
safety 
Which makes me call thee back : we must not part 

thus. 
Bertram, I have known thee long. 

Ber. From childhood, signor, 

You have been my protector ; in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets, 
Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 
Its cold prerogative, we play'd together; 
Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft ; 
My father was your father's client, I 
His son's scarce l^ss than foster-brother ; years 
Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours ! 
Oh God! the difference 'twixt those hours and this ! 

Lioni. Bertram, 'tis thou who hast forgotten them. 

Ber. Nor now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er betide, 
I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth 
We sprung, and you, devoted to the state, 
As suiH your station, the more humble Bertram 
Was left unto the labors of the humble, 
Still you forsook me not : and if my fortunes 
Have not been towering, 'twas no fault of him 
Who ofttimes rescued and supported me 
When struggling with the tides of circumstance 
Which bear away the weaker : noble blood 
Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
Would that thy fellow senators were like thee ? 

Lioni. Why, what* hast thou to say against the 
senate ? 

Ber. Nothing. 

Lioni. I know that there are angry spirits 

And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, 
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns ; 
Thou herdest not with such ; 'tis true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
What hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee. 

Ber. Rather shame and sorrow light 

On the accursed tyranny which rides 
The very air 'in Venice, and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 

Lioni. Some villains have been tampering with 
thee, Bertram ; 



This is not thy own language nor own thoughts ; 

Some wTetch has made thee drunk with disaffection: 

But thou must not be lost so-; thou icert good 

And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 

As vice and villany would put thee too : 

Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my nature — 

What is it thou and thine are bound to do, 

Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 

Of him who was a friend unto thy father, 

So that our good-will is a heritage 

We should bequeath to our posterity 

Such as ourselves received it, or augmented ; 

I say, what is it thou must do, that I 

Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the house 

Like a sick girl ? 

Ber. Nay, question me no further ■ 
I must be gone. 

Lioni. And I be murder'd ! — say, 

Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle Bertram ? 

Ber. Who talks of murder ? what said I of 
murder ? — 
'Tis false ! I did not utter such a word. 

Lioni. Thou didst not ; but from out thy wolfish 
eye, 
So changed from what I knew it, there glares forth 
The gladiator. If my life's thine object, 
Take it — I am unarm'd, — and then away ! 
I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
As the capricious mercy of such things 
As thou and those who have set thee to thy task- 
work. 

Ber. Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril mine ; 
Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 

Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Bertram; 
I am not worthy to be singled out 
From such exalted hecatombs — who are they 
That are in danger, and that make the danger ? 

Ber. Venice, and all that she inherits, are 
Divided like a house against itself, 
And so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight ! 

Lioni. More mysteries, and awful ones ! But 
now, 
Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out, 
And thou art safe and glorious ; for 'tis more 
Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark 

too — 
Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 
How would it look to see upon a spear 
The head of him whose heart was open to thee, 
Borne by thy hand before the shuddering people ? 
And such may be my doom ; for here I swear, 
Whate'er the peril or the penalty 
Of thy denunciation, I go forth, 
Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
The consequence of all which led thee here ! 

Ber. Is there no way to save thee ? minutes fly, 
And thou art lost ! thou ! my sole benefactor, 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through every change. Yet, make me not a 

traitor ! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honor ! 

Lioni. Where 

Can lie the honor in a league of murder ? 
And who are traitors save unto the state ? 

Ber. A league is still a compact, and more binding 
In honest hearts when words must stand for law ; 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



301 



And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
Him whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 
Lioni. And who will strike the steel to mine ! 
Ber. Not I ; 

I could have wound my soul up to all things 
Save this. Thou must not die ! and think how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives, 
Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assassin thou miscall'st me ; — once, once more 
I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 
Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go forth. 
Ber. Then perish Venice rather than my friend ! 
I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee ! 
Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's savior and the 
state's ! — 
Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants ; nay, 
Nobility itself I guarantee thee, 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 
Ber. I have thought again : it must not be — I 
love thee — 
Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the proof, 
Not least though last ; but having done my duty 
By thee, I now must do it to my country ! 
Farewell — we meet no more in life ! — farewell ! 

Lioni. What, ho ! — Antonio — Pedro — to the door ! 
See that none pass — arrest this man ! 



SCENE II. 



Enter Antonio and other armed Domestics, who 
seize Bertram. 

Lioni, (continues.) Take care 

He hath no harm ; bring me my sword and cloak, 
And man the gondola with four oars — quick — 

[Exit Antonio. 
We will unto Giovanni Gradcnigo's, 
And send for Marc Cornaro : — fear not, Bertram ; 
This needful violence is for thy safety, 
No less than for the general weal. 

Ber. Where wouldst thou 

Bear me a prisoner ? 

Lioni. Firstly to " the Ten ; " 

Next to the Doge. 

Ber. To the Doge ? 

Lioni. Assuredly : 

Is he not chief of the state ? 

Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 

Lioni. What mean you ? — but we'll know anon. 

Ber. Art sure ? 

Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make ; and if 
They fail, you know " the Ten " and their tribunal, 
And that Saint Mark's has dungeons, and the 

dungeons 
A rack. 

Be>} Apply it then before the dawn 
Now hastening into heaven. — One more such word, 
And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
You think to doom to me. 

Re-enter Antonio. 

Ant. The bark is ready, 

My lord, and all prepared. 

Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 

Bertram, I'll reason with thee as we go 



To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo. 



The Ducal Palace — the Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge and his nephew Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge. Are all the people of our house in muster ? 

Ber. F. They are array'd and eager for the signal, 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo.* 
I come for your last orders. 

Doge. It had been 

As well had there been time to have got together, 
From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers — but it is too late. 

Ber. F. Methinks, my lord, 'tis better as it is : 
A sudden swelling of our retinue 
Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce and trusty, 
The vassals of that district are too rude 
And quick in quarrel to have long maintain'd 
The secret discipline we need for such 
A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 

Doge. True ; but when once the signal has been 
given, 
These are the men for such an enterprise ; 
These city slaves have all their private bias, 
Their prejudice against or for this noble, 
Which may induce them to o'erdo or spare 
Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce peasants, 
Serfs of my county of Val di Marino, 
Would do the bidding of their lord without 
Distinguishing for love or hate his foes ; 
Alike to them Marcello or Cornaro, 
A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 

They are not used to start at those vain names, 
Nor bow the knee before a civic senate ; 
A chief in armor is their Suzerain, 
And not a thing in robes. 

Ber. F. We are enough ; 

And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate I will answer. 

Doge. Well, 

The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service, 
Done in the field, commend me to my peasants ; 
They made the sun shine through the host of Huns 
When sallow burghers slunk back to their tents, 
And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
If there be small resistance, you will find 
These citizens all lions, like their sta7idard ; 
But if there's much to do, you'll wish with me, 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

Ber F. Thus thinking, I must marvel you resolve 
To strike the blow so suddenly. 

Doge. Such blows 

Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
Which yearn'd about my heart too fondly yielding 
A moment to the feelings of old days, 
I was most fain to strike ; and, firstly, that 
I might not yield again to such emotions ; 
And, secondly, because of all these men, 
Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 
I knew not well the courage or the faith : 
To-day might find 'mong them a traitor to us, 
As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 
But once in, with their hilts hot in their hands, 
They must on for their own sakes ; one stroke struck, 
And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 
Which ever lurks somewhere in human hearts, 
Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance, 



[Exeunt. Will urge the rest on like to wolves ; the sight 



302 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, 
As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel ; 
And you will find a harder task to quell 
Than urge them when they have commenced, but 

till 
That moment a mere voice, a straw, a shadow, 
Are capable of turning them aside. — 
How goes the night ? 

Ber. F. Almost upon the dawn. 

Doge. Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
Are the men posted ? 

Ber. F. By this time they are ; 

But they have orders not to strike, until 
They have command from you through me in person. 

Doge. 'Tis well. — Will the morn never put to rest 
These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavens ? 
I am settled and bound up, and being so, 
The very effort which it cost me to 
Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire, 
Now leaves my mind more steady. I have wept, 
And trembled at the thought of this dread duty, 
But now I have put down all idle passion, 
And look the growing tempest in the face, 
As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman ?) it hath been 
A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight 
Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to spill 
The rank polluted current from the veins 
Of a few bloated despots needed more 
To steel me to a purpose such as made 
Timoleon immortal, than to face 
The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

Ber. F. It gladdens me to see your former wis- 
dom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
Vou were decided. 

Doge. It was ever thus 

With me ; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much room to sway ; but in 
The hour of action I have stood as calm 
As were the dead who lay around me : this 
They knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
To the subduing power which I preserved 
Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
But they were not aware that there are things 
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
And not an impulse of mere anger ; though 
The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured souls 
Oft do a public right with private wrong, 
And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
Methinks the day breaks — is it not so ? look, 
Thine eyes are clear with youth ; — the air puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at least to me, 
The sea looks grayer through the lattice. 

Ber. F. True, 

The morn is dappling in the sky. 

Doge. Away then ! 

See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
With all our house's strength ; here I will meet 

you— 
The Sixteen and their companies will move 
In separate columns at the self-same moment — 
Be sure you post yourself by the great gate ; 
I would not trust " the Ten " except to us — 
The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 



Glut the more careless swords of those leagued 

with us. 
Remember that the cry is still " Saint Mark ! 
The Genoese are come — ho ! to the rescue ! 
Saint Mark and liberty ! " — Now — now to action ! 

Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! we will meet 
In freedom and true sovereignty, or never ! 

Doge. Come hither, my Bertuccio — one embrace — 
Speed, for the day grows broader — Send me soon 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troops, and then sound — 

sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Mark's ! 

[Exit Bektuccio Faliero. 

Doge, (solus.) He is gone, 

And on each footstep moves a life. — 'Tis done. 
Now the destroying Angel hovers o'er 
Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, 
Even as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
And for a moment, poised in middle air, , 
Suspends the motion of his mighty wings, 
Then swoops with his unerring beak. — Thou day ! 
That slowly walk'st the waters ! march — march on — 
I would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea-waves ! 
I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
vVith Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore, 
While that of Venice flow'd too, but victorious : 
Now thou must wear an unmix' d crimson ; no 
Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
Unto that horrible incarnadine, 
But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 
And have I lived to fourscore years for this ? 
I, who was named Preserver of the City ? 
I, at whose name the million's caps were flung 
Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 
Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me blessings, 
And fame, and length of days — to see this day ? 
But this day, black within the calendar, 
Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 
Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 
To vanquish empires, and refuse their crown. 
I will resign a crown, and make the state 
Renew its freedom — but oh ! by what means ? 
The noble end must justify them — What 
Are a few drops of human blood ? 'tis false, 
The blood of tyrants is not human ; they, 
Like to incarnate Moloehs, feed on ours, 
Until 'tis time to give them to the tombs 
Which they have made so populous. — Oh world ! 
Oh men ! what are ye, and our best designs, 
That we must work by crime to punish crime ? 
And slay as if Death had but this one gate, 
When a few years would make the sword super- 
fluous ? 
And I, upon the verge of tli* unknown realm, 
Yet send so many heralds on before me ? — 
I must not ponder this. [A patise. 

Hark ! was there not \ 
A murmur as of distant voices, and 
The tramp of feet in martial unison ? 
What phantoms even of sound our wishes raise ' 
It cannot be — the signal hath not rung — 
Why pauses it ? My nephew's messenger 
Should be upon his way to me, and he 
Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower portal, 
WTiere swings the sullen huge oracular bell, 
Which never knells but for a princely death, 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



303 



Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
Tremendous bodements ; let it do its office, 
And be this peal its awfullest and last. 
Sound till the strong tower rock ! — What! silent 

still ? 
I would go forth, but that my post is here, 
To be the centre of reunion to 
The oft discordant elements which form 
Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
The wavering of the weak, in case of conflict ; 
For if they should do battle, 'twill be here, 
Within the palace, that the strife will thicken ; 
Then here must be my station, as becomes 

The master-mover. Hark ! he comes — he comes, 

My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
What tidings ? Is he marching ? hath he sped ? — 
They here ! all's lost — yet will I make an effort. 

Enter a Signor of the Nigiit, 5 with Guards, 
$C, 8;c. 

Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 

Doge. Me ! 

Thy prince, of treason ? — Who are they that dare 
Cloak their own treason under such an order ? 

Sig. (showing his order.) Behold my order from 
the assembled Ten. 

Doge. And where are they, and why assembled ? no 
Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
Preside there, and that duty's mine : on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
To the council chamber. 

Sig. Duke ! it may not be ; 

Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 

Doge. You dare to disobey me then ? 

Sig. I serve 

The state, and needs must serve it faithfully ; 
My warrant is the will of those who rule it. 

Doge. And till that warrant has my signature 
It is illegal, and, as noiv applied, 
Rebellious — Hast thouweigh'd well thy life's worth, 
That thus you dare assume a lawless function ? 

Sig. 'Tis not my office to reply, but act — 
lam placed here as guard upon thy person, 
And not as judge to hear or to decide. 

Doge, (aside.) I must gain time — So that the 
storm-bell sound 
All may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed — speed — 

speed ! — 
Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 
Wo to the vanquish'd ! be they prince and people, 
Or slaves and senate — 

[The great bell of St. Mark's tolls. 
Lo ! it sounds — it tolls. 

Doge, (aloud.) Hark, Signor of the Night ! and 
you, ye hirelings, 
Who wield your mercenary staves in fear, 
It is your knell — Swell on, thou lusty peal ! 
Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives ? 

Sig. Confusion ! 

Stand to your arms, and guard the door — all's lost 
Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
The officer hath miss'd his path or purpose, 
Or met some unforseen and hideous obstacle. 
Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
Straight to the tower; the rest remain with me. 

\Exit a part of the Guard. 

Doge. Wretch ! if thou wouldst have thy vile life, 
implore it ; 



It is not now a lease rff sixty seconds. 
Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth ; 
They never shall return. 

Sig. So let it be ! 

They die then in their duty, as will I. 

Doge. Fool ! the high eagle flies at nobler game 
Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live on, 
So thou provok'st not peril by resistance, 
And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 

Sig. And learn thou to be captive— It hath ceased, 
[ The bell ceases to toll. 
The traitorous signal, which was to have set 
The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey — 
The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's ! 

Doge, (after a pause.) All's silent, and all's lost 1 

Sig. Now, Doge, denounce me 

As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
Have I not done my duty ? 

Doge. Peace, thou thing ! 

Thou hast done a worthy deed, and earn'd the price 
Of blood, and they who use thee will reward thee. 
But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate, 
As thou said'st even now — then do thine office, 
But let it be in silence, as behoves thee, ' 

Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 

Sig. I did not mean to fail in the respect 
Due to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 

Doge, (aside.) There now is nothing left me save 
to die ; 
And yet how near success ! I would have fallen, 
And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 
To miss it thus ! 

Enter other Signors.of the Night, with Bertuo 
cio Faliero prisoner. 

2d. Sig. We took him in the act 

Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order 
As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
Had thus begun to sound. 

1st. Sig. Are all the passes 

Which lead up to the palace well secured ? 

2d. Sig. They are — besides, it matters not ; the 
chiefs 
Are all in chains, and some even now on trial — 
Their followers are dispersed, and many taken. 

Ber. F. Uncle ! 

Doge. It is in vain to war with Fortune ; 

The glory hath departed from our house. 

Ber. F. Who would have deem'd it ? — Ah ! one 
moment sooner ! 

Doge. That moment would have changed the fa» 
of ages ; 
This gives us to eternity — We'll meet it 
As men whose triumph is not in success, 
But who can make their own minds all in all, 
Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 'tis 
But a brief passage — I would go alone, 
Yet if they send us, as 'tis like, together, 
Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 

Ber. F. I shall not shame you, uncle. 

1st. Sig. Lords, our orders 

Are to keep guard on both in separate chambers, 
Until the council call ye to your trial. 

Doge. Our trial ! will they keep their mockery up, 
Even to the last ? but let them deal upon us, 
As we had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 
'Tis but a game of mutual homicides, 
Who have cast lots for the first death, and they ■ 



304 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Have won with false dice. — Who hath been our 
Judas ? 
1st. Sig. I am not warranted to answer that. 
Ber. F. I'll answer for thee — 'tis a certain 
Bertram, 
Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 
Doge. Bertram, the Bergamask ! With what vile 
tools 
We operate to slay or save ! This creature, 
Black with a double treason, now will earn 
Rewards and honors, and be stamp'd in story 
With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph, 
While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, was 

cast 
From the Tarpeian. 

1st. Sig. He aspired to treason, 

And sought to rule the state. 

Doge. He saved the state, 

And sought but to reform what he revived — 

But this is idle Come, sirs, do your work. 

1st. Sig. Noble Bertuccio, we must now remove 
you 
Into an inner chamber. 

' Ber. F. Farewell, uncle ! 

If we shall meet again in life I know not, 
But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 
Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet go 
forth, 
And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, hath 

fail'd in ! 
They cannot quench the memory of those 
Who would have hurl'd them from their guilty 

thrones, 
And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of the Council of Ten assembled with the 
additional Senators, who, on tlie Trials of the 
Conspirators for the Treason of Marino Fa- 
Liero, composed what teas called the Giunta. — 
Guards, Officers, &;c, $$c. — Israel Bertuccio 
and Philip Calendaro as Prisoners. — Ber- 
tram, Lioni, and Witnesses, SfC. 

The Chief of the Ten, Benintende. 

Ben. There now rests, after such conviction of 
Their manifold and manifest offences, 
But to pronounce on these obdurate men 
The sentence of the law : a grievous task 
To those who hear, and those who speak. Alas ! 
That it should fall to me ! and that my days 
Of office should be stigmatised through all 
The years of coming time, as bearing record 
To this most foul and complicated treason 
Against a just and free state, known to all 
The earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 
The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 
The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank ; 
A city which has open'd India's wealth 
To Europe ; the last Roman refuge from 
O'erwhehr.ing Attila ; the ocean's queen ; 



Proud Genoa's prouder rival. 'Tis to sap 
The throne of such a city these lost men 
Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives — 
So let them die the death. 

I. Ber. We are prepared ; 

Your racks have done that for us. Let us die. 

Ben. If ye have that to say which would obtain 
Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 
Will hear you ; if you have aught to confess, 
Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 

/. Ber. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 

Ben. Your crimes 

Are fully proved by your accomplices, 
And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
Yet we would hear from your own lips complete 
Avowal of your treason : on the verge 
Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 
Say, then, what was your motive ? 

I. Ber. Justice ! 

Ben. What 

Your object ? 

I. Ber. Freedom. 

Ben. You are brief, sir. 

I. Ber. So my life grows : I 
Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 
, Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 
To brave your judges to postpone the sentence ? 

/. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and believe me, 
I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 

Ben. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 

I. Ber. Go, ask your racks what they have wrung 
from us, 
Or place us there again ; we have still some blood 

left, 
And some slight sense of pain in these wrench'd 

limbs : 
But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there — 
And you have left us little life to spend 
Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already — 
Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
Ye would appal your slaves to further slavery ! 
Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 
Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
Should overcome the soul into a lie, 
For a short respite — must we bear or die ? 

Ben. Say, who were your accomplices ? 

I. Ber. The senate. 

Ben. What do you mean ? 

I. Ber. Ask of the suffering people 

Whom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 

Ben. You know the Doge ? 

J. Ber. I served with him at Zara 

In the field, when you were pleading here your way 
To present office ; we exposed our lives, 
While you but hazarded the lives of others, 
Alike by accusation or defence ; 
And, for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 
Through his great actions, and the Senate's insults. 

Ben. You have held conference with him ? 

I. Ber. I am weary, 

Even wearier of your questions than your tortures : 
I pray you pass to judgment. 

Ben. It is coming. — 

And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 
Have you to say why you should not be doom'd ? 

Cal. I never was a man of many words, 
And now have few left worth the utterance. 

Ben. A further application of yon engine 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



305 



May change your tone. 

Cal. Most true ; it will do so, 

A former application did so ; but 
It will not change my words, or, if it did — 

Ben. What then ? 

Cal. "Will my avowal on yon rack 

Stand good in law ? 

Ben. Assuredly. 

Cal. Whoe'er 

The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 

Ben. Without doubt, he will be brought up to 
trial. 

Cal. And on this testimony would he perish ? 

Ben. So your confession be detail'd and full, 
He will stand here in peril of his life. 

Cal. Then look well to thy proud self, President, 
For by the eternity which yawns before me, 
I swear that thou, and only thou, shalt be 
The traitor I denounce upon that rack, 
If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 

One of the Giunta. Lord President, 'twere best 
- proceed to judgment ; 
There is no more to be drawn from these men. 

Ben. Unhappy men ! prepare for instant death. 
The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 
The state now stands in, leave not an hour's respite — 
Guards ! lead them forth, and upon the balcony 
Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday, 6 
The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls, 
Let them be justified ; and leave exposed 
Their wavering relics, in the place of judgment, 
To the full view of the assembled people ! — 
And heaven have mercy on their souls ! 

The Giunta. Amen ! 

I. Ber. Signors, farewell ! we shall not all again 
Meet in one place. 

Ben. And lest they should essay 

To stir up the distracted multitude — 
Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd, 7 even in the act 
Of execution. — Lead them hence ! 

Cal. What ! must we 

Not even say farewell to some fond friend, 
Nor leave a last word with our confessor ? 

Ben. A priest is waiting in the antechamber ; 
But, for your friends, such interviews would be 
Painful to them, and useless all to you. 

Cal. I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at least 
All those who had not heart to risk their lives I 
Upon their opVu thoughts ; but still I deem'd 
That, in the last few moments, the same idle 
Freedom of speech accorded to the dying, 
Would not now be denied to us ; but since 

I. Ber. Even let them have their way, brave Cal- 
endaro ! 
What matter a few syllables ? let's die 
Without the slightest show of favor from them ; 
So shall our blood more readily arise 
To heaven against them, and more testify 
To their atrocities, than could a volume 
Spoken or written of our dying words ! 
They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 
Our very silence — let them live in fear ! — 
Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now 
Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we are ready. 

Cal. Israel, hadst thou but hearken'd unto me 
It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 

The coward Bertram, would 

I. Ber. Peace, Calendaro ! 

What brooks it now to ponder upon this ? 
39 



Ber. Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me : 
I did not seek this task ; 'twas forced upon me : 
Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus ! 

/. Ber. I die and pardon thee ! 

Cal. (spitting at him.) I die and scorn thee ! 

{Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and Philip Cal- 
endaro, Guards, %c. 

Ben. Now that these criminals have been dis- 
posed of, 
'Tis time that we proceed to pass our sentence 
Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 
The proofs and process are complete ; the time 
And crime require a quick procedure: shall 
He now be call'd in to receive the award ? 

The Giunta. Ay, ay. 

Ben. Avogadori, order that the Doge 

Be brought before the Council. 

One of the Giunta. And the rest, 

When shall they be brought up ? 

Ben. When all the chiefs 

Have been disposed of. Some have fled to Chiozza ; 
But there are thousands in pursuit of them, 
And such precaution ta'en on terra flrma, 
As well as in the islands, that we hope 
None will escape to utter in strange lands 
His libellous tale of treason 'gainst the senate. 

Enter the Doge as Prisoner, with Guards, S$c., #c. 

Ben. Doge — for such still you are, and by the law 
Must be consider'd, till the hour shall come 
When you must doff" the ducal bonnet from 
That head, which could not wear a crown more 

noble 

Than empires can confer, in quiet honor, 
But it must plot to overthrow your peers, 
Who made you what you are, a-nd quench in blood 
A city's glory — we have laid already 
Before you in your chamber at full length, 
By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
Which have appeared against yoxi ; and more ample 
Ne'er rear'd their sanguinary shadows to 
Confront a traitor. What have you to say 
In your defence ? 

Doye. What shall I say to ye, 

Since my defence must be your condemnation ? 
You are at once offenders and accusers, 
Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 
Upon your power. 

Ben. Your chief accomplices 

Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 

Doge. And who be they ? 

Ben. In number many ; but 

The first now stands before you in the court, 
Bertram, of Bergamo, — would you question him ? 

Doge, (looking at him contemptuously.) No. 

Ben. And two others, Israel Bertuccio, 

And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 
Their fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 

Doye. And where are they ? 

Ben. Gone to their place, and now 

Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth. 

Doye. Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone ? 
And the quick Cassius of the arsenal ? — 
How did they meet their doom ? 

Ben. Think of your own 

It is approaching. You decline to plead, then ? 

Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 



306 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Can recognize your legal power to try me 
Show me the law ! 

Ben. On great emergencies, 

The law must be remodell'd or amended : 
Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables 
The sentence against parricide was left 
In pure forgetfulness ; they could not render 
That penal, which had neither name nor thought 
In their great bosoms : who would have foreseen 
That nature could be filed to such a crime 
As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their 

realms ? 
Your sin hath made us make a law which will 
Become a precedent 'gainst such haught traitors, 
As would with treason mount to tyranny ; 
Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
They can convert it to a two-edged sword ! 
Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye ? 
What's nobler than the signory of Venice ? 

Doge. The signory of Venice ! You betray'd me — 
You — you, who sit there, traitors as ye are ! 
From my equality with you in birth, 
And my superiority in action, 
You drew me from my honorable toils 
In distant lands — on flood — in field — in cities — 
You singled me out like a victim to 
Stand crown'd, but bound and helpless, at the altar 
Where you alone could minister. I knew not — 
I sought not — wish'd not — dream'd not the election, 
Which reach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd ; 
But found on my arrival, that, besides 
The jealous vigilance which always led you 
To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 
You had, even in the interregnum of 
My journey to the capital, curtail'd 
And mutilated the few privileges 
Yet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 
Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 
By the pollution of your ribaldry, 
And he, the ribald, whom I see among you — 
Fit judge in such tribunal ! 

Ben. (interrupting him.) Michel Steno 
Is here in virtue of his office, as 
One of the Forty ; " the Ten " having craved 
A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
And novel as the present : he was set 
Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
Because the Doge, who should protect the law, 
Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
No punishment of others by the statutes 
Which he himself denies and violates ! 

Doge. His punishment ! I rather see him there, 
Where he now sits, to glut him with my death, 
Than in the mockery of castigation, 
Which your foul, outward, juggling show of justice 
Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 
'Twas purity compared with your protection. 

Ben. And can it be, that the great Doge of Venice, 
With three parts of a century of years 
And honors on his head, could thus allow 
His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 

Doge. A spark creates the flame — 'tis the last drop 
Which makes the cup run over, and mine was full 
Already : you oppress'd the prince and people ; 
I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both : 



The price of such success would have been glory, 

Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 

As would have made Venetian history 

Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse 

When they were freed, and fiourish'd ages after, 

And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus : — 

Failing, I know the penalty of failure 

Is present infamy and death — the future 

Will judge, when Venice is no more or free; 

Till then the truth is in abeyance. Pause not; 

I would have shown ho mercy, and I seek none ; 

My life is staked upon a mighty hazard, 

And, being lost, take what I would have taken ! 

I would have stood alone amidst your tombs ; 

Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it, 

As you have done upon my heart while living. 

Ben. You do confess, then, and admit the justice 
Of our tribunal ? 

Doge. I confess to have fail'd ; 

Fortune is female : from my youth her favors 
Were not withheld ; the fault was mine to hope 
Her former smiles again at this late hour. 

Ben. You do not then in aught arraign our equity ? 

Doge. Noble Venetians ! stir me not with 
questions. 
I am resign'd to the worst ; but in me still 
Have something of the blood of brighter days, 
And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
Further interrogation, which boots nothing, 
Except to turn a trial to debate. 
I shall but answer that which will offend you, 
And please your enemies — a host already ; 
'Tis true, these sullen walls should yield no echo ; 
But walls have ears — nay, more, they have tongues , 

and if 
There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them, 
You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me, 
Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger which would double that you escape. 
Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
To make it famous ; for true words are things, 
And dying men's are things which long outlive, 
And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine, 
If ye would fain survive me : take this counsel, 
And though too oft ye made me live in wrath, 
Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this ; — 
I deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
I ask of you but silence for myself, 
And sentence from the court ! 

Ben. This full admission 

Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The torture to elicit the whole truth. 

Doge. The torture ! you have put me there already 
Daily since I was Doge ; but if you will 
Add the corporeal rack, you may : these limbs 
Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 
There's that within my heart shall strain your 
engines. 

Enter an Officer. 
Officer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 
Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 
Ben. Say, conscript fathers,s shall she be ad- 
mitted ? 
One of the Giunta. She may have revelations of 
importance 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



307 



Unto the state, to justify compliance 
With her request. 
Ben. Is this the general will ? 

All. It is. 

Doge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 

"Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify against the husband. 
What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
But such blasphemers 'gainst all honor, as 
Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
I'll pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape, 
And my own violent death, and thy vile life. 

The Duchess enters. 

Ben. Lady ! this just tribunal has resolved, 
Though the request be strange, to grant it, and 
Whatever be its purport, to accord 
A patient hearing with the due respect 
Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues : 
But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the lady ! 
Place a chair instantly. 

Aug. A moment's faintness — 

'Tis past ; I pray you pardon me, I sit not 
In presence of my prince and of my husband, 
While he is on his feet. 

Ben. Your pleasure, lady ? 

Aug. Strange rumors, but most true, if all I hear 
And see be sooth, have reach'd me, and I come 
To know the worst, even at the worst ; forgive 
The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 

Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 

The question — but you answer it ere spoken, 
With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows — 
Oh God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 

Ben. (after a pause.) Spare us, and spare thyself 
the repetition 
Of our most awful, but inexorable 
Duty to heaven and man ! 

A)ig. Yet speak ; I cannot — 

I cannot — no — even now believe these things. 
Is he condemn'd ? — 

Ben. Alas ! 

Ang. And was he guilty ? 

Ben. Lady ! the natural distraction of 
Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the question 
Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
Against a just and paramount tribunal 
Were deep offence. But question even the Doge, 
And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
Guiltless as thy own bosom. 

Ang. Is it so ? 

My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's friend — 
The mighty in the field, the sage in council ; 
Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art silent ! 

Ben. He hath already own'd to his own guilt, 
Nor, as thou see'st, doth he deny it now. 

Ang. Ay, but he must not die ! Spare his few 
years, 
Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days ! 
One day of baffled crime must not efface 
Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 

Ben. His doom must be fulfilled without remission 
Of time or penalty — 'tis a decree. 

Ang. He hath been guilty, but there may be 
mercy. 

Ben. Not in this case with justice. 

Ang. Alas ! signor, 

He who is only just is cruel ; who 



Upon the earth woulcLlive were all judged justly ? 

Ben. His punishnierrt is safety to the state. 

Ang. He was a subject, and hath served the state ; 
He was your general, and hath saved the state ; 
He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. 

One of the Council. He is a traitor, and betray'd 
the state. 

Ang. And, but for him, there now had been no 
state 
To save or to destroy ; and you who sit 
There to pronovmce the death of your deliverer, 
Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar, 
Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters ! 

One of the Council. No, lady, there are others 
who would die 
Rather than breathe in slavery ! 

Ang. If there are so 

W'ithin these walls, thou art not of the number : 
The truly brave are generous to the fallen ! — 
Is there no hope ? 

Ben. Lady, it cannot be. 

Ang. (turning to the Doge.) Then die, Faliero ! 
since it must be so ; 
But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
Thou hast been guilty of a great offence, 
Half cancell'd by the harshness of these men. 
I would have sued to them — have pray'd to them — 
Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread — 
Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer — 
Had it been fitting for thy name or mine, 
And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
Had not announced the heartless wrath within. 
Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom! 

Doge. I have lived too long not to know how to 
die! , 

Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
Of seamen to the surge : I would not take 
A life eternal, granted at the hands 
Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanies 
I sought to free the groaning nations ! 

M. Steno. Doge, 

A word with thee, and with this noble lady, 
Whom I have grievously offended. Would 
Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part, 
Could cancel the inexorable past ! 
But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
Say farewell, and in peace : with full contrition 
I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you, 
And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 

Ang. Sage Benitende, now chief judge of Venice, 
I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 
Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's daughter 
Further than to create a moment's pity 
For such as he is : would that others had 
Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
My honor to a thousand lives, could such 
Be multiplied in mine, but would not hare 
A single life of others lost for that 
Which nothing human can impugn — the sense 
Of virtue, looking not to what is call'd 
A good name for *eward, but to itself. 
To me the scorner's words were as the wind 
Unto the rock : but as there are — alas ! 
Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 
Light as the whirlwind on the waters ; souls 
To whom dishonor's shadow is a substance 



808 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



More terrible than death herA and hereafter ; 

Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, 

And who, though proof against all blandishments 

Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble 

When the proud name on which they pinnacled 

Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 

Of her high aiery ; let what we now 

Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 

To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 

With beings of a higher order. Insects 

Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 

I' the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave ; 

A wife's dishonor was the bane of Troy ; 

A wife's dishonor unking'd Rome for^ever ; 

Ah injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, 

And thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time ; 

An obscene gesture cost Caligula 

His life, while Earth yet bore his cruelties ; 

A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish province ; 

And Steno's lie, couch'd in two worthless lines, 

Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 

A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 

Discrown'd a prince, cut off his crownless head, 

And forged new fetters for a groaning people ! 

Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 

Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this, 

If it so please him — 'twere a pride fit for him ! 

But let him not insult the last hours of 

Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 

By the intrusion of his very prayers : 

Nothing of good can come from such a source, 

Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor ever : 

We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 

Of human baseness. Pardon is for men, 

And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 

And no resentment : things like him must sting, 

And higher beings suffer ; 'tis the charter 

Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang 

May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger : 

'Twas the worm's nature ; and some men are worms 

Tn soul, more than the living things of tombs. 

Doge, (to Ben.) Signor ! complete that which you 
deem your duty. 

Ben. Before we can proceed upon that duty, 
We would request the princess to withdraw ; 
'Twill move her too much to be witness to it. 

Ang. I know it will, and yet I must endure it, 
For 'tis a part of mine — I will not quit, 
Except by force, my husband's side. — Proceed ! 
Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear; 
Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — Speak ! 
I have that within which shall o'ermastcr all. 

Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 
And sometime General of the Fleet and Army, 
Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
Intrusted by the state with high employments, 
Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. 
Convict by many witnesses and proofs, 
And by thine own confession, of the guilt 
Of treachery and treason, yet unheard of 
"Until this trial — the decree is death. 
Thy goods are confiscate unto the state, 
Thy name is razed from out her Records, save 
"Upon a public day of thanksgiving 
For this our most miraculous deliverance, 
When thou art noted in our calendars 
With eaithquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes, 
And the great enemy of man, as subject 



Of grateful \nasses for Heaven's grace ir. snatching 

Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 

The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be painted, 

With thine illustrious predecessors, is 

To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 

Flung over these dim words engraved beneath, 

" This place is of Marino Faliero, 

Decapitated for his crimes." 

Doge. " His crimes ! " 

But let it be so : — it will be in vain. 
The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
Which glitter round it in their pictured trappings— 
Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants ! 
"Decapitated for his crimes ! " — What crimes ? 
Were it not better tb record the facts, 
So that the contemplator might approve, 
Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose ? 
When the beholder knows a Doge conspired, 
Let him be told the cause — it is your history. 

Ben. Time must reply to that : our sons will judge 
Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap, 
Thou shalt be led hence to the Giant's Staircase, 
Where thou and all our princes are invested ; 
And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
Upon the spot where it was first assumed, 
Thy head shal 1 be struck off ; and Heaven have mercy 
Upon thy soul ! 

Doge. Is this the Giunta's sentence ? 

Ben. It is. 

Doge. I can endure it — And the time ? 

Ben. Must be immediate. — Make thy peace with 
God; 
Within an hour thou must be in his presence. 

Doge. I am already ; and my blood will rise 
To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it. — 
Are all my lands confiscated ? 

Ben. They are ; 

And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure, 
Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of. 

Doge. That's harsh. — I would have fain reserved 
the lands 
Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
In fief perpetual to myself and heirs, 
To portion them (leaving my city spoil, 
My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
Between my consort and my kinsmen. 

Ben. These 

Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy nephew 
In peril of his own life ; but the council 
Postpones his trial for the present. If 
Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd princess, 
Fear not, for we will do her justice. 

Ang. Signers, 

I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, know 
I am devoted unto God alone, 
And take my refuge in the cloister. 

Doge. Come ! 

The hour may be a hard one, but 'twill end. 
Have I aught else to undergo save death ? 

Ben. You have nought to do, except confes vxi 
die. 
The priest is robed, the scimetar is bare, 
And both await without. — But, above all, 
Think not to speak unto the people ; they 
Are now by thousands swarming at the gates 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



309 



But. these are closed ; the Ten, the Avogadori, 
The Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
Alone will be beholders of thy doom, 
And they are ready to attend the Doge. 
Doge. The Doge ! 

Be?i. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shalt die 
A sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 
The seperation of that head and trunk, 
That ducal crown and head shall be united. 
Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
To plot with petty traitors ; not so we, 
Who in the very 'punishment acknowledge 
The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 
The dog's death, and the wolf's ; but thou shalt fall 
As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
By those who feel a proud compassion for thee, 
Arid mourn even the inevitable death 
Provoked by thy wild wrath, and regal fierceness. 
Now we remit thee to thy preparation : 
Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
United to thee as thy subjects, and 
Thy senate ; and must now be parted from thee 
As such for ever, on the self-same spot. — 
Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his chamber. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
The Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge as Prisoner, and the Duchess attending 
him. 

Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 'twere useless 
all 
To linger out the miserable minutes ; 
But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee, 
And I will leave the few last grains of sand, 
Which yet remain of the accorded hour, 
Still falling — I have done with Time. 

Ang. Alas ! 

And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause ; 
And for this funeral marriage, this black union, 
Which thou, compliant with my father's wish, 
Didst promise at his death, thou hast seal'd thine 
own. 

Doge. Not so ; there was that in my spirit ever 
Which shaped out for itself some great reverse : 
The marvel is, it came not until now — 
And yet it was foretold me. 

Ang. How foretold you ? 

Doge. Long years ago — so long, they are a doubt 
In memory, and yet they live in annals : 
When I was in my youth and serv'd the senate 
And signory as podesta and captain 
Of the town of Treviso, on a day 
Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
Convey'd the Host aroused my rash young anger, 
By strange delay, and arrogant reply 
To my reproof ! I raised my hand and smote him 
Until he reel'd beneath his holy burden ; 
And as he rose from earth again, he raised 
His tremulous hands m pious wrath towards heaven. 
Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from 

him, 
He turn'd to me, and said, " The hour will come 
When he thou hast o'erthrown shall o'erthrow thee : 
The glory shall depart from out thy house, 
The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul, 



And in thy best maturity of mind 

A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee ; 

Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 

In other men, or mellow into virtues ; 

And majesty, which decks all other heads, 

Shall crown to leave thee headless ; honors shall . 

But prove to thee the heralds of destruction, 

And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death, 

But not such death as fits an aged man." 

Thus saying he pass'd on.— That hour is come. 

Ang. And with this warning couldst thou not have 
striven 
To avert the fatal moment, and atone 
By penitence for th»t which thou hadst done ? 

Doge. I own the words went to my heart, so much 
That I remember'd them amid the maze 
Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 
Which shook me in a supernatural dream ; 
And I repented ; but 'twas not for me 
To pull in resolution : what must be 
I could not change, and would nor fear. — Nay more, 
Thou canst not have forgot, what all remember, 
That on my day of landing here as Doge, 
On my return from Rome, a mist of such 
Unwonted density went on before 
The bucentaur like the columnal cloud 
Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 
The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 
Between the pillars of Saint Mark's, where 'tis 
The custom of the state to put to death 
Its criminals, instead of touching at 
The Riva bella Paglia, as the wont is, — 
So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen, 

Ang. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
Such things. 

Doge. And yet I find a comfort in 

The thought that these things are the work of Fate ; 
For I would rather yield to gods than men, 
Or cling to any creed of destiny, 
Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
I know to be as worthless as the dust, 
And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
Of an o'erruling power ; they in themselves 
Were all incapable — they could not be 
Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them ! 

Ang. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
Even with these wretches take thy flight to Heaven. 

Doge. I am at peace : the peace of certainty 
That a sure hour will come, when their sons' sons, 
And this proud city, and these azure waters, 
And all which makes them eminent and bright, 
Shall be a desolation, and a curse, 
A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 
A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel ! 

Ang. Speak not thus now ; the surge of passion 
still 
Sweeps o'er thee to" the last ; thou dost deceive 
Thyself, and canst not injure them — be calmer. 

Doge. I stand within eternity, and see 
Into eternity, and I behold — 
Ay, palpable as I see thy sweet face 
For the last time — the days which I denounce 
Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
And they who are indwellers. 

Guard, (coming forward.) Doge of Venice 
The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 

Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina ! — one embrace—" 
Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 



310 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A fond but fatal husband — love my memory — 

I would not ask so much for me still living, 

But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 

Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 

Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, 

Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and name, 

Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 

Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even 

A little love, or friendship, or esteem, 

No not enough to extract an epitaph 

From ostentatious kinsmen ; in one hour 

I have uprooted all my former life, 

And outlived every thing, except thy heart, 

The pure, the good, the gentle, Ahich will oft 

With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief 

Still keep thou turn'st so pale ! — Alas ! she faints, 

She hath no breath, no pulse ! — Guards lend your 

aid — 
I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better, 
Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
When she shakes off this temporary death, 
I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her women — 
One lox)k ! — how cold her hand ! — as cold as mine 
Shall be ere she recov*rs. — Gently tend her, 

And take my last thanks 1 am ready now. 

[The Attendants of Angiolina enter and sur- 
round their mistress, who has fainted. — 
Exeunt the Doge, Guards, 85c, §c. , 

SCENE III. 

The Court of the Ducal Palace: the outer gates are 
shut against the people. — The Doge enters in his 
ducal robes, in procession tvith the Council of Ten 
and other Patricians, attended by the Guards till 
they arrive at the top of the " Giant's Staircase," 
(where the Doges took the oaths ; J the Executioner 
is statio?icd there with his sword. — On arriving, a 
Chief of the Ten takes off the ducal cap from the 
Doge's head. 

Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
I am again Marino Faliero : 
'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment. 
Here was I crown'd, and here, bear witness, Heaven ! 
With how much more contentment I resign 
That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 
Than I received the fatal ornament. 

One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 

Doge. 'Tis with age, then. 9 

Ben. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to com- 
mend, 
Compatible with justice, to the senate ? 

Doge. I would commend my nephew to their 
mercy, 
My consort to their justice ; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 

Ben. They shall be cared for ; 

Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

Doge. Unheard-of ! ay, there's not a history 
But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
Against the people ; but to set them free 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause ? 

Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of 
Venice — 
Agis and Faliero ! 

Ben. Hast thou more 



To utter or to do ? 

Doge. May I speak r 

Ben. Thou may'st ; 

But recollect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
Ye elements ! in which to be resolved, 
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner, 
Ye winds ! which fluttcr'd o'er as if you loved it, 
And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth, 
Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth, 
Which drank this willing blood from many a wound ! 
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to Heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it ! 
Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou ! 
Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — Attest! 
I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 
Float up from the abyss of time to be, 
And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 
On her and hers for ever ! — Yes, the hours 
Are silently engendering of the day, 
When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 
Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield 
Unto a bastard Attila, without 
Shedding so much blood in her last defence 
As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her, 
Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 
And sold, and be an appanage to those 
Who shall despise her ! — She shall stoop to be 
A province for an empire, petty town 
In lieu of capitol, with slaves for senates, 
Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! 10 
Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, 11 
The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 
Walks o'er thy marl, and smiles on it for his ! 
When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 
In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 
Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 
Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 
Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 
Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vicegerent, 
Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns, 
Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 
Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 
From an adultress boastful of her guilt 
With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, 
Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 
To the third spurious generation ; — when 
Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 
Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the victors, 
Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 
And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 
As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 
Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 
Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom, 
All thine inheritance shall be her shame 
Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 
A wider proverb for worse prostitution ; — 
When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee, 
Vice without splendor, sin without relief 
Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 
But in its stead coarse lusts of habitude, 
Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, 
Depraving nature's frailty to an art ; — 



NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO. 



311 



When these and more are heavy on thee, when 
Smiles without mirth, andpastimes without pleasure, 
Youth without honor, age without respect, 
Meanness and weakness, and a sense of wo 
'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not 

murmur, 
Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts, 
Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, 
Amidst thy many murders, think of mine! 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 12 
Gehenna of £he waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 
Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
Thee and thy serpent seed ! 
[Here the Doge turns, and addresses the Exccutioneer. 

Slave, do thine office ! 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
Strike — and but once ! 

[The Doge throws himself upon his knees, and 

as the Executioner raises his sword, the scene 

closes. 

SCENE IV. 

The Piazza and Piazzetta of Saint Mark's. — The 
People in crowds gathered round the grated gates 
of the Ducal Palace, which are shut. 

First Citizen. I have gain'd the gate, and can 
discern the Ten, 
Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the 
Doge. 
Second Cit. I cannot reach thee with mine utmost 
effort. 
How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight 
Is thus prohibited unto the people, 
Except the occupiers of those bars. 

First Cit. One has approach'd the Doge, and now 
they strip 
The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 



He raises his keen eyes to heaven ; I see 
Them glitter, and his lips move— Hush ! hush ! — no, 
'Twas but a murmur — Curse upon the distance ! 
His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
Swells up like mutter'd thunder ; would we could 
But gather a sole sentence ! 
Second Cit. Hush ! we perhaps may catch the 

sound. 
First Cit. 'Tis vain, 

I cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 
Streams on the wind like foam upon the wave ! 
Now — now — he kneels — and now they form a circle 
Round him, and all is hidden — but I see 

The lifted sword in air Ah ! Hark ! it falls ! 

[The people murmur. 
Third Cit. Then they have murder' d him who 

would have freed us. 
Fourth Cit. He was a kind man to the commons 

ever. 
Fifth Cit. Wisely they did to keep their portals 
barr'd. 
Would we had known the work they were preparing 
Ere we were summon'd here, we would have brought 
Weapons and forced them ! 

Sixth Cit. Are you sure he's dead ? 

First Cit. I saw the sword fall — Lo ! what have 
we here ? 

Enter on the Balcony of the Palace which fronts 
Saint Mark's Place, a Chief of the Ten, 13 with 
a bloody sword. lie waves it thrice before the 
People, and exclaims, 
" Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor ! " 
[The gates are opened ; the populace rush m 
towards the " Giant's Staircase," where the 
execution has taken place. The foremost of 
them exclaims to those behind, 
The gory head rolls down the "Giants' Steps ! " 

[The curtain falls. 



NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO. 



I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso. 

Page 283, line 120. 



An historical fact. 
the Doges. 



See Marin Sanuto's Lives of 



A gondola with one oar only. 

Page 286, line 46. 

A gondola is not like a common boat, but is as 
easily rowed with one oar as with two, (though of 
course not so swiftly,) and often is so from motives 
of privacy ; and (since the decay of Venice) of 
economy. 

3. 

They think themselves 
Engaged in secret to the Signory. 

Page 294, 'lines 7 and 8. 



An historical fact. 

4. 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo. 

Page 301, line 62. 

The Doge's private family palace. 

5. 

" Sic/twr of the Night." 

Page 303, line 17. 

" I Signori di Notte " held an important charge 
in the old Republic. 

6. 
Festal Thursday. 

Page 305, line 26. 

"Giovedi Grasso," "fat or greasy Thursday," 
which I cannot literally translate in the text, was 
the day. 



,512 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



7. 



Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd, even in the act 
Page 306, line 37- 

Historical fact. See Sanuto, in the Appendix to 
this tragedy. 

8. 
Say, conscript fathers, shall she be admitted f 
Page 306, line 128. 

The Venetian senate took the same title as the 
Roman, of " Conscript Fathers." 



' Tis toith age, then. 

Page 310, line 33. 

This was the actual reply of Bailli, maire of 
Paris, to a Frenchman who made him the same re- 
proach on his way to execution, in the earliest part 
of their revolution. I find in reading over, (since 
the completion of this tragedy,) for the first time 
these six years, " Venice Preserved," a similar re- 
ply on a different occasion by Renault, and other 
coincidences arising from the subject. I need 
hardly remind the gentlest reader, that such coin- 
cidences must be accidental, from the very facility 
of their detection by reference to so popular a play 
on the stage and in the closet as Otway's chef- 
d'oeuvre. 

10. 

Beggars for nobles, panders for a people! 

Page 310, line 86. 

Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the 
reader look to the historical, of the period prophe- 
sied, or rather of the few years preceding that pe- 
riod. Voltaire calculated their " nostre benemerite 
Meretrici" at 12,000 of regulars, without includ- 
ing volunteers and local militia, on what authority 
I know not ; but it is perhaps the only part of the 
population not decreased. Venice once contained 
200,000 inhabitants, there are now about 90,000, and 



these ! ! few individuals can conceive, and none 
could describe the actual state into which the more 
than infernal tyranny of Austria has plunged this 
unhappy city. 

11. 
Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces. 

Page 310, line 87. 

The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong to 
the Jews ; who in the earlier times of the republic 
were only allowed to inhabit Mestri, and not to en- 
ter the city of Venice. The whole commerce is in 
the hands of the Jews and Greeks, and the Huns 
form the garrison. 

12. 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes. 
Page 31*1, line 9. 

Of the first fifty Doges, five abdicated— five were 
banished with their eyes put out— -five were massa- 
cred — and nine deposed ; so that nineteen out of 
fifty lost the throne by violence, besides two who 
fell in battle : this occurred long previous to the 
reign of Marino Faliero. One of his more imme- 
diate predecessors, Andrea Dandolo, died of vexa- 
tion. Marino Faliero himself perished as related. 
Among his successors, Foscari, after seeing his 
son repeatedly tortured and banished, was deposed, 
and died of breaking a blood-vessel, on hearing 
the bell of Saint Mark's toll for the election of h.s 
successor. Morosini was impeached for the loss of 
Candia ; but this was previous to his dukedom, dur- 
ing which he conquered the Morea, and was styled 
the Peloponnesian. Faliero might truly say " Thou 
den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! " 

13. 
Chief of the Ten. 

Page 311, line 47. 

" Un Capo de' Dieci " are the words of Sanuto's 
Chronicle. 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



MCCCLIV. 

MARINO FALIERO DOGE XLIX. 

" Fu eletto da quarantuno Elettori, il quale era Ca- 
valiere e conte di Valdemarino in Trivigiana, ed era 
ricco, e si trovava ambasciadore a Roma. E a di 9, 
di Settembre, dopo sepolto il suo predecessore, fu 
chiamato il gran Consiglio, e fu preso di fare il Doge 
giusta il solito. E furono fatti i cinque Correttori, 
Ser Bernardo Giustiniani Procuratore, Ser Paolo 
Loredano, Ser Filippo Aurio, Ser Pietro Trivisano,, 
e Ser Tommaso Viadro. I quali a dl 10, misero 
queste correzioni alia promozione del Doge : che i 
Consiglieri non odano gli Oratori e Nunzi de' Sig- 
nori, senza i Capi de' quaranta, ne possano rispon- 
dere ad alcuno, se non saranno quattro Consiglieri 



e due Capi de' Quaranta. E che osservino la forma 
del suo Capitolare. E che Messer lo Doge si metta 
nella miglior parte, quando i giudici tra loro non 
fossero d' accordo. E eh' egli non possa far ven- 
dere i suoi imprestiti, salvo con legittima causa, e 
col voler di cinque Consiglieri, di due Capi de' Qua- 
ranta, e delle due parti del Consiglio de' Pregati. 
Item, che in luogo di tre mila pelli di Conigli, che 
debbon dare i Zaratini per regalia al Doge, non tro 
vandosi tante pelli, gli diano Ducati ottanta 1' anno. 
E poi a di 11, detto, misero etiam altre correzioni, 
che se il Doge, che sara eletto, fosse fuori di Vene- 
zia, i savj possano provvedere del suo ritorno. E 
quando fosse il Doge ammalato, sia Vicedoge uno 
de' Consiglieri, da essere eletto tra loro. E che il 
detto sia nominato Viceluogotenente di Messer, lo 
Doge, quando i giudici faranno i suoi atth E nota, 
perche fu fatto Doge uno, ch' era assente, che fu 
Vicedoge Ser Marino Badoero phi vecchio de Con- 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



313 



siglieri. Item, che il governo del Ducato sia com- 
messo a Consiglieri, e a' Capi de' Quaranta, quando 
vachera il Ducato finche sara eletto 1' altro Doge. 
E cosi a di 11 di Settembre fu creato il prefato Ma- 
rino Faliero Doge. E fu preso, che il governo del 
Ducato sia commesso a' Consiglieri e a' Capi de' 
Quaranta. I quali stiano in Palazzo di continuo, 
fhio che verra il Doge. Sicche di continuo stiano 
in Palazzo due Consiglieri e un Capo de Quaranta. 
E subito furono spedite lettere al detto Doge, il 
quale era a Roma Oratore al Legato di Papa Inno- 
cenzo VI. ch' era in Avignone. Fu preso nel gran 
Consiglio d' eleggere dodici ambasciadori incontro a 
Marino Faliero Doge, il quale veniva da Roma. 
E giunto a Chioggia, il Podesta mando Taddeo 
Giustiniani suo figliuolo incontro, con qnindici 
Ganzaruoli. E poi vennto a S. Clemente nel Bucin- 
toro, venne un gran caligo, adeo che il Bucintoro 
non ti pete levare. Laonde il Doge co' gentiluomini 
nelle piatte vennero di lungo in questa Terra a' 
5 d'Ottobre del 1354. E dovendo smontare alia 
riva della Paglia per lo caligo andarono ad ismon- 
tare alia riva della Piazza in mezzo alle due colonne 
dove si fa la Giustizia, che fu un malissimo augurio. 
E a' 6, la mattina venne alia Chiesa di San Marco 
alia laudazione di quello. Era in questo tempo 
Canceilier Grande Messer Benintende. I qunran- 
tuno Elettori furono, Ser Giovanni Contarini, Ser' 
Andrea Giustiniani, Ser Michele Morossini, Ser 
Simone Dandolo, Ser Pietro Lando, Ser Marino 
Gradenigo, Ser Marco Dolfino, Ser Nicolo Faliero, 
Ser Giovanni Quirini, Ser Lorenzo Soranzo, Ser 
Marco Bembo, Sere Stefano Belegno, Ser Francesco 
Loredano, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Giovanni Mo- 
cenigo, Ser Andrea Barbaro, Ser Lorenzo Barbarigo, 
Ser Bettino da Mollino, Ser' Andrea Arizzo Procu- 
ratore, Ser Marco Celsi, Ser Paolo Donato, Ser Ber- 
tucei Grimani, Ser Pietro Steno, Ser Luca Duodo, 
Ser' Andrea Pisani, Ser Francesco Caravello, Ser 
Jacopo Trivisano, Sere Schiavo Marcello, Ser Matfeo 
Aimo, Ser Marco Capello, Ser Pancrazio Giorgio, 
Ser Giovanni Foscarini, Ser Tomaso Viadro, Sere 
Schiava Polarii, Ser Marco Polo, Ser Marino Sagre- 
do, Sere Stefano Mariani, Ser Francesco Suriano, 
Ser Orio Pasqualigo, Ser' Andrea Gritti Ser Buono 
da Mosto. 

" Trattato di Messer Marino Faliero Doge, tratto 
da una Cronica antica. Essendo venuto il Giovedi 
della Caccia, fu fatta giusta il solito la Caccia. E 
a' que' tempi dopo fatta la Caccia s'andava in Pa- 
lazzo del Doge in una di quelle sale, e con donne 
facevasi una festicciuola, dove si bellava fino alia 
prima campana, e veniva una colazione ; la quale 
spesa faceva Messer le Doge, quando v' era la Doga- 
ressa. E poscia tutti andavano a casa sua. Sopra 
la qual festa, pare, che Ser Michele Steno, molto 
giovane e povero gentiluomo, ma ardito e astuto, il 
quale era innamorato in certa donzella della Doga- 
ressa, essendo sul Solajo appresso le donne, facesse 
cert' atto non conveniente, adeo che il Doge coman- 
d5 ch' e' fosse buttato giu dal Solajo. E cosiquegli 
scudieri del Doge lo spinsero giu di quel Solajo. 
Laonde a Ser Michele parve, che fossegli stata fatta 
troppo grande ignominia. E non considerando al- 
tramente il fine, ma sopra quella passione fornita la 
festa, e andati tutti via, quella notte egli ando, e 
sulla cadrega, dove sedeva il Doge nella Sala dell' 
Udienza (perche allora i Dogi non tenevano panno 
di seta sopra la cadrega, ma sedevano in una cadre- 
ga di legno) scrisse alcune parole disoneste del 
Doge e della Dogaressa, cioe: Marin Faliero 
da/la bella moglie : Altri la gode, ed egli la mantiene. 
E la mattina furono vedute tali parole scritte. E 
parve una brutta cosa. E per la Signoria fu com- 
messa laeosa agli Avvogadori del Comune con 
grande efficacia. I quali Avvogadori subito diedero 
taglia grande per venire in chiaro della verita di chi 
avea scritto tal lettera. E tandem si seppe, che 
Michele Steno aveale scritte. E fu per li Quaranta 
preso di ritenerio ; e ritenuto confesso, che in quella 
passione d' essere stato spinto giii dal Solajo, pre- 
40 



sente la sua amante, egli aveale scritte. Onde poi 
fu placitato nel detto Consiglio, e parve al Consiglio 
si per rispetto all' eta, come per la caldezza d'amore, 
di condannarlo a compiere clue mesi in prigione ser- 
rato, e poi ch' e' fosse, bandito di Venezia e dal dis- 
tretto p,er un' anno. Per la qual condennagione 
tanto piccola il Doge ne prese grande sdegno, paren- 
dogli che non fosse stata fatta quella estimazione 
della cosa, che ricercava la sua dignita del Ducato. 
E diceva, ch' eglino doveano averlo fatto appiccare 
per la gola, o saltern bandirlo in perpetuo da Vene- 
zia. E perche (quando dee succedere un' effetto e 
necessario che vi concorra la cangione a fare tal' 
effetto) era destinato, che a Messer Marino Doge 
fosse tagliata la testa, percio occorse, che entrata la 
Quaresima il giorno dopo che fu condannato il detto 
Ser Michele Steno, un gentiluomo da Ca Barbaro, 
di natura collerico, andasse all' Arsenale, doman- 
dasse certe cose ai Padroni, ed era alia presenza de' 
Signori l'Ammiraglio dell' Arsenale. 11 quale in 
tesa la domanda, disse, che non si poteva fare 
Quel gentiluomo venne a parole coll' Ammiraglio, 
e diedegli un pugno su un'occhio. E perche avea 
un'anello in dito, coll' anello gli ruppe la pelle, e 
fece sangue. E 1' Ammiraglio cosi battuto e insan- 
guinato ando al Doge a lamentarsi, acciocche il Doge 
facesse fare gran punizione contra il detto da Ca 
Barbaro: II Doge disse: Che vuoi che tifacciaf 
Guarda le ignominiose parole scritte di me, e il modo 
ch'e stato punito quel ribaldo di Michele Steno, che 
le scrisse. E quale stima hanno i Quaranta fatto 
della persona nostra? Laonde 1' Ammiraglio gli 
disse : Messer lo Doge, se voi volete farvi Signore, e 
fare tagliare tutti questi becchi gentiluomini apezzi, 
mi basta I'animo, dandomivoiajuto, di farvi Signore 
di questa Terra. E allora voi potrete castig are tutti 
costoro. Inteso questo il Doge disse, Come si puo 
fare una simile cosa ? E cosi entrarono in ragiona L 
mento. 

" II Doge mando a chiamere Ser Bertuccio Faliero 
suo nipote, il quale stava con lui in Palazzo, e en- 
trarono in questa macchinazione. Ne si partirono 
di 11, che mandarono per Filippo Calendaro, uomo 
marittimo e di gran seguito, e per Bertuccio Israel- 
lo, v ingegnere e uomo astutissimo. E consigliatisi 
insieme diede ordine di chiamare alcuni altri. E 
cosi per alcuni giorni la notte si riducevano insieme 
in Palazzo in casa del Doge. E chiamarono a parte 
a parte altri, videlicet Niccol6 Fagiuolo, Giovanni 
da Corfu, Stefano Fagiano, Niccolo dalle Bende, 
Niccolo Biondo, e Stefano Trivisano. E ordino di 
fare sedici o diciassette Capi in diversi luoghi della 
Terra, i qualiavessero cadaun di loro quarant' uomini 
provvigionati, preparati, non dicendo a' detti suoi 
quaranta quello, che volessero fare. Ma che il giorno 
stabilito si mostrasse di far quistione tra loro in di- 
versi luoghi, acciocche il Doge facesse sonare a San 
Marco le campane, le quali non si possono suonare, 
s' egli nol comanda. E al suono delle campane 
questi sedici o diciasette co' suoi uomini venissero a 
San Marco alle strade, che buttano in Piazza. J3 
cosi i nobili e primarj cittadini, che venissero in Pi- 
azza, per sapere del romore cio ch'era, li tagliassero 
a pezzi. E seguito questo, che fosse chiamato per 
Signore Messer Marino Faliero Doge. E fermate 
le cose tra loro, stabilito fu, che questo dovess' es- 
sere a' 15 d'Aprile del 1355 in giorno di Mercoledi. 
La quale macchinazione trattata fu tra loro tamtc 
segretamente, che mai ne pure se ne sospett6, non 
che se ne sapesse cos' alcuna. Ma il Signor' Iddio, 
che ha sempre ajutato questa gloriosissima citta e 
che per le santimonie e giustizie sue mai non l'ha 
abbandonata, inspiro a un Beltramo Bergamasco il 
quale fu messo Capo di quarant' uomini per uno de' 
detti congiurati (il quale intese qualche parola, 
sicche comprese l'effeto, che doveva succedere, e il 
qual era di casa di Ser Niccol6 Lioni di Santo Ste- 
fano) di an dare a dl **** d'Aprile a casa del detto 
Ser Niccolo Lioni. E gli disse ogni cosa dell' ordin 
dato. II quale intese le cose, rimase come morto; 
e intese molte particolarita, il detto Beltramo il 



314 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



prcgo che lo tencsse segreto, e glielo disse, accicoc- 
chc il dctto Scr Niccolo non si partissc di casa a di 
15, acciocche egli non fosse morto. Ed egli volendo 
partirsi, il fece ritencre a suoi di casa, e serrarlo in 
una camera. Ed esso aiulj a casa di M. Giovanni 
Gradenigo Nasone, il quale fu poi Doge, che stava 
anch' egli a Santo Stefano ; e dissegli la cosa. La 
quale parendogli, com'era, d'una grandissima im- 
portanza, tutti e due andarono a casa di Ser Marco 
Cornaro, che stava a San Felice. E dettogli il tutto 
tutti e tre deliberarono di venire a casa del detto 
Scr Niccoli Lioni, ed esaminare il detto Beltramo. 
E quello esaminato, iotese le cose, il fecero stare 
serrato. E andarono tutti e tre a San Salvatore in 
sacristia, emandorono i loro famigli a chiamare i 
Consiglieri, gli Awogadori, i Capi dc' Dieci, e que' 
del Consiglid. E ridotti insieme dissero loro le cose 
I quali rimasero morti, E deliberarono di mandare 
pel detto Beltramo, e fattolo venire cautamente, ed 
esaminatolo, e verificate le cose, ancorche ne sen- 
tissero gran passione, pure pensarono la provvisione 
E mandarono pe' Capi de' Quaranta, pe' Signori di 
notte, p Capi de' Sestieri, e pe Cinque della Pace. 
E ordinate, ch' eglino co' loro uomini trovasscro 
degli altri buoni uomini, e mandassero a casa de' 
capi de' congiurati, ut supra mettessero loro lemani 
addosso. B tolsero i detti le Maestrerie dell' Arse- 
nale, accioche i provvisionati dc' congiurati non 
potessero offenderli. E si ridussero in Palazzo ver- 
so la sera. Dove ridotti fecero serrare le porte della 
corte del Palazzo. E mandarono a ordinare al cam- 
panaro, che non sonasse le campane. E cos fu ese- 
guito e messe le mani adosso a tutti i nominati di 
sopra, furono que' condotti al Palazzo. E vedendo 
il Consiglio de Dieci, che il Doge era nella cospira- 
zione, prescro di eleggere venti de' primarj della 
Terra, di giunta al detto Consiglio a consigliare, 
non pero che potessero mcttere pallotta. 

" 1 Consiglieri furono questi : Ser Giovanni Moce- 
nigo del Sestiero di San Marco ; Scr Almoro Veni- 
ero da Santa Marina, del Sestiero di Castello ; Ser 
Tommaso Viadro, del Sestiero diCaneregio; Ser Gio- 
vanni Sanudo, del Sestiero di Santa Croce ; Ser 
Pietro Trivisano, del Sestiero di San Paolo; Ser 
Pantalione Barbo il Grande, del Sestiero d'Ossoduro. 
Gli Awogadori del Comunc furono Ser Zufredo Mo- 
rosini, c Ser Orio Pasqualigo, e questi non ballotta- 
rono. Que' del Consiglio de' Dieci; furono: Ser Gi- 
ovanni Marccllo, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, e Ser Miche- 
eletto Dolfino, Capi del detto Consiglio de' Dieci ; 
Scr Luca da Legge, e Ser Pietro da Mosto, Inquisi- 
tori del detto Consiglio : Ser Marco Polani, Ser Ma- 
rino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, Sor Nicoletto 
Trivisano da Sant' Angiolo. Questi elessero tra 
loro una Giunta, nella notte ridotti quasi sul romper 
del giorno, di venti nobili di Venezia de' migliori, 
de' pin savj, e de' piu antichi, per consultare, non 
pero che mettessero pallottola. E non vi vollero 
ahuno da C i Paliero. E cacciarono fuori del Con- 
siglio Niccolo Faliero, e un' altro Niccolo Faliero, 
da San Tommaso, per cssere della casata del Doge. 
E qucsta provigione di chiamare i venti della Giunta 
fu molto commendata per tutta la Terra. Questi 
furono i venti della Giunta, Ser Marco Giustiniani, 
Prpcuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore. Ser 
Lionardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Con- 
tarini, Scr Simone Dandolo, Scr Niccolo Volpe Ser 
Giovanni Lorcdano Ser Marco Diedo, Scr Giovanni 
Gradenigo, Ser' Andrea Cornaro, Cavalicre, Ser 
Marco Soranzo, Ser Rinieri da Mosto, Scr Gazano 
Marccllo, Ser Marino Morosino, Sere Stefano Be- 
legno, Scr Niccolo Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Mar- 
co Trivisano, Ser Jacopo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni 
Foscarini. E chiamati questi venti nel Consiglio 
de' Diccci, fu mandato per Messer Marino Faliero 
Doge, il quale andava pel Palazzo con gran gente, 
gentiluomini, e altra buona gente, che non sapeano 
ancora come il fatto stava. In questo tempo fu 
condotto, preso, e legato, Bertuccio Israello, uno de' 
Capi del trattato per que' di Santa Croce, e ancora 
fu preso Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, e Ni- 



coletto Alberto, il Guardiaga, e altri uomini da mare, 
e di altre condizioni. I quali furono esaminati, e 
trovata la verita del tradimento. A di 16 d'Aprile 
fu sentenziato pel detto Consiglio de' Diecci, che 
Filippo Calandario, e Bertucci Israello fossero appic- 
cati alle colonnerossedelbalconatedel Palazzo, nelle 
quali sta a vendere il Doge la festa della Caccia. E 
cosi furono appiccati con spranghe in bocca. E nel 
giorno seguente' questi furono condannati, Nic- 
colo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, . 
Marco Giuda, Jacomcllo Dagolino, Nicoletto Fe- 
dele figliuolo di Filippo Calendaro, Marco Torcllo, 
dctto Israello, Stefano Trivisano, cambiatore di 
Santa Marghcrita, Antonio dalle Bende. Furono 
tutti prcsi a Chioggia, che fuggivano, e dipoi in di- 
versi giorni a due a due, ed a uno a uno, per sen- 
tenza fatta nel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, furono ap- 
piccati per la gola alle colonne, continuando dalle 
rosse del Palazzo, seguendo fin verso il Canale. E 
altri prcsi furono lasciati, perchc sentirono il fatto, 
ma non vi furono tal che fu dato loro ad intendere 
per questi capi, che venissero coll' arme, per pren- 
dere alcuni malfattori in scrvigio della Signori, ne 
altro sapeano. Fu encora liberato Nicoletto Alberto, 
il Guardiaga, e Bartolommeo Ciriuola, e suo figliuolo, 
e molti altri, che non erano in celpa. 

" E a di 16 d'Aprile, giorno di Vcnerdi, fu sen- 
tenziato nel detto Consiglio dc' Dieci, di tagliare la 
testa a Messer Marino Faliero Doge sul pato della 
scala di pictra, dove i Dogi giurano il primo sagra- 
mento, quando montano prima in Palazzo. E cosl 
serrato il Palazzo, la mattina seguente a ora di ter- 
za, fu cagliata la testa al detto Doge a di 17 d'Aprile. 
E prima la berretta fu tolta di testa al detto Doge, 
avanti che venisse giu dalla scala. E compiuta la 
giustizia, pare che un Capo dc' Dieci andasse alle 
Colonne del Palazzo sopra la Piazza, e mostrasse la 
spada insanguinata a tutti, dicendo : E statu fatta la 
gran giustizia del Traditore. E apertalaporita, tutti 
cntrarono dentro con gran furia a vedere il Doge, 
ch' era stato giustiziato. E' da sapere, che a fare la 
detta giustizia non fu Ser Giovanni Sanudo il Consi- 
gliere, perche era andato a casa per difctto della 
persona, sicche furono quattordici soli, che ballol- 
tarono, cioe cinque Consiglieri, e nove del Consig- 
lio de' Dieci. E fu preso, che tutti i beni del 
Doge fossero confiscati nel Comunc, c cosi dcgli al- 
tri traditori. E fu conceduto al dctto Doge pel 
detto Consiglio de' Dieci, ch' egli potesse ordinare 
del suo per ducati due mila. Ancora fu preso, che 
tutti i Consiglieri, e Awogadori del Comune, que' 
del Consiglio de' Dieci, e della Giunta, ch' erano 
stati a fare la detta scntenza del Doge, e d'altri, 
avessero licenza di portar' arme di di c di notte in 
Venezia e da Grado fino a Gavarzere, ch' e sotto il 
Dogato, con due fantl in vita loro, stando i fanti 
con essi in casa al suo pane e al suo vino. E chi 
non avesse fanti,, potesse dar tal licenza a' suoi 
figliuoli ovvcro fratelli, due pcro e non piu. Ezian- 
dio fu data licenza dell' arme a quattro Notaj della 
Cancellcria, cioe della Corte Maggiore, che furono 
a prendere le deposizioni e inquisizioni, in pcrpetuo 
a loro soli, i quali furono Amadio, Nicoletto di Lo- 
reno, Steffancllo, e Pietro de' Compostclli, Scrivani 
de' Signori di notte. Ed essendo stati impiccati i 
traditori, e tagliata la testa al Doge, rimase la Terra 
in gran riposo e quiete. E come in una cronica ho 
trovato, fu portato il corpo del Doge in una barca 
con otto doppieri a seppelire nella sua area a San 
Giovanni e Paolo, la quale al presente e in quell' 
andito per mezzo la Chiesuola di Santa Maria della 
Pace, fatta fare pel Vcscovo Gabriello di Bergamo, 
e un cassone di pictra con queste lettere : Ileicja- 
cet Dominus Marinus Faletro Dux e nel gran Con- 
siglio non gli e stato fatto alcun brieve, ma il luogo 
vacuo con lettere, che dicono cosi : Ilic est locus 
Marini Faletro, decapitatijrro criminibus. E pare, 
che la sua casa fosse data alia Chiesadi Sant' Apbs- 
tolo, la qual era quclla grande sul ponte. Tamen 
vedo il contrario che e pure di Ca Faliero, o che i 
Falieri la ricu perassero con danari dalla Chiesa. 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



315 



Ne voglio restar d' scrivere alcuni, chc volevano, 
■he fosse messo nel suo breve, cioe: Marinus Fa- 
letro Dux, temeritas me cepit paettas hri, decapitatus 
pro criminibus. Altri vi fecero un distieo assai deg- 
no al suo merito, il quale e questo da cessere posto 
su la sua sepoltura : 

" Dux Venetian J«cet heie, pnlriam qui proilere teutons, 
Scpptra, decus, censum, perdidlt, atque caput." 

" Non voglio restar di scrivere quello che ho lotto 
in una cronica, cioe, che Marino Faliero trovandosi 
Podesta e Capitano a Treviso, e dovendosi fare una 
processione, il vescovo sette troppo a far venire il 
Corpo di Cristo. II detto Faliero era di tanta s/i- 
perbia e arroganza, che diede un buffctto al prefato 
Vescovo, per modo ch' egli quasi cadde in terra. 
Peri fu permesso, che il Faliero perdettc l'intelletto, 
eTece la mala inarte, come ho scritto di sopra." 
****** 

Cronica di Sanuto — Muratori S. S. Rerum«Itali- 
carum — vol. xxii. G28 — 639. 



II. 

MCCCLIV. 

MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 

On the eleventh day of September, in the year of 
mir Lord 1354, Marino Faliero was elected and 
chosen to be the Duke of the Commonwealth of 
Venice. He was Count of Valdcmarino, in the 
marches of Treviso, and a Knight and a wealthy 
man to boot. As soon as the election was complet- 
ed, it was resolved in the Great Council, that a dep- 
utation of twelve should be despatched to Marino 
Faliero, the Duke, who was then on his way from 
Rome; for, when he was chosen, he was ambassa- 
dor at the court of the Holy Father, at Rome, — 
the Holy Father himself held his court, at Avign- 
iion. When Mcsser Marino Faliero, the Duke, was 
about to land in this city, on the 5th day of Octo- 
ber, 1354, a thick haze came on, and darkened the 
air ; and we was enforced to land on the place of 
Saint Mark, between the two columns, on the spot 
where evil doers are put to death; and all thought 
1 his was the worst of tokens. — Nor must I forget to 
write that which I have read in a chronicle. — When 
Mcsser Marino Faliero was podesta and captain of 
Treviso, the bishop delayed coming in with the holy 
sacrament, on a day when a procession was to take 
place. Now the said Marino Faliero was so very 
proud and wrathful, that he buffeted the bishop, 
and almost struck him to the ground. And there- 
fore, Heaven allowed Marino Faliero to go out of 
his right senses, in order that he might bring him- 
self to an evil death. 

When this Duke had held the dukedom during 
nine months and six days, he being wicked and am- 
bitious, sought to make himself lord of Venice, in 
the manner which I have read in an ancient chron- 
icle. When the Thursday arrived upon which they 
were wont to hunt the bull, the bull-hunt took place 
as usual ; and, according to the usage of those 
times, afjex the bull-hunt had ended, they all pro- 
ceeded unto the palace of the Duke, and assembled 
together in one of his halls; and they disported 
themselves with the women. And until the first 
hell tolled they danced, and then a banquet was 
served up. My lord the Duke paid the expenses 
thereof, provided he had a Duchess, and after the 
banquet they all returned to their homes. 

Now to this feast there came a certain Ser Michele 
Steno, a gentleman of poor estate and very young, 
but crafty and daring, and who loved one of the 
damsels of the Duchess. Ser Michele stood among 
the women upon the solajo ; and he behaved indis- 



creetly, so that my Lord the Duke ordered that ho 
should lie kicked off the solajo ; and the esquires 
of the Duke flung him down from the solajo accord- 
ingly. Ser Michele thought that such an affront 
was beyond all bearing ; and when the feast was 
over and all other persons had left the palace, he, 
continuing heated with anger, went to the hall oi 
of audience, and wrote certain unseemly words re 
lating to the Duke and the Duchess, upon the 
chair in which the Duke was used to sit; for in 
those days the Duke did not cover his chair with 
cloth of sendal, but he sat in a chair of wood. Ser 
Michele wrote thereon : — " Marin Falier, the hus 
band of the fair wife ; others kiss her, Imi he keeps 
her." In the morning the words were seen, and 
the matter was considered to be very scandalous ; 
and the Senate commanded the Avvogadori of the 
Commonwealth to proceed therein with the greatest 
diligence. A largess of great amount was imme- 
diately proffered by the Avvogadori, in order to dis- 
cover who had written these words. And al Length 
it was known that Michele Steno had written them. 
It was resolved in the Council of Forty that he 
should be arrested; and he then confessed, that in 
a fit of vexation and spite, occasioned by his being 
thrust off the solajo in the presence of Ids mistress, 
he had written the words. Therefore the Council 
debated thereon. And the Council took his youth 
into consideration, and that he was a lover, and 
therefore they adjudged that he sho.uld be kept in 
close confinement during two months, and that 
afterwards he should be banished from Venice 
and the state during one year. In consequence of 
this merciful sentence the Duke became exceedingly 
wroth, it appearing to him that the Council had not 
acted in such a manner as was required by the re- 
spect due to his ducal dignity ; and he said that 
they ought to have condemned Ser Michele to be 
hanged by the neck, or at least to be banished for 
life. 

Now it was fated that my Lord Duke Marino was 
to have his head cut off. And as it is necessary, 
when any effect is to be brought about, that the 
cause of such effect must happen, it therefore came 
to pass, that on the very day after sentence had 
been pronounced on Ser Michele Steno, being the 
first day of Lent, a gentleman of the house of Bar- 
baro, a choleric gentleman, went to the arsenal and 
required certain things of the masters of the gal- 
leys. This he did in the presence of the admiral of 
the arsenal, and he, hearing the request, answered, 
— No, it cannot be done. — High words arose between 
the gentleman and the admiral, and the gentleman 
struck him with his fist just above the eye, and as 
he happened to have a ring on his finger, the ring 
cut the admiral and drew blood. The admiral, all 
bruised and bloody, ran straight to the Duke to 
complain, and with the intent of praying him to 
inflict some heavy punishment upon the gentleman 
of Ca Barbaro. — " What wouldst thou have me do 
for thee ? " answered the Duke ; — " think upon the 
shameful gibe which hath been written concerning 
me ; and think on the manner in which they have 
punished that ribald Michele Steno, who wrote it; 
and see how the Council of Forty respect our per- 
son." — Upon this the admiral answered; — "My 
Lord Duke, if you would wish to make yourself a 
prince, and cut all those cuckoldy gentlemen to 
pieces, I have the heart, if you do but help me, to 
make you prince of all this state; and then you 
may punish them all. — Hearing this, the Duke said ; 
— " How can such a matter be brought about ? " — 
and so they discoursed thereon. 

The Duke called for his nephew, Ser Bertuccio 
Faliero, who lived with him in the palace, and they 
communed about this plot. And, without leaving 
the place, they sent for Philip Calendaro, a seaman 
of great repute, and for Bertuccio Israello, who was 
exceedingly wily and cunning. Then taking coun- 
sel among themselves, they agreed to call in soma 
others ; and so for several nights successively, they 



316 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



met with the Duke at home in his palace. And the 
following men were called in singly ; to wit : — Nic- 
colo Fagiuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano Fagiano, 
Niccolo dalle Bende, Niccolo Biondo and Stefano 
Trivisano. It was concerted that sixteen or seven- 
teen leaders should be stationed in various parts of 
the city, each being at the head of forty men, armed 
and prepared ; but the followers were not to know 
their destination. On the appointed day they were 
to make affrays among themselves here and there, 
in order that the Duke might have a pretence for 
tolling the bells of San Marco : these bells are 
never rung but by the order of the Duke. And at 
the sound of the bells, these sixteen or seventeen, 
with their followers, were to come to San Marco, 
through the streets which open upon the Piazza. 
And when the noble and leading citizens should 
come into the Piazza, to know the cause of the riot, 
then the conspirators were to cut them in pieces ; 
and this work being finished, my Lord Marino Fali- 
ero the Duke was to be proclaimed the Lord of 
Venice. Things having been thus settled, they 
agreed to fulfil their intent on Wednesday, the 
fifteenth day of April, in the year 1355. So covertly 
did they plot, that no one ever dreamt of their 
machinations. 

But the Lord, who hath always helped this most 
glorious city, and who, loving its righteousness and 
holiness, hath never forsaken it, inspired one Bel- 
tramo Bergamasco to be the cause of bringing the 
plot to light in the following manner. This Beltra- 
mo, who belonged to Ser Niccolo Lioni of Santo 
Stefano, had heard a word or two of what was to 
take place; and so, in the before-mentioned month 
of April, he went to the house of the aforesaid Ser 
Niccolo Lioni, and told him all the particulars of 
the plot. Ser Niccolo, when he heard all these 
things, was struck dead, as it were, with affright. 
He heard all the particulars, and Beltramo prayed 
him to keep it all secret ; and if he told Ser Nicco- 
lo, it was in order that Ser Niccolo might stop at 
home on the fifteenth of April, and thus save his 
life. Beltramo was going, but Ser Niccolo ordered 
his servants to lay hands upon him and lock him 
up. Ser Niccolo then went to the house of Messer 
Giovanni Gradenigo Nasoni, who afterwards became 
Duke, and who also lived at Santo Stefano, and told 
him all. The matter seemed to him to be of the 
very greatest importance, as indeed it was ; and 
they two went to the house of Ser Marco Cornaro, 
who lived at San Felice ; and, having spoken with 
him, they all three then determined to go back to 
the house of Ser Niccolo Lioni, to examine the said 
Beltramo ; and having questioned him, and heard 
all that he had to say, they left him in confinement. 
And then they all three went into the sacristy of 
San Salvatore, and sent their men to summon the 
Councillors, the Avvogadori, the Capi de' Dieci, and 
those of the Great Council. 

When all were assembled, the whole story was 
told to them. They were stAick dead, as it were, 
with affright. They determined to send for Beltra- 
mo. He was brought in before them. They ex- 
amined him, and ascertained that the matter was 
true ; and, although they were exceedingly troubled, 
yet they determined upon their measures. And 
they sent for the Capi de' Qnaranta, the Signori 
di Notte, the Capi de' Sestieri, and the Cinque 
della Pace ; and they were ordered to associate to 
their men other good men and true, who were to 
proceed to the houses of the ringleaders of the con- 
spiracy and secure them. And they secured the 
foreman of the arsenal, in order that the conspira- 
tors might not do mischief. Towards nightfall they 
assembled in the palace. When they were assem- 
bled in the palace, they caused the gates of the 
quadrangle of the palace to be shut. And they 
sent to the keeper of the bell tower, and forbade the 
tolling of the bells. All this was carried into effect. 
The before-mentioned conspirators were secured, 
and they were brought to the palace ; and as the 



Council of Ten saw that the Duke was in the plot, 
they resolved that twenty of the leading men of" the 
state should be associated to them, for the purpose 
of consultation and deliberation, but that they 
should not be allowed to ballot. 

The counsellors were the following: Ser Giovanni 
Mocenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco ; Ser Al- 
moro Veniero da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of 
Castello; Ser Tommaso Viadro, of the Sestiero of 
Caneregio ; Ser Giovanni Sanudo, of the Sestiero of 
Santa Croce ; Ser Pietro Trivisano, of the Sestiero 
of San Paolo ; Ser Pantalione Barbo il Grande, of 
the Sestiero of Ossoduro. The Avvogadori of the 
Commonwealth were Zufredo Morosini, and Ser 
Orio Pasqualigo ; and these did not ballot. Those 
of the Council of Ten were Ser Giovanni Marcello, 
Ser Tommaso Sanudo, and Ser Micheletto Dolfino, 
the heads of the aforesaid Council of Ten. Ser 
Lucca da Legge, and Ser Pietro da Mosto, inquisi- 
tors of the aforesaid Council. And Ser Marco Po- 
lani, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, and 
Ser Nicoletto Trivisano, of Sant'Angelo. 

Late in the night, just before the dawning, they 
chose a junta of twenty noblemen of Venice from 
among the wisest and the worthiest and the oldest. 
They were to give counsel, but not to ballot. And 
they would not admit any one of Ca Faliero. And 
Niccolo Faliero, and another Niccolo Faliero, of San 
Tommaso, were expelled from the Council, because 
they belonged to the family of the Doge. And this 
resolution of creating tli6 junta of twenty was much 
praised throughout the state. The following were 
the members of the junta of twenty : — Ser Marco 
Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Pro- 
curatore, Ser Lionardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, 
Ser' Andrea Contarini, Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser 
Niccolo Volpe, Ser Giovanni Loredano, Ser Marco 
Diedo, Ser Giovanni Gradenigo, Ser Andrea Corna- 
ro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco Soranzo, Ser Rinieri da 
Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, Ser Marino Morosini, 
Ser Stefano Belegno, Ser Niccolo Lioni, Ser Filippo 
Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, Ser Jacopo Bragadino, 
Ser Giovanni Foscarina. 

These twenty were accordingly called into the 
Council of Ten ; and they sent for my Lord Marino 
Faliero the Duke : and my Lord Marino was then 
consorting in the palace with people of great estate, 
gentlemen, and other good men, none of whom 
knew yet how the fact stood. 

At the same time Bertuccio Israello, who, as one 
of the ringleaders, was to head the conspirators in 
Santa Croce, was arrested and bound, and brought 
before the Council. Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di 
Rosa, Nicoletto Alberto, and the Guardiaga, were 
also taken together, with several seamen, and people 
of various ranks. These were examined, and the 
truth of the plot was ascertained. 

On the sixteenth of April, judgment was given in 
the Council of Ten, that Filippo Calendaro and 
Bertuccio Israello should be hanged upon the red 
pillars of the balcony of the palace, from which the 
Duke is wont to look at the bull-hunt: and they 
were hanged with gags in their mouths. 

The next day the following were condemned : — 
Niccolo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Biondo, Nicoletto Doro 
Marco Giuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fi- 
dele, the son of Philip Calendaro, Marco Torello, 
called Israello, Stefano Trivisano, the money- 
changer of Santa Margherita, and Antonio dalle 
Bende. These were all taken at Chiozza, for they 
were endeavoring to escape. Afterwards, by virtue 
of the sentence which was passed upon them in the 
Council of Ten, they were hanged on successive 
days, some singly and some in couples, upon the 
columns of the palace, beginning from the red col- 
umns, and so going onwards towards the canal. 
And other prisoners were discharged, because, al- 
though they had been involved in the conspiracy, 
yet they had not assisted in it : for they were given 
to understand by some of the heads of the plot, that 
they were to come armed and prepared for the ser- 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



317 



vice of the state, and in order to secure certain 
criminals, and they knew nothing else. Nicoletto 
Alberto, the Guardiaga, and Bartolommeo Ciriuola 
and his son, and several others, who were not guilty, 
were discharged. 

On Friday, the sixteenth day of April, judgment 
was also, given, in the aforesaid Council of Ten, that 
my Lord Marino Faliero, the Duke, should have his 
head cut off, and that the execution should be done 
on the landing-place of the stone staircase, where 
the Dukes take their oath when they first enter the 
palace. On the following day, the ^venteenth of 
April, the doors of the palace being shut, the Duke 
had his head cut off, about the hour of noon. And 
the cap of estate was taken from the Duke's head 
before he came down stairs. When the execution 
was over, it is said that one of the Council of Ten 
went to the columns of the palace over against the 
place of St. Mark, and that he showed the bloody 
sword unto the people, crying out with a loud voice 
— " The terrible doom hath fallen upon the traitor !" 
— and the doors were opened, and the people all 
rushed in, to see the corpse of the Duke who had 
been beheaded. 

It must be known, that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the 
councillor, was not present when the aforesaid sen- 
tence was pronounced ; because he was unwell and 
remained at home. So that only fourteen balloted ; 
that is to say, five councillors, and nine of the 
Council of Ten. And it was adjudged, that all the 
lands and chattels of the Duke, as well as of the 
other traitors, should be forfeited to the state. And, 
as a grace to the Duke, it was resolved in the Coun- 
cil of Ten, that he should be allowed to dispose of 
two thousand ducats out of his own property. And 
it was resolved, that all the councillors and all the 
Avvogadori of the commonwealth, those of the 
Council of Ten, and the members of the junta who 
had assisted in passing sentence on the Duke and 
the other traitors, should have the privilege of car- 
rying arms both by day and by night in Venice, and 
from Grado to Cavazere. And they were also to be 
allowed two footmen carrying arms, the aforesaid 
footmen living and boarding with them in their own 
houses. And he who did not keep two footmen 
might transfer the privilege to his sons or his 
brothers ; but only to two. Permission of carrying 
arms was also granted to the four Notaries of the 
Chancery, that is to say, of the Supreme Court, who 
took the depositions ; and they were Amedio, Nico- 
letto di Lorino, Steffanello, and Pietro de Compos- 
telli, the secretaries of the Signori di Notte. 

After the traitors had been hanged, and the Duke 
had his head cut off, the state remained in great 
tranquillity and peace. And, as I have read in a 
chronicle, the corpse of the Duke was removed in a 
barge, with eight torches, to his tomb in the church 
San Giovanni e Paolo, where it was buried. The 
tomb is now in that aisle in the middle of the little 
church of Santa Maria della Pace, which was built 
by Bishop Gabriel of Bergamo. It is a coffin of 
stone, with these words engraved thereon : Heic 
jacet Dominus Marinus Faletro Dux." — And they 
did not paint his portrait in the hall of the Great 
Council : — But in the place where it ought to have 
been, you see these words : — " Hie est locus Marini 
Faletro, decapitati pro criminibus" — and it is thought 
that his house was granted to the church of Sant'' 
Apostolo ; it was that great one near the bridge. 
Yet this could not be the case, or else the family 
bought it back from the church ; for it still belongs 
to Ca Faliero. I must not refrain from noting, that 
some wished to write the following words in the 
place where his portrait ought to have been, as 
aforesaid : — " Marinus Faletro Dux, temeritas me 
cepit, pcenas lui, decapitatus pro criminibus." Others, 
also, indited a couplet, worthy of being inscribed 
upon his tomb. 

u Dux Venetum jaeet heic, patrlam qui prodere teutons, 
Sceptra, decus, censum, perdidit, atque caput." 



[I am obliged for this excellent translation of the old chronicle to Mr. F 
Cohen, to whom the reader will find hims"lf indebted for a version that 
could not myself (though after many years' intercourse with Italian,) havl 
:n by any means so purely and so f-uthfully.] 



III. 



'Al giovane Doge Andrea Dandolo succede+to 
un vecchio, ikouale tardi si pose al timone della re- 
pubblica, ma sempre prima di quel, che facea d'uopo 
a lui, ed alia patria : egli e Marino Faliero person- 
naggio a me noto per antica dimestichezza. Falsa 
era l'opinione intorno a lui, giacche egli si mostro 
fornito piu di coraggio che di senno. Non pago 
della prima dignita, entro con sinistra piede nel 
pubblico Palazzo : imperciocche questo Doge dei 
Veneti, magistrato sacro in tutti i secoli, che dagli 
antichi fu sempre venerato qual mime in quella citta 
1' altr' jeri fu decollato nel vestibolo dell' istesso 
Palazzo. Discorrerei fin dal principio le cause di 
un tale evento, se cosl vario, ed ambiguo non ne 
fosse il grido. Nessuno pero lo scusa, tutti affer- 
mano, che egli abbia voluto cangiar qualche cosa 
nell' ordine della repubblica a lui tramandato dai 
maggiori. Che desiderava egli di piu ? Io son 
d'avviso, che egli abbia ottenuto cio, che non si con- 
cedette a nessun altro : mentre adempiva gli ufficj 
di legato presso il pontefiee, e sulle rive del Rodano 
travata la pace, che io prima di lui avevo indarno 
tentato di conchiudere, gli fu conferito 1' onore del 
Ducato, che ne chideva, ne s' aspettava. Tomato 
in patria, penso a quello, cui nessuno non pose 
mente giammai, e soffri quello che a niuno accade 
mai de soffrire : giacche in quel luogo celeberrimo, 
e chiarissimo, e bellissimo infra tutti quelli, che io 
vidi, ove i suoi antenati avevano ricevuti grandis- 
simi onori in mezzo alle pompe trionfali, ivi egli fu 
trascinato in modo servile, e spogliato delle inscgne 
ducali, perdette la testa, e macchio col proprio san- 
gue le soglie djh tempio, 1' atrio del Palazzo, e le 
scale marmoree^ndute spesse volte illustri o dalle 
solenni festivita o dalle ostili spoglie. Ho notato il 
luogo, ora noto il tempo : e 1' anno del Natale di 
Cristo 13-55, fii il giorno 18 d'Aprile. Si alto e il 
grido sparso, che se alcuno esaminera la disciplina, 
e le costumanze di quella citta, e quanto mutamento 
di cose venga minacciato dalla morte di un sol uomo 
(quantunque molti altri, come narrano, essendo 
complici, o subirono 1' istesso supplicio, o lo aspet- 
tano) si accorgera, che nulla di piu grande avvenne 
ai nostri tempi nell Italia. Tu forse qui attendi il 
mio giudizio ; assolvo il popolo, se credere alia fama, 
benche abbia potuto e castigare piu mitamente, e 
con maggior dolcezza vendicare if Suo dolore : ma 
non cosi facilmente, si modera un' ira giusta in- 
sieme, e grande in un numeroso popolo principal- 
mente, nel quale il precipitoso, ed instabile volgo 
aguzza gli stimoli dell' iracondia con rapidi, e scon- 
sigliati clamori. Compatisco, e nell' istesso tempo 
mi adiro con quell' infelice uomo, il quale adorno di 
un' insolito onore, non so che cosa si volesse negli 
estremi anni della sua vita : la calamita di lui divi- 
ene sempre piu grave, perche dalla sentenza contra 
di esso promulgata aperira, che egli fu non solo 
misero, ma insano, e demente, e che con vane arti 
si usurpo per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza. 
Ammonisco i Dogi, i quali gli succederanno, che 
questo e un esempio posto innanzi ai loro occhi, 
quale specchio nel quale veggano di essere non Sig- 
nori, ma Duci, anzi nemmeno Duci ma onorati servi 
della Repubblica. Tu sta sano : e giacche fluttuano 
le publicche cose, sforziamoci di governar modestis- 
simamente i privati nostri affari." — Levati Viaygi 
di Petrarca, vol. iv. p. 323. 

The above Italian translation from the Latin epis- 
tles of Petrarch, proves — 
lstly, That Marino Faliero was a personal friend 



318 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



of Petrarch's : " antica dimestichezza," old inti- 
macy, is the phrase of the poet. 

2dly, That Petrarch thought that he had more 
courage than conduct, " piu di coraggio che di 
senno." 

3rdly, That there was some jealousy on the part 
of Petrarch ; for he says that Marino Faliero was 
treating of the peace which he himself had " vainly 
attempted to conclude." 

4thly, That the honor of the dukedom was con- 
ferred upon him, which he neither sought nor 
expected, " che ne chiedeva nes' aspettava," and 
which had never been granted to any other in like 
circumstances, " cii> che non si concedette a nessun 
altro ; " " proof of the high esteem in which he 
must have been held." 

othly, That he had a reputation for wisdom, only 
forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, " si surpo 
^>er tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza." — "He 
hau _r v rped for so many years a false fame of wis- 
dom ; " rather a difficult task, I should think. 
People are generally found out before eighty years 
of age, at least in a republic. 

Prum these, and the other historical notes which 
I have collected, it may be inferred that Marino Fa- 
liero possessed many of the qualities, but not the 
success of a hero ; and (hat his passions were too 
violent. The paltry and ignorant account of Dr. 
Moore falls to the ground. Petrarch says, "that there 
had been no greater event in his times," {our times 
literally,) " nostri tempi," in Italy. He also differs 
from the historian in saying that Faliero was "on 
the banks of the Rhone," instead of at Rome, when 
elected ; the other accounts say, that the deputation 
of the Venetian senate met him at Ravenna. How 
this may have been, it is not for me to decide, and 
is of no great importance. Had the man succeeded, 
he would have changed the face of Venice, and 
perhaps of Italy. As it is, what are they both ? 



IV. 



Extrait de Voumrage. — Histoire de la Republique de. 
Vetiise, par P. Daru, de PAcademie Francaise, 
torn. v. liv. xxxv. p. 9-5, &c. Edition de Paris, 
MDCCC'XIX. 

" A ces attaques si frequentes que le gouverne- 
ment dirigeait contre le clerge a ces luttes etablies 
entre les differens corps constitutes, a ces entre- 
prises de la masse de la noblesse contre les drposi- 
taries du pouvoir, a toutes ces propositions d'inno- 
vation qui se terminaient toujours par des coups 
d'etat ; il faut ajouter une autre cause, non moins 
propre a propager le mi-pris des anciennes doctrines, 
c'etait I'exci's de la corruption. 

" Cette liberte de mceurs, qu'on avait long-temps 
vantee comme le charme principal de la societe de 
Venise, etait devenue un desordre scandaleux ; le 
lien du mariage etait moins sacre dans ce pays ca- 
tholique que dans ceux ou les lois chiles et religi- 



devant lui toutes les causes de cette nature.* Cer 
Bet eimpietement sur la jurisdiction ecclesiastique 
ayant occasione des reclamations de la part de la 
cour de Rome le conseil se reserva le droit de debou- 
ter les epoux de leur demande ; et consentit a la 
renvoyer devant l'officialite, toutes les foies qu'il ne 
l'aurait pas rejetee.f 

" II y eut un moment ou sans doute le renverse- 
ment des fortunes, la perte des jeunes gens, les dis- 
cordes domestiques, dKerminerent le gouvernement 
a s'ecarter des maximes qu'il s'etait faites sur la 
liberte de m^urs qu'il permettrit a ses sujets : on 
chassa de Venise toutes les courtisanes. Mais leur 
absence ne suffisait pas pour ramener aux bonnes 
mceurs toute une population elevee dans la plus 
honteuse licence. Le desordre prnetra dans l'inte- 
rieus deG families, dans les cloitres ; et Ton se crut 
oblige de rappeler, d'indemniser meme \ des femmes 
qui surprenaient quelquefois d'importants secrets, 
et qu'on pouvait employer utilement a ruiner des 
hommes que leur fortune aurait pu rendre dangereux. 
Depuis, la licence est toujours allee croissant, et 
Ton a vu non seulement des nacres trafiquer de la 
virginitc de leurs filles, mais la vendre par un con- 
trat, dont l'authenticite etait garantie par la signa- 
ture d'un officier public, et l'execution mise sous la 
protection des lois. § 

► " Les parloirs des couvents ou ctaint renfermees 
les filles nobles, les maisons des courtisanes, quoi- 
que la police y entretint soigneusement un grand 
nombre de surveillans, etaint les seuls points de re- 
union de la societe de Venise, et dans ces deux 
endroits si divers on etait egalement fibre. La mu- 
sique, les collations, la galanterie, n'etaient pas 
plus interdites dans les parloirs que dans les casins. 
II y avait un grand nombre de casins destines aux 
reunions publiques, ou le jeu etait la principale oc- 
cupation de la societe. C'etait un singulier specta- 
cle de voir autoir d'une table des personnes des 
deux sexes en masque, et de graves personnages en 
robe de magistrature, implorant le hasard, passant 
des angoisses du desespoir aux illusions de 1'espe- 
rance, et cela sans proff rer une parole. 

" Les riches avaient des casins particuliers ; mais 
ils y vivaient avec mystere ; leurs femmes d< lai>s^ s 
trouvaient un dedommagement dans laliberte dont 
elles jouissaient ; la corruption des mceurs les avait 
privees de tout leur empire : on vient de parcourir 
toute l'histoire de Venise, et on ne les a pas vues 
une seule fois exercer la moindre influence." 



V. 

Extract from the Histo7-y of the Rejniblic of Venice, 
by P. Daru, Member of the French Academy, vol. 
v. b. xxxv. p. 95, &c. 'Paris Edit. 1819. 



" To these attacks, so frequently pointed by the 
government against the clergy, — to the continual 
struggles between the different constituted bodies, 
— to these enterprises carried on by the mass of the 
euses permettent de le dissoudre. Faute de pouvoir nobles against the depositaries of power, — to all 
rompre le contrat, on supposait qu'il n'avait jamais those projects of innovation, which always ended 
existe, et les moyens de nullite, allegues avec impu- by a stroke of state policy; we must add a cause 
deur par les epoux, ctaient admis avec la mene fa- not less fitted to spread contempt for ancient doe- 
cilite par des magistrats et par des pretres egale- trines ; this was the excess of corruption . 
ment corrompus. Ces divorces colores d'un autre "That freedom of manners which had been long 
nom devinrent si frequents, que l'acte le plus im- boasted of as the principal charm of Venetian soci- 
portant de la societe civile se trouva de la compe- |ety, had degenerated into scandalous licentiousness: 
tence d'un tribunal d'exception, et que ce fut a la 
police de reprimcr le scandale. Le conseil des dix 
ordonna, en 1782, que toute femme qui intenterait 
une demande en disssolution de mariage serait obli- 
gee d'en attendre le jugement dans un couvent que 
le tribunal designerait.* Bientot apres il evoqua 



* Correspondence de M. Schlick, charge d'affaires de France, depecho du I 
S4 Aout, \lt%. 



' Ibid. Depeche du 31 Aout. 

t Ibid. Depeche du 3 Septembr?, 1785. 

X Le decret de rappel les designait sous le nom de nostre benemerUt 
merelrici. On leur assigna un fonds et des maisons appelees Case rampant 
d'oii vieut la denomination injurieuse de Carampane. 

§ Mayer, Description de Venise, torn. ii. et M. Archenholtz, Tableau d$ 
Vllalie, torn. i. chap. 2. 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



319 



Jhe tie of marriage was less sacred in that Catholic 
country, than among those nations where the laws 
and religion admit of its being dissolved. Because 
they could not break the contract, they feigned that 
it had not existed ; and the ground of nullity, im- 
modestly alleged by the married pair, was admitted 
with equal facility by priests and magistrates, alike 
corrupt. These divorces, veiled - under another 
name, became so frequent, that the most important 
act of civil society was discovered to be amenable 
to a tribunal of exceptions ; and to restrain the 
open scandal of such proceedings became the office 
of the police. In 1782 the Council of Ten decreed, 
that every woman who should sue for a dissolution 
of her marriage should be compelled to await the 
decision of the judges in some convent, to be 
named by the court.* Soon afterwards the same 
council summoned all causes of that nature before 
itself, f This infringement on ecclesiastical jurisdic- 
tion paving occasioned 1 some remonstrance from 
Ilorn^r the council retained only the right of reject- 
ing the petitfbn of the married persons, and con- 
sented to refer such causes to the holy office as it 
should not previously have rejected. % 

" There was a moment in which, doubtless, the 
destruction of private fortunes, the ruin of youth, 
the domestic discord occasioned by these abuses, 
determined the government to depart from its 
established maxims concerning the freedom of man- 
ners allowed the subject. All the courtesans were 
banished from Venice ; but their absence was not 
enough to reclaim and bring back good morals to a 
whole people brought up in the most scandalous 
licentiousness. Depravity reached the very bosoms 
of private families, and even into the cloister ; and 
they found themselves obliged to recall, and even 
to indemnify § women who sometimes gained pos- 
session of important secrets, and who might be 
usefully employed in the ruin of men whose fortunes 
might have rendered them dangerous. Since that 
time licentiousness has gone on increasing, and we 
have seen mothers, not only selling the innocence 
of their daughters, but selling it by a contract, 
authenticated by the signature of a public officer, 
and the performance of which was secured by the 
protection of the laws.|| 

" The parlors of the convents of noble ladies, and 
the houses of the courtesans, though the police 
carefully kept up a number of spies about them, 
were the only assemblies for society in Venice ; and 
in these two places, so different from each other, 
there was equal freedom. Music, collations, gal- 
lantry, were not more forbidden in the parlors than 
at the casinos. There were a number of casinos for 
the purpose of public assemblies, where gaming 
was the principal pursuit of the company. It was 
a strange sight to see persons of either sex raasked, 
or grave personages in their magisterial robes, 
round a table, invoking chance, and giving way at 
one instant to the agonies of despair, at the next 
to the illusions of hope, and that without uttering 
a single word. 

"The rich had private casinos, but they*lived 
incognito in them ; and the wives whom they 
abandoned found compensation in the liberty they 
enjoyed. The corruption of morals had deprived 
them of their empire. We have just reviewed the 
whole history of Venice, and we have not once 
seen them exercise the slightest inflnence." 

From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice 
under the barbarians, there are some honorable 
individual exceptions. There is Pasqualigo, the 



last, and alas ! posthumous son of the marriage of 
the Doges with the Adriatic, who fought his frigate 
with far greater gallantry than any of his French 
coadjutors in the memorable action off Lissa. I 
came home in the squadron with the prizes in 1811, 
and recollect to have heard Sir William Hoste, and 
the other officers engaged in that glorious conflict, 
speak'in the highest terms of Pasqualigo's behavior. 
There is the Abbate Morelli. There is Alvise 
Querini, who, after a long and honorable diplomatic 
career, finds some consolation for the wrongs of his 
country, in the pursuits of literature, with his 
nephew, Vittar Benzon, the son of the celebrated 
beauty, the heroine of " La Biandina in Gondolet- 
ta." There are the patrician poet Morosini, and 
the poet Lambcrti, the author of the " Biondina," 
&c, and many other estimable productions ; and, 
not least in an Englishman's estimation, Madame 
Michelli, the translator of Shakspeare. There are 
the young Dandolo, and the improvisatore Carrer, 
and Giuseppe Albrizzi, the accomplished son of 
an accomplished mother. There is Aglietti, and, 
were there nothing else, there is the "immortality 
of Canova. Cicognara, Mustoxithi, Bueati, &c, 
&c, I do not reckon, because the one is a Greek, 
and the others were born at least a hundred miles 
off, which, throughout Italy, constitutes, if not 
a foreigner at least a stranger, (forestiere.) 



VI. 



* Correspondence of Mr. Schlick, French chargj d'affaires. Despatch of 
24th August, 1782. 

f Ibid. Despatch, 31st August. 

X Ibid. Despatch, 3d September, 1785. 

§ The decree for their recall designates them as nostre benemcrite mere- 
trici. A fund and some houses called case ramparts were assigned to them; 
hence the opprobrious appellation of Carampane. 

1 Mayer, Description of Venice, vol. ii. and M. Archenholu, Pieturt of 
Italy, vul i. chap. ?. 



Extrait de Vouvrage — Histoire litteraire d'ltalie, 
par P. L. Ginquene, torn. ix. chap, xxxvi. p. 144, 
Edition de Paris, MDCCCXIX. 

" II y une prediction fort singuliere sur Venise : 
' Si tu ne changes pas,' dit elle a cette republique 
altiere, ' ta liberte, qui deja s'enfuit, ne comptera 
pas un sitcle apres la millieme annee.' 

" En faisant remonter l'epoque de la liberte 
Venitienne jusq'u'a lVtablissemcnt du gouverne- 
ment sous le'quel la republique a fleuri, on trouvera 
que l'election du premier Doge date de 697, et si 
Ton y ajoute un siecle apres mille, e'est-a-dire onze 
cents ans, on trouvera encore que le sens de la 
prediction est litteralement celui-ci: 'Ta liberte ne 
comptera pas jusqu'a l'an 1797. Rappclez-vous 
maintenant que Venise a cesse d'etre libre en l'an 
cinq de la Republique francaise, ou en 1799 ; vous 
verrez qu'il n'y eut jamais de prediction plus precise 
et plus ponctuellement suivie de l'effet. Vous note- 
rez done eomme tres remarquables ces trois vers de 
1'Alamani, adresses a Venise, que personne pourtant 
n'a remarques : 

*Se non cangi pensier, I'un secol solo 
Non contera snpra '1 millesimo anno 
Tua libert.i, che va fuggendo a volo.' 

Bie»» des prophi'ties ont passe pour telles, et bien 
des gens ont ete appeles prophetes a meilleur 
marche." 



VII. 



Extract from the Literary History of Italy, by P. 
L. Gihgucne, vol. ix. p. 144. Paris Edit. 1819. 

"There is one very singular prophecy concern- 
ing Venice : ' If thou dost not change,' it says to 
that proud republic, ' thy liberty, which is already 
on the wing, will not reckon a century more than 
the thousandth year.' 

"If we carry back the epocha of Venetian free- 
dom to the establishment of the government under 
which the republic flourishes, we shall find that the 
date of the election of the first Doge is 697 ; and if 
we add one century to a thousand, that is, eleven 
hundred years, we shall find the sense of the pre- 



320 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



diction to be literally this : ' Thy liberty will not 
last till 1797.' Recollect that Venice ceased to be 
free in the year 1796, the fifth year of the French 
republic ; and you will peceive that there never was 
prediction more pointed, or more exactly followed 
by the event. You will, therefore, note as very 
remarkable the three lines of Alamanni, addressed 
to Venice, which, however, no one has pointed out : 

1 Se non cangi pensier, I'un secol solo 
Noil contera sopra, '1 millesimo anno 
Tua liberti, che va fuggendo a volo.' 

Many prophecies have passed for such, and many 
men have been called prophets for much less." 

If the Doge's prophecy seem remarkable, look to the above, made by 
Alamanni two hundred and seventy years ago. 



The author of " Sketches Descriptive of Italy," 
&c, one of the hundred tours lately published, is 
extremely anxious to disclaim a possible charge of 
plagiarism from " Childe Harold" and " Beppo." 
He adds, that still less could this presumed coinci- 
dence arise from "my conversation," as he had 
repeatedly declined an introduction to me while in 
Italy. 

Who this person may be, I know not ; but he 
must have been deceived by all or any of those who 
"repeatedly offered to introduce" him, as I have 
invariably refused to receive any English with whom 
I was not previously acquainted, even when they 
had letters from England. If the whole assertion 
is not an invention, I request this person not to sit 
down with the notion that he could have been 
introduced, since there has been nothing I have so 



carefully avoided as any kind of intercourse with 
his countrymen, — excepting the very few who were 
a considerable time resident in Venice, or had been 
of my previous acquaintance. Whoever made him 
any such offer was possessed of impudence equal to 
that of making such an assertion without having 
had it. The fact is, that I hold in utter abhorrence 
any contact with the travelling English, as my 
friend the Consul-General Hoppner, and the Coun- 
tess Benzoni, (in whose house the Conversazione 
mostly frequented by them is held,) could amply 
testify, were it worth while. I was persecuted by 
these tourists even to my riding-ground at Lido, 
and reduced to the most disagreeable circuits to 
avoid them. At Madame Benzoni's I repeatedly 
refused to be introduced to them ; — of a thousand 
such presentations pressed upon me, I accepted 
two, and both were to Irish women. 

I should hardly have descended to speak of such 
trifles publicly, if the impudence of this " ske^ier" 
had not forced me to a refutation of a dising^uous 
and gratuitously impertinent assertion ; — so meant 
to be, for what could it import to the reader to be 
told that the author "had repeatedly declined an 
introduction," even had it been true, which, for the 
reasons I have above given, is scarcely possible. 
Except Lords Lansdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale ; 
Messrs Scott, Hammond, Sir Humphrey Davy, the 
late M. Lewis, W. Bankes, Mr. Hoppner, Thomas 
Moore, Lord Kinnaird, his brother, Mr. Joy, and 
Mr. Hobhouse, I do not recollect to have exchanged 
a word with another Englishman since I left their 
country ; and almost all these I had known before. 
The others — and God knows there were some hun- 
dreds — who bored me with letters or visits, I refused 
to have any communication with, and shall be proud 
and happy when that wish becomes mutual. 



THE TWO FOSCARI; 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



The father softens, but the governor's resolved. 

CRITIC. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Men. — Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
James Loredano, a Patrician. 
Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
Barbarigo, a Senator. 
Other Senators, the Council of Ten, Guards, At- 
tendants, &;c., §c. 

Woman. — Marini, Wife of young Foscari. 

Scene — the Ducal Palace, Venice. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo, meeting. 

Lor. Where is the prisoner ? 

Bar. Reposing from 

The Question. 

Lor. The hour's past — fix'd yesterday 

For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



321 



Urge his recall. 

Bar. Nay, let him profit by 

A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs ; 
He was o'erwrought by the Question yesterday, 
And may die under it if now repeated. 
Lor. Well! 

Bar. I yield not to you in love of justice, 

Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
But the poor wretch has suffer'd beyond nature's 
Most stocial endurance. 

Lor. Without owning 

His crime ? 

Bar. Perhaps without committing any. 

But he avow'd the letter to the Duke 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
Such weakness. 
Lor. We shall see. 

Bar. You, Loredano, 

Pursue hereditary hate too far. 
Lor. How far ? 

Bar. To extirmination. 

Lor. When they are 

Extinct, you may say this. — Let's in to council. 
Bar. Yet pause — the number of our colleagues is 
not 
Complete yet ; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 
Lor. And the chief judge, the Doge ? 
Bar. No — he 

With more than Roman fortitude, is ever ' 
First at the board in this unhappy process 
Against his last and only son. s 

Lor. True — true — 

His last. 
Bar. Will nothing move you ? 
Lor. Feels he, think you ? 
Bar. He shows it not. 

Lor. I have mark'd that — the wretch ! 
Bar. But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold, 
The old man fainted. 
Lor. It begins to work, then. 

Bar. The work is half your own. 
Lor. And should be all mine — 

My father and my uncle are no more. 

Bar. I have read their epitaph, which says they 
died 
By poison. 

Lor. When the Doge declared that he 
Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers sicken'd shortly ; — he is sovereign. 
Bar. A wretched one. 

Lor. What should they be who make 

Orphans ? * 

Bar. But did the Doge make you so ? 

Lor. Yes. 

Bar. What solid proofs ? 

Lor. When princes set themselves 

l'o work in secret, proofs and process are 
Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 
Bar. But you will move by law ? 
Lor By all the laws 

Which he would leave us. 

Bar. They are such in this 

Our state as render retribution easier 
Than rnongst remoter nations. It is true 
41 



That you have written in your books of commerce, 
(The wealthy practice of our highest nobles,) 
" Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
My sire and uncle ? " 

Lor. It is written thus. 

Bar. And will you leave unerased ? 

Lor. Till balanced. 

Bar. And how ? 

[Two Senators pass over the stage, as in their 
way to "the Hall of the Council of Ten." 

Lor. You see the number is complete. 

Follow me. [Exit Loredano. 

Bar. (solus. J Follow thee! I have follow'd long 
Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
Must I on hardily like them — Oh ! would 
I could as blindly and remorselessly ! — 
Lo, where he comes ! — Be still, my heart ! they are 
Thy foes, must be thy victims : wilt thou beat 
For those who almost broke thee ? 

Enter Guards, with young Foscari as prisoner, %c. 

Gitard. Let him rest. 

Signor, take time. 

Jac. Fos. I thank thee, friend, I'm feeble ; 

But thou may'st stand reproved. 

Guard. * I'll stand the hazard. 

Jac. Fos. That's kind : — I meet some pity, but nc 
mercy : 
This is the first. 

Guard. And might be the last, did they 

Who rule behold us. 

Bar. (advancing to the Guard.) There is one who 
does : 
Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser ; though the hour is past, 
Wait their last summons — I am of " the Ten," 
And waiting for that summons, sanction you 
Even by my presence: when the last call sounds, 
We'll in together. — Look well to the prisoner ! 

Jac. Fos. What voice is that ? — 'Tis Barbarigo's 
Ah! 
Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 

Bar. To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
Thy father sits among thy judges. 

Jac. Fos. True 

He judges. 

Bar. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence to a sire 
As to allow his voice in such high matter 
As the state's safety 

Jac. Fos. And his son's. I'm faint ; 

Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 

Enter an Officer who whispers Barbarigo. 
Bar. (to the Guard.) Let him approach. I must 
not speak with him 
Further than thus ; I have transgress'd my duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber. [Exit Barbarigo 

[Guard conducting Jacopo Foscari to the window 
Guard. There, sir, 'tis 



322 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Open — How feel you r 

Jac. Fos. Like a boy — Oh Venice ! 

Guard. And your limbs ? 

Jac. Fos. Limbs ! how often have they borne me 
Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimm'd 
The gondola along in childish race, 
And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst 
My gay competitors, noble as I, 
Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength ; 
While the fair populace of crowding beauties, 
Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on 
With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible, 
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands, 
Even to the goal ! — How many a time have I 
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring, 
The wave all roughen'd ; with a swimmer's stroke 
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair, 
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, 
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
The waves as they arose, and prouder still 
The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft, 
In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 
By those above, till they wax'd fearful ; then 
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
As show'd that I had search'd the deep : exulting, 
With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 
The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 
The foam which broke around me, and pursued 
My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then. 

Guard. Be a man now: there never was more need 
Of manhood's strength. 

Jac. Fos. (looking from the lattice.) My beautiful, 
my own, 
My only Venice — this is breath ! Thy breeze, 
Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! 
The very winds feel native to my veins, 
And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 
The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
Made my heart sick. 

Guard. I see the color comes 

Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to 

bear 
What more may be imposed ! — I dread to think on't. 

Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again ? — No — 
no, 
Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. 

Guard. Confess, 

And the rack will be spared you. 

Jac. Fos. I confess'd 

Once — twice before : both times they exiled me. 

Guard. And the third time will slay you. 

Jac. Fos. Let them do so, 

So I be buried in my birthplace : better 
Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 

Guard. And can you so much love the soil which 
hates you ? 

Jac. Fos. The soil ! — Oh no, it is the seed of the 
soil 
Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 
Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
I ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
A. dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 

Enter an Officer. 
Offi. Bring in the prisoner ! 



Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 

Jac. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a summons : 'tis 
The third time they have tortur'd me : — then lend me 
Thine arm. [To the Guard. 

Offi. Take mine, sir ; 'tis my duty to 
Be nearest to your person. 

Jac Fos. You ! — you are he 

Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
Away ! — I'll walk alone. 

Offi. As you please, signor : 

The sentence was not of my signing, but 
I dared not disobey the Council when 
They 

Jac. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their horrid 
engine. 
I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
The time will come they will renew that order, 
But keep off from me till 'tis issued. As 
I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
Quiver with the anticipated wrenching, 
And the cold drops strain through my brow, as i f ' 
But onward — I have borne it— I can hear it. — 
How looks my father ? 

Offi. With his wonted aspect. 

Jac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the blue of 
ocean, 
The brightness of our city, and her domes. 
TJie mirth of her Piazzi, even now 
Its merry hum of nations pierces here, 
Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
Who govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'd 
Judged and destroy'd in silence, — all things wear 
The self-same aspect, to my very sire ! ' 
Nothing can sympathize with Foscari, 
Not even a Foscari. — Sir, I attend you. 

[Exeunt Jacopo Foscari, Officer, %c 

Enter Memmo and anotlier Senator. 

Mem. He's gone — we are too late : — think you 
" the Ten " 
Will sit for any length of time to-day ? 

Sen. They say the prisoner is most obdurate. 
Persisting in his first avowal ; but 
More I know not. 

Mem. And that is much ; the secrets 
Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
From us, the premier nobles of the state, 
As from the people. 

Sen. Save the wonted rumors, 

Which (like the tales of spectres that are rife * 
Near ruin'd buildings) never have been proved, 
Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as little 
Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
Unfathoni'd mysteries. 

Mem. But with length of time 

We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 

Sen. Or Doge? 

Mem. Why, no ; not if I can avoid it. 

Se?i. 'Tis the first station of the state, and may 
Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
Attain'd by noble aspirants. 

Mem. To such 

I leave it ; though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited : I'd rather be an unit 
Of an united and imperial " Ten," 
Than shine a lonely, though a gilded cypher.— 
Whom have we here ? the wife of Foscari ? 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



323 



Enter Marina, with a female Attendant. 

Mar. What, no one ? — I am wrong, there still are 
two ; 
But they are senators. 

Mem. Most noble lady, 

Command us. 

Mar. I command ! — Alas ! my life 

Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 

Mem. I understand thee, but I must not answer. 

Mar. (fiercely.) True — none dare answer here save 
on the rack, 
Or Question, save those 

Mem. (interrupting her.) High-born dame ! be- 
think thee 
Where thou no\%art. 

Mar. Where I now am ! — It was 

My husband's father's palace. 

Mem. The Duke's palace. 

Mar. And his son's prison ; — true, I have not for- 
got it ; 
And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
Remembrances, would thank the illustrious Memmo 
For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 

Mem. Be calm ! 

Mar. (loohing tip towards heaven.) I am ; but 
oh, thou eternal God ! 
Canst thou continue so, with such a world ? 

Mem. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 

Mar. He is, 

In heaven. I pray you, signor senator, 
Speak not of that ; you are a man of office, 
So is the Doge ; he has a son at stake 
Now, at this moment, and I have a husband, 
Or had ; they are there within, or were at least 
An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit ; 
Will he condemn him ? 

Mem. I trust not. 

Mar. But if 

He does not, there are those will sentence both. 

Mem. They can. 

Mar. And with them power and will are one 

In wickedness : — my husband's lost ! 

Mem. Not so ; 

Justice is judge in Venice. 

Mar. If it were so, 

There now would be no Venice. But let it 
Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons ; but " the Ten's " is quicker, 
And we must wait on't. Ah ! a voice of wail ! 

[A faint cry within. 

Sen. Hark ! 

Mem. 'Twas a cry of — 

Mar. No, no ; not my husband's — 

Not Foscari's. 

Mem. The voice was — 

Mar. Not his : no. 

He shriek ! No ; that should be his father's part, 
Not his — not his — he'll die in silence. 

{A faint groan again within. 

Mem. What ! 

Again ? 

Mar. His voice ! it seem'd so : I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To love ; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
A fearful pang, which wrung a groan from him. 

Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, 
wouldst thou 
Have him bear more than mortal pain, in silence ? 

Mar. We all must bear our tortures. I have not 



Left barren the great house of Foscari, 

Though they sweep both the Doge and son from 

life; 
I have endured as much in giving life 
To those who will succeed them, as they can 
In leaving it : but mine were joyful pangs ; 
And yet they wrung me till I could have shriek'd, 
But did not, for my hope was to bring forth 
Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears. 

Mem. All's silent now. 

Mar. Perhaps all's over ; but 

I will not deem it : he hath nerved himself, 
And now defies them. 

Enter an Officer hastily. 

Mem. How now, friend, what seek you ? 

Offi. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 

{Exit Officer. 

Mem. Lady, 

'Twere better to retire. 

Sen. (offering to assist her.) I pray thee do so. 

Mar. Off! / will tend him. 

Mem. You ! Remember, lady ! 

Ingress is given to none within those chambers, 
Except " the Ten," and their familiars. 

Mar. Well, 

I know that none who enter there return 
As they have enter'd — many never ; but 
They shall not balk my entrance. 

Mem. Alas ! this 

Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse, 
And worse suspense. 

Mar. Who shall oppose me ? 

Mem. They 

Whose duty 'tis to do so. 

Mar. 'Tis their duty 

To trample on all human feelings, all 
Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
The fiends, who will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing ! Yet I'll pass. 

Mem. It is impossible. 

Mar. That shall be tried 

Despair defies even despotism : there is 
That in my heart would make its way through hosts 
With levell'd spears ; and think you a few jailers 
Shall put me from my path ? Give me, then, way, 
This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son, 
And they shall hear this ! 

Mem. - It will only serve 

More to exasperate his judges. 

Mar. What 

Are judges who give way to anger ? they 
Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 

{Exit Marina. 

Sen. Poor lady ! 

Mem. 'Tis mere desperation ; she 

Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 

Sen. And 

Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
But, see, the officer returns. 
{The Officer passes over the stage with another person. 

Mem. I hardly 

Thought that "the Ten" had even this touch of pity, 
Or would permit assistance to the sufferer. 

Sen. Pity ! Is't pity to recall to feeling 
The wretch too happy to escape to death 
By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 
Resource against the tyranny of pain ? 



324 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Mem. I marvel they condemn him not at once. 

Sen. That's not their policy ; they'd have him live, 
Because he fears not death ; and Danish him, 
Because all earth, except his native land, 
To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 
Consuming but not killing. * 

Mem. Circumstance 

Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 

Sew. None, save the letter, which he says was 
written 
Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
That it would fall into the senate's hands, 
And thus he should be reconveyed to Venice. 

Mem. But as a culprit. 

Sen. Yes, but to his country ; 

And that was all he sought, so he avouches. 

Mem. The accusation of the bribes was proved. 

Sen. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
Has been annull'd by the death-bed confession 
Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
Chief of " the Ten." 

Mem. Then why not clear him ? 

Sen. That 

They ought to answer ; for it is well known 
That Almoro Donato, as I said, 
Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 

Mem. There must be more in this strange process 
than 
The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
But here come two of " the Ten ; " let us retire. 

[Exeunt Memmo and Senator. 

Enter Loreda.no and Barbarigo. 

Bar. (addressing 'Lou.) That'were too much : 
believe me, 'twas not meet 
The trial should go further at this moment. 

Lor. And so the Council must break up, and 
Justice 
Pause in her full career, because a woman 
Breaks in on our deliberations ? 

Bar. No, 

That's not the cause ; you saw the prisoner's state. 

Lor. And had he not recover'd ? 

Bar. To relapse 

Upon the least renewal. 

Lor. 'Twas not tried. 

Bar. 'Tis vain to murmur ; the majority 
In council were against you. 

Lor. Thanks to you, sir, 

And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
The worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 

Bar. I am a judge ; but must confess that part 
Of our stern duty, which prescribes the Question, 
And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
Makes me wish 

Lor. What ? 

Bar. That t/ou would sometimes feel, 

As I do always. 

Lor. Go to, you're a child, 
Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
For Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
Be partner in my policy ! 

Bar. He shed 

No tears. 

Lor. He cried out twice. 

Bar. A saint had done so, 



Even with the crown of glory in his eye, 

At such inhuman artifice of pain 

As was forced on him ; but he did not cry 

For pity ; not a word nor groan escaped him, 

And those two shrieks were not in supplication, 

But wrung from pangs, and follow'd by no prayers. 

Lor. He mutter'd many times between his teeth, 
But inarticulately. 

Bar. That I heard not, 

You stood more near him. 

Lor. I did so. 

Bar. Methought, 

To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy, 
And were the first to call out for assistance 
When he was failing. 

Lor. I believed thai swoon 

His last. 

Bar. And have I not oft heard thee name 
His and his father's death your nearest wish ? 

Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say, 
With his guilt unavow'd, he'll be lamented. 

Bar. What, wouldst thou slay his memory ? 

Lor. Wouldst thou have 

His state descend to his children, as it must, 
If he die unattainted ? 

Bar. War with them too-? 

Lor. With all their house, till theirs or mine are 
nothing. 

Bar. And the deep agony of his pale wife, 
And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
And princely brow of his old father, which 
Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though rarely, 
Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
In stern serenity ; these moved you not ? 

[Exit LOREDANO. 

He's silent in his hate, as Foscari 

Was in his suffering ; and the poor wretch moved me 

More by his silence than a thousand outcries 

Could have affected. 'Twas a dreadful sight 

When his distracted wife broke through into 

The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 

What we could scarcely look upon, long used 

To such sights. I must think no more of this 

Lest I forget in this compassion for 

Our foes theh former injuries, and lose 

The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 

For him and me ; but mine would be content 

With lesser retribution than he thirsts for, 

And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 

To milder thoughts ; but for the present, Foscari 

Has a short hourly respite, granted at 

The instance of the elders of the Council, 

Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 

The hall, and his own sufferings. — Lo ! they come : 

How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 

To look on them again in this extremity : 

I'll hence, and try to soften Loredano. 

[Exit Barbarigo 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Doge's Palace. 

The Doge and a Senator. 
Sen. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
'Now, or postpone it till to-morrow ? 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



325 



Doge. Now ; 

I overlook'd it yesterday : it wants 
Merely the signature. Give me the pen — 

[The Doge sits dowii and signs the paper. 
There, signor. 
Sen. (looking at the paper.) You have forgot ; it is 

not sign'd. 
Doge. Not sign'd ? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 

Sen. (dipping the pen into the ink, and placing the 
paper before the Doge.) Your hand, too, 
shakes, my lord : allow me, thus — 
Doge. 'Tis done, I thank you. 
Sen. ■» Thus the act confirm'd 

By you and by the " Ten," gives peace to Venice. 
Doge. 'Tis long since she enjoy'd it : may it be 
As long ere she resume her arms ! 

Sen. 'Tis almost 

Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 
The state had need of some repose. 

Doge. No doubt : 

I found her queen of ocean, and I leave her 
Lady of Lombardy ; it is a comfort 
That I have added to her diadem 
The gems of Breccia and Ravenna ; Crema 
And Bergamo no less are hers ; her realm 
By land has grown by thus much in my reign, 
While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 

Sen. 'Tis most true, 

And merits all our country's gratitude. 
Doge. Perhaps so. 

Sen. Which should be made manifest. 

Doge. I have not complain'd, sir. 
Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 

Doge. For what ? 

Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 

Doge. For me, signor ? 

Sen. And for your 

Doge. Stop ! 

Sen. It must have way, my lord. 

I have too many duties towards you 
And all your house, for past and present kindness, 
Not to feel deeply for your son. 

Doge. Was this 

In your commission. ? 

Sen. What, my lord ? 

Doge. This prattle 

Of things .you know not : but the treaty's signed ; 
Return with it to them who sent you. 

Sen. I 

Obey. I had in charge, too, from the Council 
That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 
Doge. Say, when they will — now, even at this 
moment, 
If it so please them : I am the state's servant. 
Sen. They would accord some time for your repose. 
Doge. I have no repose, that is, none which shall 
cause 
The loss of an hour's time unto the state. 
Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
Where I should be, and what I have been ever. 

[Exit Senator. 
[The Doge remains in silence. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. Prince ! 
Doge. Say on. 



Att. The illustrious lady Foscari 

Requests an audience. 

Doge. Rid her enter. Poor 

Marina ! [Exit Attendant. 

[The Doge remains in silence as before. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. I have ventured, father, on 
Your privacy. 

Doge. I have none from you, my child. 

Command my time, when not commanded by 
The state. 

Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 

Doge. Your husband ? 

Mar. And your son. 

Doge. Proceed, my daughter ! 

Mar. I had obtain'd permission from the " Ten" 
To attend my husband for a limited number 
Of hours. 

Doge. You had so. 

Mar. 'Tis revoked. 

Doge. By whom ? 

Mar. " The Ten."— When we had reach'd " the 
Bridge of Sighs," 
Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
" The Ten ; " but as the court no longer sate, 
And no permission had been given in writing, 
I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
Until that high tribunal had reassembled, 
The dungeon walls would still divide us. 

Doge. True, 

The form has been omitted in the haste 
With which the court adjourn'd, and till it meets, 
'Tis dubious. 

Mar. Till it meets ! and when it meets, 

They'll torture him again ; and he and I 
Must purchase by renewal of the rack 
The interview of husband and of wife, 
The holiest tie beneath the heavens ! — Oh God ! 
Dost thou see this ? 

Doge. Child— child 

Mar. (abruptly.) Call me not " child ! " 

You soon will have no children — you deserve none— 
You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
In circumstances which would call forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
Stretch'd forth a hand to save them ? 

Doge. You behold me : 

I cannot weep — I would I could ; but if 
Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
This ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
A talisman to still them — I'd give all 
For him. 

Mar. With less he surely might be saved. 
Doge. That answer only shows you know not 
Venice. 
Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself, 
In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
At Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
They work by different means to the same end, 

And that is but they have not conquer'd yet. 

Mar. But they have crush'd. 

Doge. Nor crush'd as yet — I live. 



326 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Mar. And your son, — how long will he live ? 
Doge. I trust, 

For all that yet is past, as many years 
And happier than his father. The rash boy 
With womanish impatience to return, 
Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter : 
A high crime which I neither can deny 
Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke : 
Had he but borne a little, little longer 

His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 

them — 
He must return. 
I Mar. To exile ? 

Doge. I have said it. 

Mar. And can I not go with him ? 
Doge. You well knew, 

This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
By the assembled " Ten," and hardly now 
Will be accorded to a third request, 
Since aggravated errors on the part 
Of your lord renders them still more austere. 

Mar. Austere ? Atrocious ! The old human fiends, 
With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
To tears save drops of dotage, with long white 
And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads 
As palsied as their hearts are hard, they council, 
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
Were no more than the feelings long extinguish'd 
In their accursed bosoms. 

Doge. You know not 

Mar. I do — I do — and so should you, methinks — 
That these are demons : could it be else that 
Men, who have been of women born and suckled — 
Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love — have 

given 
Their hands in sacred vows — have danced their babes 
"Upon their knees, perhaps have mourn'd above them 
In pain, in peril, or in death — who are, 
Or were at least in seeming human, could 
Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself, 
You, who abet them ? 

Doge. I forgive this, for 

You know not what you say. 

Mar. You know it well, 

And feel it nothing. 

Doge. I have borne so much, 

That words have ceased to shake me. 

Mar. Oh, no doubt 

You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 

shook not ; 
And after that what are a woman's words ? 
No more than woman's tears, that they should shake 
you. 
Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I tell 
thee, 
Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 

Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina ! 

Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me ; 
Pity thy son ! Thou pity ! — 'tis a word 
Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 
Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though they 
wrong me. 

Coii»dst thou but read 

Mar. 'Tis not upon thy brow, 

Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where then 
Should I behold this sympathy ! or shall ? 
Doge, (pointing downwards.) There ! 
Mar. In the earth ? 

Doge. To which I am tending : when 



It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press 

it 
Now, you will know me better. 

Mar. Arc, you then, 

Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 

Doge. Pitied ! None 

Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
Cloak their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
To mingle with my name : that name shall be, 
As far as I have borne it, what it was > 

When I received it. 

Mar. But for the poor children 

Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save, 
You were the la«"t to bear it. 

Doge. Would it were so. 

Better for him he never had been born, 
Better for me. — I have seen our house dishonor'd. 

Mar. That's false ! a truer, nobler, trustier heart, 
More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
Within a human breast. I would not change 
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'd, 
Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
In story or in fable, with a world 
To back his suit. Dishonor'd ! — he dishonor'd ! 
I tell thee, Doge, 'tis Venice is dishonor'd ; 
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
For what he suffers, not for what he did. 
'Tis ye who are all traitors, tyrant-! — ye L. 
Did you but love your country like this victim 
Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 
Submits to all Ijiings rather than to exile, 
You'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 
His grace for your enormous guilt. 

Doge. He was 

Indeed all you have s'aid. I better bore 
The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me 
Than Jacopo's disgrace. 

Mar. That word again ? 

Doge. Has he not been condemn'd ? 

Mar. Is none but guilt so ? 

Doge. Time may restore his memory — I would 
hope so. 

He was my pride, my but 'tis useless now — 

I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
When he was born : those drops were ominous. 

Mar. I say he's innocent ! And were he not so, 
Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 
In fatal moments ? 

Doge. I shrank not from him : 

But I have other duties than a father's ; 
The state would not dispense me from those duties ; 
Twice I demanded it, but was refused : 
They must then be fulfill'd. 

Enter an Attendant. 

Att. A message from 

"The Ten." 

Doge. Who bears it ? 

Att. Noble Loredano. 

Doge. He ! — but admit him. [Exit Attendant. 

Mar. Must I then retire ? 

Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 
Concerns your husband, and if not — Well, signor, 
Your pleasure ! To Loredano entering, 

Lor. I bear that of " the Ten." 

Doge. They 

Have chosen well their envoy. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



327 



Lor. 'Tis their choice 

Which leads me here. 

Doge. It does their wisdom honor, 

And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 

Lor. We have decided. 

Doge. We ? 

Lor. " The Ten " in council. 

Doge. What ! have they met again, and met 
without 
Apprising me ? 

Lor. They wish'd to spare your feelings, 

No less than age. 

Doge. That's new — when spared they either ? 

I thank them, notwithstanding. 

Lor. You know well 

That they have power to act at their discretion, 
With or without the presence of the Doge. 

Doge. 'Tis some years since I learn'd this, long 
before 
I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement. 
You need not school me, signor: I sate in 
That council when you were a young patrician. 

Lor. True, in my father's time ; I have heard 
him and 
The admiral, his brother, say as much. 
Your highness may remember them ; they both 
Died suddenly. 

Doge. And if they did so, better 

So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 

Lor. No doubt ; yet most men like to live their 
days out. 

Doge. And did not they ? 

Lor. The grave knows best : they died, 

As I said, suddenly. 

Doge. Is that so strange, 

That you repeat the word emphatically ? 

Lor. So far from strange, that never was there 
death 
In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
Think you not so ? 

Doge. What should I think of mortals ? 

Lor. That they have mortal foes. 

Doge. I understand you ; 

Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 

Lor. You best know if I should be so. 

Doge. I do. 

Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
Foul rumors were abroad ; I have also read 
Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 
To poison. 'Tis perhaps as true as most 
Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
A fable. 

Lor. Who dares say so ? 

Doge. I ! — 'Tis true 

Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe : 
I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
The proof is, your existence. 

Lor. I fear not. 

Doge. You have no cause, being what I am ; but 
were I 
That you would have me thought, you long ere now 
Were past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I care not. 

Lor. I never yet knew that a noble's life 
In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
That is, by open means. 



Doge. But I, good signor, 

Am, or at least was, more than a mere duke, 
In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they know 
Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be sure, 
Before or since that period, had I held you 
At so much price as to require your absence, 
A word of mine had set such spirits to work 
As would nave made you nothing. But in all things, 
I have observed the strictest reverence ; 
Not for the laws alone, for those you have strain'd 
(I do not speak of you but as a single 
Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 
I could enforce for my authority, 
Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 
I have observed with veneration, like 
A priest's for the high altar, even unto 
The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet, 
Safety, and all save honor, the decrees, 
The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
And now, sir, to your business. 

Lor. 'Tis decreed, 

That, without further repetition of 
The Question, or continuance of the trial, 
Which only tends to show how stubborn guilt is, 
(" The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
Which still prescribes the Question till a full 
Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
Avow'd his crime in not denying that 
The letter to the Duke of Milan's his,) 
James Foscari return to banishment, 
And sail in the same galley which convey'd him- 

Mar. Thank God ! At least they will not (Lag 
him more 
Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 
But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
Desire, were to escape from such a land. 

Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, my 
daughter. 

Mar. No, 'twas too human. May I share hia 
exile ? 

Lor. Of this " the Ten " said nothing. 

Mar. So I thought: 

That were too human, also. But it was not 
Inhibited ? 

Lor. It was not named. 

Mar. (to the Doge.) Then, father, 

Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 

[To Loredano 
And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
Permitted to accompany my husband. 

Doge. I will endeavor. 

Mar. And you, signor ? 

Lor. Lady ' 

'Tis not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
Of "the tribunal. 

Mar. Pleasure ! what a word 
To use for the decrees of 

Doge. Daughter, know you 

In what a presence you pronounce these things ? 

Mar. A prince's and his subject's. 

Lor. Subject ! 

Mar. Oh ! 

It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
You think ; but that you are not, nor would be, 
Were he a peasant : — well, then, you're a prince, 
A princely noble ; and what then am I ? 

Lor. The offspring of a noble house. 



328 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Mar. And wedded 

To one as noble. What or whose, then is 
The presence that should silence my free thoughts ? 

Lor. The presence of your husband's judges. 

Doge. And 

The deference due even to the lightest word 
That falls from those who rule in Venice. 

Mar. Keep 

Those maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 
Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 
Your tributaries, your dumb citizens, 
And mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 
Your spies, your galley and* your other slaves, 
To whom your midnight carryings off and drownings, 
Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
The water's level ; your mysterious meetings, 
And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 
Your " Bridge of Sighs," your strangling chamber, 

and 
Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 
The beings of another and worse world ! 
Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye ; 
Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 
Process of my poor husband ! Treat me as 
Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 
With him. Then what have I to fear from you, 
Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
I trust I am not ? 

Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 

Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 

Lor. Lady ! words 

Utter'd within these walls I bear no further 
Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
Doge ! have you aught in answer ? 

Doge. Something from 

The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 

Lor. My mission here is to the Doge. 

Doge. Then say 

The Doge will choose his own ambassador, 
Or state in person what is meet ; and for 
The father 

Lor. I remember mine. — Farewell! 

I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady, 
And bow me to the Duke. [Exit Loredano. 

Mar. . Are you content ? 

Doge. I am what you behold. 

Mar. And that's a mystery. 

Doge. All things are so to mortals; who can 
read them 
Save he who made ; or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon 
Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain, 
But learn a magic which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are those of fortune ; 
Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
And when we cry out against Fate, 'twere well 
We should remember Fortune can take nought 
Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness, 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities, 
The universal heritage, to battle 
With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
Where hunger swallows all in one low want, 
And the original ordinance, that man 
Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions 
Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low, 



And false, and hollow — clay from first to last, 
The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 
Less than their breath ; our durance upon days, 
Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 
Something which is not us! — So, we are slaves. 
The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
Upon our will ; the will itself no less 
Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 
And when we think we lead, we are most led, 
And still towards death, a thing which comes as 

much 
Without our act or choice as birth, so that 
Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world, 
And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 
Eternal. 

Mar. These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. 

Doge. And how then shall we judge each other, 
Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd upon 
To judge my son ? I have administer'd 
My country faithfully — victoriously — 
I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
She was and is : my reign has doubled realms ; 
And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 

Mar. And Foscari ? I do not think of such things, 
So I be left with him. 

Doge. You shall be so : 

Thus much they cannot well deny. 

Mar. And if 

They should, I will fly with him. 

Doge. That can ne'er be. 

And whither would you fly ? 

Mar. I know not, reck not — 

To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
Any where, where we might respire unfetter'd, 
And live nor girt by spies, nor liable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

Doge. What, wouldst thou have a renegade for 
husband, 
And turn him into traitor ? 

Mar. He is none ! 

The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
None rebels except subjects ? The prince who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 
A brigand than the robber-chief. 

Doge. I cannot 

Charge me with such a breach of faith. 

Mar. No ; thou 

Observ'st, obey'st, such laws as make old Draco's 
A code of mercy by comparison. 

Doge. I found the law; I did not make it. Were I 
A subject, still I might find parts and portions 
Fit for amendment ; but as prince, I never 
Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter 
Left by our fathers. 

Mar. Did they make it for 

The ruin of their children ? 

Doge. Under such laws, Venice 

Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 
In glory, (for we have had Roman spirits 
Among us,) all that history has bequeathed 
Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, when 
The people sway'd by senates. 

Mar. Rather say, 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



329 



Grroan'd under the stern oligarchs. 

Doge. Perhaps so ; 

But yet subdued the world: in such a state 
An individual, be he richest of 
Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
The policy, irrevocably tending 
To one great end, must be maintained in vigor. 
Mar. This means that you are more a Doge than 

father. 
Doge. It means, I am more citizen than either. 
If we had not for many centuries 
Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 
Mar. Accursed be the city where the laws 
Would stifle nature's ! 

Doge. Had I as many sons 

As I have years, I would have given them all, 
Not without feeling, but I would have given them 
To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism, 
Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
She might decree. 

Mar. And this is patriotism ? 

To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
Let me seek out my husband : the sage 
With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
So far with a weak woman as deny me 
A moment's access to his dungeon. 

Doge. I'll 

So far take on myself, as order that 
You may be admitted. 

Mar. And what shall I say 

To Foscari from his father ? 

Doge. That he obey 

The iaws. 

Mar. And nothing more ? Will you not see him 
Ere he depart ? It may be the last time. 
Doge. The last ! — my boy ! — the last time I shall 
see 
My last of children ! Tell him I will come. 

[Exeunt. 



■ Ten," 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

The Priso7i of Jacopo Foscari. 

Jac. Fos. (solus.) No light, save yon faint gleam, 

which shows me walls 
Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds, 
The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 
Of death, the imprecation of despair ! 
And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 
With some faint hope, 'tis true, that time, which 

wears 
The marble down, had worn away the hate 
Of men's hearts, but I knew them not, and here 
Must I consume my own, which never beat 
For Venice but with such a yearning as 
The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling 
High in the air on her return to greet 
Her callow brood. What letters are these which 

[Approach ing the wall. 



Are sc.rawl'd along the inexorable wall ? 

Will the gleam let me trace them ? Ah ! the names 

Of my sad predecessors, in this place, 

The dates of their despair, the brief words of 

A grief too great for many. This stone page 

Holds like an epitaph their history, 

And the poor captive's tale is graven on 

His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 

Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 

His own and his beloved's name. Alas ! 

I recognize some names familiar to me, 

And blighted like to mine, which I will add, 

Fittest for such a chronicle as this, 

Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 

[He engraves his name 

Enter a Familiar of " the Ten." 

Fam. I bring you food. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you set it down ; 

I am past hunger : but my lips are parch'd — 
The water ! 

Fam. There. 

Jac. Fos. (after drinking.) I thank you : I am 
better. 

Fam. I am commanded to inform you 
That your further trial is postponed. 

Jac. Fos. Till when ? 

Fam. I know not. — It is also in my orders 
That your illustrious lady be admitted. 

Jac. Fos. Ah ! they relent, then — I had ceased to 
hope it : 
'Twas time. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. My best beloved ! 

Jac. Fos. (embracing her.) My true wife, 
And only friend ! What happiness ! 

Mar. We'll part 

No more. 

Jac. Fos. How ! wouldst thou share a dungeon? 

Mar. Ay, 

The rack, the grave, all — anything with thee, 
But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
Share that — all things except new separation ; 
It is too much to have survived the first. 
How dost thou ? Hew are those worn limbs ? Alas ! 
Why do I ask ? Thy paleness 

Jac. Fos. 'Tis the joy 

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine, 
For thou art pale, too, my Marina. 

Mar. 'Tis 

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
To darkness more than light, by lending to 
The dungeon vapors its bituminous smoke, 
Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes- 
No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how they sparkle ! 

Jac. Fos. And thine ! — but I am blinded by the 
torch. 

Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou 
see here ? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing at first ; but use and time had 
taught me 
Familiarity with what was darkness ; 
And the gray twilight of such glimmerings as 
Glide through the crevices made by the winds 



330 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
Save those of Venice ; but a moment ere 
Thou earnest hither I was busy writing. 

Mar. What ? 

Jac. Fos. My name : look, .'tis there — recorded 
next 
The name of him who here preceded me, 
If dungeon dates say true. 

Mar. And what of him ? 

Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's ends ; 
they only 
Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, 
Or those who soon must be so — What of him ? 
Thou askest. — What of me ? may soon be ask'd, 
With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise — 
Unless thou tell'st my tale. 

Mar. 1 speak of thee ! 

Jac. Fos. And wherefore not ? All then shall 
speak of me : 
The tyranny of silence is not lasting, 
And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's ! 
I do not doubt my memory, but my life ; 
And neither do I fear. 

Mar. Thy life is safe. 

Jac. Fos. And liberty ? 

Mar. The mind should make its own. 

Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound ; but 'tis a 
sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient : 
The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
And torture positive, far worse than death, 
(If death be a deep sleep,) without a groan, 
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
Than me ; but 'tis not all, for there are things 
More woful, such as this small dungeon, where 
I may breathe many years. 

Mar. Alas ! and this 

Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 

Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me to 
endure it. 
My doom is common, many are in dungeons, 
But none like mine, so near their father's palace ; 
But then my heart is .sometimes high, and hope 
Will stream along those moted rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
Our only day ; for, save the jailer's torch, 
And a strange fire-fly, which was quickly caught 
Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas ! 
I know if mind may bear us up, or no, 
For I have such, and shown it before men ; 
It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 

Mar. I will be with thee. 

Jac. Fos. Ah ! if it were so ! 

But that they never granted — nor will grant, 
And I shall be alone : no men — no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind, 
Which they term annals, history, what you will, 
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
Refused me, so these walls have been my study, 
More faithful pictures of Venetian story, 
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
The hall not far from hence, which bears on high 



Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 

Mar. I come to tell thee the result of their 
Last council on thy doom. 

Jac. Fos. I know it — look ! 

[He points to his limbs, as referring to the tor* 
tures which he had undergone. 

Mar. No — no — no more of that : even they relen 
From that atrocity. 

Jac. Fos. What then ? 

Mar. That you 

Return to Candia. 

Jac. Fos. Then my last hope's gone. 

I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice ; 
I could support the torture, there was something 
In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up 
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms, 
But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
And holding on its course ; but there, afar, 
In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives, 
And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck, 
My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom, 
And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 

Mar. And here? 

Jac. Fos. At once — by better means, as briefer. 
What ! would they even deny me my sire's sepulchre, 
As well as home and heritage ? 

Mar. My husband ! 

I have sued to accompany thee hence, 
And not so hopelessly. This love of thine 
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
Is passion, and not patriotism ; for me, 
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect, 
And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 
I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
A paradise ; its first inhabitants 
Were wretched exiles. 

Jac. Fos. Well I know how wretched ! 

Mar. And yet you see how from their banishment 
Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
Their antique energy of mind, all that 
Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, 
Created by degrees an ocean-Rome ; 
And shall an evil, which so often leads 
To good, depress thee thus ? 

Jac. Fos. Had I gone forth 

From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking 
Another region, with their flocks and herds ; 
Had I been cast out like the Jews from '/Aon, 
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 
From fertile Italy, to barren islets, 
I would have given some tears to my late country, 
And many thoughts ; but afterwards address'd 
Myself, with those about me, to create 
A new home and fresh state : perhaps I could 
Have borne this — though I know not. 

Mar. Wherefore not ! 

It was the lot of millions, and must be 
The fate of myriads more. 

Jac. Fos. Ay — we but hear 

Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, 
Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
The hearts which broke in silence at that parting, 
Or after their departure ; of that malady* 
Which calls up green and native fields to view 
From "the rough deep, with such identity 
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



331 



Can scarcely be restrained from treading them ? 

That melody,* which out of tones and tunes 

Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 

Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 

From his snow canopy of cliffs and' clouds, 

That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, 

And dies. You call this weakness ! It is strength, 

I say — the parent of all honest feeling. 

He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 

Mar. Obey her, then : 'tis she that puts thee forth. 

Jac. Fos. Ay, there it is ; 'tis like a mother's curse 
Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
The exiles you speak of went forth by nations, 
Their hands upheld each other Jby the way, 
Their tents were pitch'd together — I'm alone. 

Ma): You shall be so no more — I will go with 
thee. 

Jac. Fos. My best Marina ! — and our children ? 

Mar. They, 

I fear, by the prevention of the state's 
Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties 
As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure,) 
Will not be suffer'd to proceed with us. 

Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them ? 

Mar. Yes. With many a pang. 

But — I can leave them, children as they are, 
To teach you to be less a child. From this 
Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
By duties paramount ; and 'tis our first 
On earth to bear. 

Jac. Fos. Have I not borne ? 

Mar. Too much 

From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
To teach you not to shrink now from a lot, 
Which, as compared with what you have undergone 
Of late, is mercy. 

Jac. Fos. Ah ! you never yet 

Were far away from Venice, never saw 
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 
While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart ; you never 
Saw day go down upon your native spires 
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory, 
And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 

Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us think 
Of our departure from this much-loved city, 
(Since you must love it as it seems,) and this 
Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 

Jac. Fos. That's sudden. Shall I not behold my 
father ? 

Mar.* You will. 

Jac. Fos. Where ? 

Mar. Here or in the ducal chamber — 

He said not which. I would that you could bear 
Your exile as he bears it. 

Jac. Fos. Blame him not. 

I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
He could not now act otherwise. A show 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from "the Ten," and upon mine, 
Accumulated ills. 

Mar. - Accumulated ! 

What pangs are those they have spared you ? 



* Alluding to the Swiss air and iu effect!. 



Jac. Fos. That of leaving 

Venice without beholding him or you, 
Which might have been forbidden now, as 'twas 
Upon my former exile. 

Mar. That is true, 

And thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
And shall be more so when I see us both 
Floating on the free wave — away — away — 
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd, 
Unjust, and 

Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent, 
Who dares accuse my country ? 

Mar. Men and Angels 

The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven, 
The gioansof slaves in chains, and men in dungeons, 
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and sub 

jects, 
Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst thou say 
Aught in its favor, who would praise like thee? 

Jac Fos. Let us address us then, since so it must 
be, 
To our departure. Who comes here ? 

Enter Loredano, attended by Fa?niliars. 

Lor. (to the Familiars.) Retire, 

But leave the torch. [Exeunt the two Familiars. 

Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signor. 

I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 
Such presence hither. 

Lor. 'Tis not the first time 

I have visited these places. 

Mar. Nor would be 

The last, were all men's merits- well rewarded. 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 

Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady ! 
I am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce " the Ten's " decree. 

Mar. That tenderness 

Has been anticipated : it is known. 

Lor. As how ? 

Mar. I have inform'd him, not so gently, 

Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe, 
The indulgence of your colleagues ; but he knew it. 
If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence , 
The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you, calm you : 

What can avail such words ? 

Mar. To let him know 

That he is known. 

Lor. Let the fair dame preserve 

Her sex's privilege. 

Mar. I have some sons, sir, 

Will one day thank you better. 

Lor. You do well 

To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
Your sentence, then ? 

Jac. Fos. » Return to Candia ? 

Lor. True— 

For life. 

Jac. Fos. Not long. 

Lor. I said — for life. 

Jac. Fos. And I 

Repeat — not long. 

Lor. A year's imprisonment 

In Canea — afterwards the freedom of 



332 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The whole isle. 

Jac. Fos. Both the same to me : the after 

Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
Is't true my wife accompanies me ? • 

Lor. Yes, 

If she so wills it. 

Mar. "Who obtain'd that justice ? 

Lor. One who wars not with women. 

Mar. But oppresses 

Men : howsoever let him have my thanks 
For the only boon I would have asked or taken 
From him or such as he is. 

Lor. He receives them 

As they &re offer'd. 

Mar. May they thrive with him 

So much ! — no more. 

Jac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mission, 

Because we have brief time for preparation, 
And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
This lady, of a house noble as yours. 

Mar. Nobler ! 

Lor. How nobler ? 

Mar. As more generous ! 

"We say the " generous steed " to express the purity 
Of his high blood. Thus much I've learnt, although 
Venetian, (who see few steeds save of bronze,) 
From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts 
Of Egypt, and her neighbor Araby : 
And why not say as soon the "generous man? " 
If race be aught, it is in qualities 
More than in years ; and mine, which is as old 
As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
Look not so stern — but get you back, and pore 
Upon your genealogic trees most green 
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 
For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater ! 

Jac. Fos. Again, Marina ! 

Mar. Again ! still, Marina. 

See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
"With a last look upon our misery ? 
Let him partake it ! 

Jac. Fos. That were difficult. 

Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now — 
Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 
And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 
A few brief words of truth shame the devil's servants 
No less than master ; I have probed his soul 
A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long, 
Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me ! 
"With death, and chains, and exile in his hand 
To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit : 
They are his weapons, not his armor, for 
I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart. 
I care not for his frowns ! We can but die, 
And he but live, for him the very worst 
Of destinies : each day secures him more 
His tempter's. 

Jac. Fos. This is mere insanity. 

Mar. It may be so ; and icho hath made us mad? 

Lor. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 

Mar. That's false ! 

You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You came 
To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears, 
And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck 
"Which you have made a prince's son — my husband ; 
In short, to trample on the fallen — an office 
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him ! 



How have you sped ? "We are wretched, signor, aa 
Your plots could make, and vengeance could desirt 

us, 
And how_/ee£ you ? 

Lor. As rocks. 

Mar. By thunder blasted : 

They feel not, but no less are shiver'd. Come, 
Foscari ; now let us go, and leave this felon, 
The sole fit habitant of such a cell, 
Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
Till he himself shall brood in it alone. 

Enter the Doge. 

Jac. Fos. My father ! 

Doge, (embracing him.) Jacopo ! my son — my son . 

Jac. Fos. My father still ! How long it is since I 
Have heard thee name my name — our name ! 

Doge. My boy ! 

Couldst thou but know 

Jac. Fos. I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 

Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 

Mar. - Doge, look there ! 

[She points to Loredano. 

Doge. I see the man — what mean'st thou ? 

Mar. Caution ! 

Lor. Being 

The virtue which this noble lady most 
May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 

Mar. Wretch ! 'tis no virtue, but the policy 
Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice : 
As such I recommend it, as I would 
To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 

Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 
Known Loredano. 

Lor. You may know him better. 

Mar. Yes ; worse he could not. 

Jac. Fos. Father, let not these 

Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it, 
Indeed, our last of meetings ? 

Doge. You behold 

These white hairs ! 

Jac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that mine 

Will never be so white. Embrace me, father ! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. 
Look to my children — to your last child's children, 
Let them be all to you which he was once, 
And never be to you what I am now. 
May I not see them also ? 

Mar. No — not here. 

Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any 
where. 

Mar. I would that they beheld their father in 
A place which would not mingle fear with love, 
To freeze their young blood in its natural current 
They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 
Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. "Well, 
I know his fate may one day be their heritage, 
But let it only be their heritage, 
And not their present fee. Their senses, though 
Alive to love are yet awake to terror ; 
And these "'e damps, too, and yon thick green wave 
Which floats above the place where we now stand— 
A cell so far below the water's level, 
Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
Might strike them : this is not their atmosphere, 
However you — and you — and, most of all, 
As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano ! 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



333 



May breathe it without prejudice. 

Jac. Fos. I had not 

Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
I shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 
Doge. Not so : they shall await you in my 
chamber. 

Jac. Fos. And must I leave them all ? 

Lor. > You must 

Jac. Fos. Not one ? 

Lor. They are the state's. 

Mar. I thought they had been mine. 

Lor. They are, in all maternal things. 

Mar. That is, 

In all things painful. If they're sick, they will 
Be left to me to tend them ; should they die, 
To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
They live, they'll make you soldiers, senators, 
Slaves, exiles — what you will ; or if they are 
Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles ! 
Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 

Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 

Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where the 
genial wind 
Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom ? 

Lor. 'Twas so 

When I came here. The galley floats within 
A bow-shot of the " Riva di Schiavoni." 

Jac. Fos. Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
Prepare my children to behold their father. 

Doge. Be firm, my son ! 

Jac. Fos. I will do my endeavor. 

Mar. Farewell! at least to this detested dungeon, 
And him to whose good offices you owe 
In part your past imprisonment. 

Lor. And present 

Liberation. 

Doge. He speaks truth. 

Jac. Fos. No doubt ! but 'tis 

Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
He knows this, or he had not sought to change 

them — 
But I reproach not. 

Lor. The time narrows, signor. 

Jac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so lingeringly 
To leave abodes like this : but when I feel 
That every step I take, even from this cell, 
Is one away from Venice, I look back 
Even on these dull damp walls, and 

Doge. Boy ! no tears. 

Mar. Let them flow on : he wept not on the rack 
To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 
They will relieve his heart — that too kind heart — 
And I will find an hour to wipe away 
Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, 
But would not gratify yon wretch so far : 
Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 

Lor, (to the Familiar.) The torch, there ! 

Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre, 
With Loredano mourning like an heir. 

Doge. My son, you are feeble ; take this hand. 

Jac. Fos. Alas ! 

Must youth support itself on age, and I 
Who ought to be the prop of yours ? 

Lor. Take mine. 

Mar. Touch it not, Foscari ; 'twill sting you. 
Signor, 
Stand off ! be sure, that if a grasp of yours 
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are 
plunged, 



No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you ; 
It could not save, but will support you ever. 

\Exeunt 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. And have you confidence in such a project r 

Lor. I have. 

Bar. • 'Tis hard upon his years. 

Lor. Say rather 

Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 

Bar. 'Twill break his heart. 

Lor. Age has no heart to break 

He has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
Swerved. 

Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, never; 
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
Had nought to envy him within. Where is he ? 

Lor. In his own portion of the palace, with 
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 

Bar. Bidding farewell. 

Lor. A last. As soon he shall 

Bid to his dukedom. 

Bar. When embarks the son ? 

Lor. Forthwith — when this long leave is taken. 
'Tis 
Time to admonish them again. 

Bar. Forbear ; 

Retrench not from their moments. 

Lor. Not I, now 

We have higher business for our own. This day 
Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign, 
As the first of his son's last banishment, 
And that is vengeance. 

Bar. In my mind, too deep. 

Lor. 'Tis moderate — not even life for life, the rule 
Denounced of retribution from all time ; 
They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 

Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly ? 

Lor. Doubtless. 

Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion ? 

Lor. No. 

Bar. But if this deposition should take place 
By our united influence in the Council, 
It must be done with all the deference 
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 

Lor. As much of ceremony as you will, 
So that the thing be done. You may, for aughl 
I care, depute the Council on their knees, 
(Like Barbarossa to the Pope,) to beg him 
To have the courtesy to abdicate. 

Bar. What, if he will not ? 

Lor. We'll elect another, 

And make him null. 

Bar. But will the laws uphold us ? 

Lor. What laws ?— " The Ten " are laws ; and if 
they were not, 
I will be legislator in this business. 



334 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Bar. At your own peril ? 

Lor. There is none, I tell you 

Our powers are such. 

Bar. But he has twice already 

Solicited permission to retire, 
And twice' it was refused. 

Lor. The better reason 

To grant it the third time. 
Bar. Unask'd ? 

Lor. It shows 

The impression of his former instances : 
If they were from his heart, he may be thankful : 
If not, 'twill punish his hypocrisy. 
Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 
And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 
I have prepared such arguments as will not 
Fail to move them, and to remove him : since 
Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, 

do not 
Fom, with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 
And all will prosper. 

Bar. Could I but be certain 

This is no prelude to such persecution 
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
I would support you. 

Lor. He is safe, I tell you ; 

His fourscore years and five may linger on 
As long as he can drag them : 'tis his throne 
Alone is aim'd at. 
' Bar. But discarded princes 

Are seldom long of life. 

Lor. And men of eighty 

More seldom still. 

Bar. And why not wait these few years ? 

Lor. Because we have waited long enough, and he 
Lived longer than enough. Hence ! In to council ! 
[Exeunt Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Enter Mem mo and a Senator. 

Sen. A summons to " the Ten ! " Why so ? 

Mem. "The Ten" 

Alone can answer ; they are rarely wont 
To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
By previous proclamation. We are summon'd— 
That is enough. 

Sen. For them, but not for us ; 

I would know why. 

Mem. You will know why anon, 

If you obey ; and, if not, you no less 
Will know why you should have obey'd. 

Sen. I mean not 

To oppose them, but 

Mem. In Venice " but " 's a traitor. 

But me no "bids," unless you would pass o'er 
The Bridge which few repass. 

Sen. I am silent. 

Mem. Why 

Thus hesitate ? " The Ten " have call'd in aid 
Of their deliberation five and twenty 
Patricians of the senate — you are one, 
And I another ; and it seems to me 
Both honor'd by the choice or chance which leads us 
To mingle with a body so august. 

Sew. Most true, I say no more. 

Mem. As we hope, signor, 

And all may honestly (that is, all those 
Of noble blood may) one day hope to be 
Decemvii , it is surely for the senate's 
Chosen delegates, a school of wisdom, to 



Be thus admitted, though as novices, 
To view the mysteries. 

Sen. Let us view them : they 

No doubt, are worth it. 

Mem. Being worth our lives, 

If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
Something, at least to you or me. 

Sera. I sought not 

A place within the sanctuary ; but being 
Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
I shall fulfil my office. 

Mem. Let us not 

Be latest in obeying " The Ten's " summons. 

Sera. All are not met, but I am of your though. 
So far — let's in. 

Mem. The earliest are most welcome 

In earnest councils — we will not be least so. 

[Exeunt 
Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and Marina. 

Jac. Fos. Ah, father ! though I must and wil 
depart, 
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
That I once more return unto my home, 
Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
A point of time as beacon to my heart, 
With any penalty annex'd they please, 
But let me still return. 

Doge. Son Jacopo, 

Go and obey our country's will : 'tis not 
For us to look beyond. 

Jac. Fos. But still I must 

Look back. I pray you think of me. 

Doge. Alas ! 

You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
Now you are last ; but did the state demand 
The exile of the disinterred ashes 
Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth, 
And their desponding shapes came flitting round 
To impede the act, I must no less obey 
A duty, paramount to every duty. 

Mar. My husband ! let us on : this but prolongs 
Our sorrow. 

Jac. Fos. But we are not summon'd yet ; 
The galley's sails are not unfurl'd : — who knows ? 
The wind may change. 

Mar. And if it do, it will not 

Change their hearts, or your lot : the galley's oars 
Will quickly clear the harbor. 

Jac. Fos. O ye elements ! 

Where are your storms ? 

Mar. In human breasts. Alas 

Will nothing calm you ? 

Jac. Fos. Never yet did mariner 

Put up to patron saint such prayers for prosperous 
And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, 
Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which 
Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 
And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest ! 
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
Where I may mingle with the sands which skirt 
The land I love, and never shall see more ! 

Mar. And wish you this with me beside you ? 

Jac. Fos. No- 

No— not for thee, too good, too kind ! May'st tho* 
Live long to be a mother to those children 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



335 



Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives 

Of such support ! But for myself alone, 

May all the winds of heaven howl down the Gulf, 

And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 

Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me, 

As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 

Cast me out from among them, as an offering 

To appease the waves. The billow which destroys me 

Will be more merciful than man, and bear me, 

Dead, but still bear me to a native grave, 

From fisher's hands upon the desolate strand, 

Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 

One lacerated like the heart which then 

Will be But wherefore breaks it not ? why live I ? 

Mar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master 
Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 
A sufferer, but not a loud one : why 
What is this to the things thou hast borne in 

silence — 
Imprisonment and actual torture ? 

Jac. Fos. Double, 

Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are right, 
It must be borne. Father, your blessing. 

Doge. Would 

It could avail thee ! but no less thou hast it. 

Jac. Fos. Forgive 

Doge. What ? 

Jac. Fos. My poor mother, for my birth, 

And me for having lived, and you yourself 
(As I forgive you) for the gift of life, 
Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 

Mar. What hast thou done ? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing. I cannot charge 

My memory with much save sorrow : but 
I have been so beyond the common lot 
Chasten'd and visited, I needs must think 
That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
What I have undergone here keep me from 
A like hereafter ! 

Mar. Fear not : that's reserved 

For your oppressors. 

Jac. Fos. Let me hope not. 

Mar. • Hope not ? 

Jac. Fos. I cannot wish them all they have in- 
flicted. 

Mar. All! the consummate fiends ! A thousand 
fold 
May the worm which ne'er dieth, feed upon them ! 

Jac. Fos. They may repent. 

Mar. And if they do, Heaven will not 

Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

Enter an Officer and Guards. 

Offi. Signor ! the boat is at the shore — the wind 
Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 

Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once more, father, 
Your hand ! 

Doge. Take it. Alas ! how thine own trembles ! 

Jac. Fos. No — you mistake ; 'tis yours that 
shakes, my father. 
Farewell ! 

Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else ? 

Jac. Fos No — nothing. 

[To the Officer. 
Lend me your arm, good signor. 

Offi. You turn pale — 

Let me support you — paler — ho ! some aid there ! 
Some water ! 

Mar. Ah, he is dying ! 



Jac. Fos. Now, I'm ready — 

My eyes swim strangely — where's the door ? 

Mar. Away ! 

Let me support him — my best love ! Oh, God ! 
How faintly beats this heart — this pulse ' 

Jac. Fos. TThe light ! 

Is it the light ? — I am faint. , 

[Office?- presents him with water. 

Offi- He will be better, 

Perhaps iu the air. 

Jac. Fos. I doubt not. Fathes — wife — 

Your hands ! 

Mar. There's death in that damp, clammy grasp. 
Oh God! — My Foscari, how fare you ? 

Jac. Fos. Well ! 

[He dies. 

Offi. He's gone ! 

Doge. He's free. 

Mar. No — no, he is not dead , 

There must be life yet in that heart — he could not 
Thus leave me. 

Doge. Daughter ! 

Mar. Hold thy peace, old man, 

I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
Oh, Foscari ! 

Offi. We must remove the body. 

Mar. Touch it not, dungeon miscreants ! your baw 
office 
Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder, 
Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remains 
To those who know to honor them. 

Offi. I must 

Inform the signory, and learn their pleasure. 

Doge. Inform the signory from me, the Doge, 
They have no further power upon those ashes : 
While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject — 
Now he is mine — my broken-hearted boy ! 

[Exit Officer. 

Mar. And I must live ! 

Doge. Your children live, Marina. 

Mar. My children ! true — they live, and I must 
live 
To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
As died their father. Oh ! what best of blessings 
Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
Had been so ! 

Doge. My unhappy children ! 

Mar. What ! 

You feel it then at last — you ! — Where is now 
The stoic of the state ? 

Doge, (throwing himself down by the body.) Here I 

Mar. Ay, weep on ! 

I thought you had no tears — you hoarded them 
Until they are useless ; but weep on ! he never 
Shall weep more — never, never more. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 
Lor. What's here ? 

Mar. Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead . 
Avaunt ! 
Incarnate Lucifer ! 'tis holy ground. 
A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 
A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment ! 

Bar. Lady, we knew not of this sad event, 
But pass'd here merely on our path from council 
Mar. Pass on. 

Lor. We sought the Doge. 

Mar. {pointing to the Doge, who is still on the 
ground by his son's body.) He's busy,Took, 



336 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



About the business you provided for him. 
Are ye content ? 

Bar. We will not interrupt 

A parent's sorrows. 

Mar. No, ye only make them, 
Then lea^ them. 

Doge, (rising.) Sirs, I am ready. 

Bar. No — not now. 

Lor. Yet 'twas important. 

Doge. If 'twas so, I can 

Only repeat — I am ready. 

Bar. It shall not be 

Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 
Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 

Doge. I thank you. If the tidings which you bring 
Are evil, you may say them ; nothing further 
Can touch me more than him thou look'st on there. 
If they be good, say on ; you need not fear 
That they can comfort me. 

Bar. I would they could. 

Doge. I spoke not to you, but to Loredano. 
He understands me. 

Mar. Ah ! I thought it would be so. 

Doge. What mean you ? 

Mar Lo ! there is the blood beginning 

To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 
The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 

[To Loredano. 
Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
How death itself bears witness to thy deeds ! 

Doge. My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
Bear hence the body. [To his Attendants. .] Signors, 

if it please you, 
Within an hour I'll hear you. 

[Exeunt Doge, Marina, and Attendants with 
the body. 

[Manent Loredano atid Barbarigo. 

Bar. ' He must not 

Be troubled now. 

Lor. He said himself that nought 

Could give him trouble further. 

Bar. These are words ; 

But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
Upon it barbarous. 

Lor. Sorrow preys upon 

Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
From its sad visions of the other world 
Than calling it at moments back to this. 
The busy have no time for tears. 

Bar. And therefore 

You would deprive this old man of all business ? 

Lor. The thing's decreed. The Giunta and " the 
Ten" 
Have made it law — who shall oppose that law ? 

Bar. Humanity. 

Lor. Because his son is dead ? 

Bar. And yet unburied. 

Lor. Had we known this when 

The act was passing, it might have suspended 
Its passage, but impedes it not — once past. 

Bar. I'll not consent. 

Lor. You have consented to 

AH that's essential — leave the rest to me. 

Bar. Why press his abdication now ? 

Lor. The feelings 

Of private passion may not interrupt 
The public benefit ; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way before 
To-morrow for a natural accident. 



Bar. You have a son. 

Lor. I have — and had a father 

Bar. Still so inexorable ? 

Lor. Still. 

Bar. But let him 

Inter his son before we press upon him 
This edict. 

Lor. Let him call up into life 
My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
Even aged men, be, or appear to be, 
Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal : he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
Of the destructive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons, and he had four, are dead, without 
My dabbling in vile drugs. 

Bar. And art thou sure 

He dealt in such ? 

Lor. Most sure. 

Bar. And yet he seems 

All openness. 

Lor. And so he seem'd not long 

Ago to Carmagnuola. 

Bar. The attainted 

And foreign traitor ? 

Lor. Even so : when he, 

After the very night in which " the Ten " 
(Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
Met the great Duke at daybreak with a jest, 
Demanding whether he should augur him 
" The good day or good night ? " his Doge-ship 

answer'd, 
" That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil 
In which (he added with a gracious smile) 
There often has been question about you." * 
'Twas untrue ; the question was the death resolved 
Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he died ; 
And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, smiled 

on him 
With deadly cozenage, eight long months before- 
hand — 

Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 
Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
Is dead ; so is young Foscari and his brethren — 
I never smiled on them. 

Bar. Was Carmagnuola 

Your friend ? 

Lor. He was the safeguard of the city. 

In early life its foe, but, in his manhood, 
Its savior first, then victim. 

Bar. Ah ! that seems 

The penalty of saving cities. He 
Whom we now act against not only saved 
Our own, but added others to her sway. 

Lor. The Romans (and we ape them) gave a crown 
To him who took a city : and they gave 
A crown to him who saved a citizen 
In battle : the rewards are equal. Now 
If we should measure forth the cities taken 
By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
Destroy'd by him, or through him, the account 
Were fearfully against him, although narrow'd 
To private havoc, such as between him 



' An historical fact. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



337 



Aid my dead father. 

Bar. Are you then thus fix'd ? 

Lor. Why, what should change me ? 

Bar. That which changes me 

But you, I know, are marble to retain 
A feud. But when all is accomplish'd, when 
The old man is deposed, his name degraded, 
His sons all dead, his family depress'd, 
And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep ? 

Lor. More soundly. 

Bar. That's an error and you'll find it, 

Ere you sleep with your fathers. 

Lor. They sleep not 

In their accelerated graves, nor will 
Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing 

towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 

Bar. Fancy's distemperature ! There is no passion 
More spectral or fantastical than hate ; 
Not even its opposite, love, so peoples air 
With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. 



Enter an Officer. 

Lor. Where go you, sirrah r 

Offi. By the ducal order 

To forward the preparatory rites 
For the late Foscari's interment. 

Bar. Their 

Vault has been open'd of late years. 

Bar. 'Twill be full soon, and may be closed for ever. 

Offi. May I pass on r 

Lor. You may. 

Bar. How bears the doge 

This last calamity ? 

Offi. With desperate firmness ; 

In presence of another he says little, 
But I perceive his lips move now and then ; 
And once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 
Apartment, mutter forth the words — " my son ! " 
Scarce audibly. I must proceed. [Exit Officer. 

Bar. This stroke 

Will move all Venice in his favor. 

Lor. Right ! 

We must be speedy ; let us call together 
The delegates appointed to convey 
The council's resolution. 

Bar. I protest 

Against it at this moment. 

Lor. As you please — 

I'll take their voices on it ne'ertheless, 
And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine 
[Exeuut Barbarigo and Loredano 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 
The Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge and Attendants. 

Ait. My lord, the deputation is in waiting ; 
But add, that if another hour would better 
Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 

Doge. To me all hours are like. Let them 



approach. 



43 



[Exit Attendant 



An Officer. Prince ! I have done your bidding. 

Doge. What command i 

Offi. A melancholy one — to call the attendance 
Of 

Doge. True— true— true : I crave your pardon. I 
Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
Wax very old— old almost as my years. 
Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
To overtake me. 



Enter the Deputation, consisting of six of the 
Signorg, and the Chief of the Ten. 

Noble men, your pleasure ! 
Chief of the Ten. In the first place the Council 
doth condole 
With the Doge on his late and private grief. 
Doge. No more — no more of that. 
Chief of the Ten. Will not the Duke 

Accept the homage of respect ? 

Doge. I do 

Accept it as 'tis given — proceed. 

Chief of the Ten. " The Ten," 

With a selected giunta from the senate 
Of twenty-five of the best born patricians, 
Of the republic, and the o'erwhelmning cares 
Which at this moment, doubly must oppress 
Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
Have judged it fitting, with all reverence, 
Now to solicit from your wisdom, (which 
Upon reflection must accord in this,) 
The resignation of the ducal ring 
Which you have worn so long and venerably ; 
And to prove that they are not ungrateful nor 
Cold to your years and services, they add 
An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 
Doge. Did I hear rightly ? 
Chief of the Ten. Need I say again ? 

Doge. No. — Have you done? 
Chief of the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty foul 
Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 
Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 
Chief of the Ten. We 

Will now retire. 

Doge. Stay ! Four and twenty hours 

Will alter nothing which I have to say. 
Chief of the Ten. Speak ! 

Doge. When I twice before reiterated 

My wish to abdicate, it was refused me ; 
And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
An oath from me that I would never more 
Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 
In full exertion of the functions, which 
My country call'd me here to exercise, 
According to my honor and my conscience — 
I cannot break nig oath. 

Chief of the Ten. Reduce us not 
To the alternative of a decree, 
Instead of your compliance. 

Doge. Providence 

Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me ; 
But ye have no right to reproach my length 
Of days, since every hour has been the country's 
I am ready to lay down my life for her, 
As I have laid down dearer things than life : 
But for my dignity — I hold it of 
The whole republic ; when the general will 



338 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Is marifest, then you shall all be answer'd. 

Chief of the Ten. We grieve for such an answer ; 
but it cannot 
Avail you aught. 

Doge. I can submit to all things, 

But nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 
What you decree — decree. 

Chief of the Ten. With this, then, must we 

Return to those who sent us ? 

Doge. You have heard me. 

Chief of Hie Ten. With all due reverence we retire. 
[Exeunt the Deputation, S$-c. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. My lord, 

The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
Doge. My time is hers. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. My lord, if I intrude — 

Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 

Doge. Alone ! 

Alone, come all the world around me, I 
Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 

Mar. We will ; and for the sake of those who are, 
Endeavor Oh my husband ! 

Doge. Give it way ; 

I cannot comfort thee. 

Mar. He might have lived, 

So form'd for gentle privacy of life, 
So loving, so beloved ; the native of 
Another land, and who so blest and blessing 
As my poor Foscari ? Nothing was wanting 
Unto his happiness and mine, save not 
To be Venetian. 

Doge. Or a prince's son. 

Mar. Yes ; all things which conduce to other 
men's 
Imperfect happiness or high ambition, 
By some strange destiny, to him proved deadly. 
The country and the people whom he loved, 
The prince of whom he was the elder born, 
And 

Doge. Soon may be a prince no longer. 

Mar. How ? 

Doge. They have taken my son from me, and now 
aim 
At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
Let them resume the gewgaws ! 

Mar. Oh, the tyrants ! 

In such an hour, too ! 

Doge. 'Tis the fittest time : 

An hour ago I should have felt it. 

Mar. And 

Will you not now resent it ? — Oh for vengeance ! 
But he who, had he been enough protected, 
Might have repaid protection in this moment, 
Cannot assist his father. 

Doge. Nor should do so 

Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
Instead of that 

Mar. They tortured from him. This 

May be pure patriotism. I am a woman : 
To me my husband and my children were 
Country and home. I loved him — how I loved him ! 
I have seen him pass through such an ordeal as 
The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he is gone, 
And I, who would have given my blood for him, 
Have nought to give but tears ! But could I compass 



The retribution of his wrongs ! — Well, well ; 
I have sons who shall be men. 

Doge. Your grief distracts you. 

Mar. I thought I could have borne it, when I saw 
him 
Bow'd down by such oppression : yes, I thought 
That I would rather look upon his corse 
Than his prolong'd captivity : — I am punish'd 
For that thought now. Would I were in his grave ! 

Doge. I must look on him once more. 

Mar. Come with me ! 

Doge. Is he 

Mar. Our bridal bed is now his bier. 

Doge. And he is in his shroud ! 

Mar. Come, come, old man. 

[Exeunt the Doge and Marina. 

Enter Barbarigo and Loredano. 

Bar. (to an Attendant.) Where is the Doge ! 

Att. This instant retired hence 

With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 

Lor. Where ? 

Att. To the chamber where the body lies. 

Bar. Let us return, then. 

Lor. You forget, you cannot 

We hav<e the implicit order of the Giunta 
To await their coming here, and join them in 
Their office : they'll be here soon after us. 

Bar. And will they press their answer on the Doge ? 

Lor. 'Twas his own wish that all should be done 
promptly. 
He answer'd quickly, and must so be answer'd ; 
His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
Cared for— what would he more ? 

Bar. Die in his robes : 

He could not have lived long ; but I have done 
My best to save his honors, and opposed 
This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
Why would the general vote compel me hither ? 

Lor. 'Twas fit that some one of such different 
thoughts 
From ours should be a witness, lest false tongues 
Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 

Bar. And not less, I must needs think, for the sake 
Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 
A very Ovid in the art of hating ; 
'Tis thus (although a secondary object, 
Yet hate has microscopic eyes) to you 
I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 
This undesired association in 
Your Giunta's duties. 

Lor. How ! — my Giunta ! 

Bar. Yours ! 

They speak your language, watch your nod, approve 
Your plans, and do your work. Are they not yours* 

Lor. You talk unwarily. 'Twere best they hear 
not 
This from you. 

Bar. Oh ! they'll hear as much one day 

From louder tongues than mine ; they have gone 

beyond 
Even their exorbitance of power : and when 
This happens in the most contemn'd and abject 
States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 

Lor. You talk but idly. 

Bar. That remains for proof. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



339 



Here come our colleagues. 

Enter the Deputation as before. 
Chief of the Ten. Is the Duke aware 

We seek his presence ? 
Att. He shall be inform'd. 

[Exit Attendant. 
Bar. The Duke is with his son. 
Chief of the Ten. If it be so, 

We will remit him till the rites are over. 
Let us return. 'Tis time enough to-morrow. 
Lor. (aside to Bar.) Now the rich man's hell-fire 
upon your tongue, 
Unquench'd, unquenchable ! I'll have it torn 
From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! Sage 

signors, 
I pray ye be not hasty. [Aloud to the others. 

Bar. But be human. 

Lor. See, the Duke comes ! 

Enter the Doge. 

Doge. I have obey'*d your summons. 

Chief of the Ten. We come once more to urge 
our past request. 

Doge. And I to answer. 

Chief of the Ten. What ? 

Doge. My only answer. 

You have heard it. 

Chief of the Ten. Hear you then the last decree, 
Definitive and absolute ! 

Doge. To the point — 

To the point ! I know of old the forms of office, 
And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! 

Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge ; you 
are released 
From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mention'd in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your own private fortune. 

Doge. That last clause, 

I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 

Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 

Lor. Your answer, Francis Foscari ! 

Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old age 
Was prejudicial to the state, the chief 
Of the Republic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
His own high dignity before his country ; 
But this life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
But the decree being render'd, I obey. 

Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three 
days named extended, 
We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
As sign of our esteem. 

Doge. Not eight hours, signor, 

Nor even eight minutes — There's the ducal ring, 

[ Taking off his ring and cap. 
And there the ducal diadem. And so 
The Adriatic's free to wed another. 

Chief of the Ten. Yet go not forth so quickly. 

Doge. I am old, sir, 

And even to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. Methinks I see among you 



A face I know not — Sena tsc ! your name, 
You, by your garb, Chief if the Forty! 

Mem. Signor, 

I am the son of Marco Menimo. 

Doge. Ah ! 

Your father was my friend — but sons and fathers .'— 
What, ho ! my servants there ! 

Att. My prince ! 

Doge. No prince- 

There are the princes of the prince ! [Pointing to 

the Ten's deputation.'] — Prepare 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

Chief of the Ten. Why 

So rashly ? 'twill give scandal. 

Doge. Answer that ; 

[To the Ten. 
It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves : 

[To the Servants. 
There is one burden which I beg yo-u bear 
With care, although 'tis past all farther harm — 
But I will look to that myself. 

Bar. He means 

The body of his son. 

Doge. And call Marina, 

My daughter ! 

Enter Marina. 

Doge. Get thee ready ; we must mourn 
Elsewhere. 

Mar. And every where. 

Doge. True ; but in freedom, 

Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signors, you may depart : what would you more ? 
We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
The palace with us ? Its old walls, ten times 
As old as I am, and I'm very old, 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them not 
To fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
The Israelite and the Philistine's foes. 
Such power I do believe there might exist 
In such a curse as mine, provoked by such 
As you ; but I curse not. Adieu, good signors ! 
May the next duke be better than the present. 

Lor. The present duke is Paschal Malipiero. 

Doge. Not till I pass the threshold of these doors. 

Lor. Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
For his inauguration. 

Doge. Earth and heaven ! 

Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
Live to hear this ! — the first doge who e'er heard 
Such sound for his successor ! Happier he, 
My attainted predecessor, stern Faliero — 
This insult at the least was spared him. 

Lor. What ! 

Do you regret a traitor ? 

Doge. No — I merely 

Envy the dead. 

Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
By the private staircase, which conducts you towards 
The landing-place of the canal. 

Doge. No. I 

Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
To sovereignty — the Giants' Stairs, on whose 
Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
My services have called me up those steps, 



340 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The malice of my foes will drive me down them. 
There five and thirty years ago was I 
Install'd, and traversed these same halls, from which 
I never thought to be divorced except 
A corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for them — 
But not push'd hence by fellow-citizens. 
But come ; my son and I will go together — 
He to his grave, and I to pray for mine. 
Chief of the Ten. What ! thus in public ? 
Doge. I was publicly 

Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Marina ! art thou willing ? 
Mar. Here's my arm ! 

Doge. And here my staff: thus propp'd will I go 

forth. 
Chief of the Ten. It must not be — the people will 

perceive it. 
Doge. The people ! — There's no people, you well 
know it, 
Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
There is ^populace, perhaps, whose looks 
May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse 

you, 
Save with their hearts and eyes. 

Chief of the Ten. You speak in passion, 

Else— 

Doge. You have reason. I have spoken much 
More than my wont : it is a foible which 
Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
A dotage which may justify this deed 
Of yours, although the law does not, nor will. 
Farewell, sirs ! 

Bar. You shall not depart without 

An escort fitting past and present rank. 
We will accompany, with due respect, 
The Doge unto his private palace. Say ! 
My brethren, will we not ? 

Different Voices. Ay! — Ay! 

Doge. You shall not 

Stir — in my train, at least. I enter'd here 
As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
By the same portals, but as citizen. 
All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
Which only ulcerate the heart the more, 
Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
Pomp is for princes — I am none ! — That's false, 
I am, but only to these gates. — Ah ! 
Lor. Hark ! 

[The great bell of St. Mark's tolls. 
Bar. The bell! 

Chief of the Ten. St. Mark's which tolls for the 
election 
Of Malipiero. 

Doge. Well I recognize 

The sound ! I heard it once, but once before, 
And that is five and thirty years ago, 
Even then I teas not young. 

Bar. Sit down, my lord ! 

You tremble. 

Doge. 'Tis the knell of my poor boy ! 

My heart aches bitterly. 

Bar. I pray you sit. 

Doge. No ; my seat here has been a throne till 
now. 
Marina ! let us go. 

Mar. Most readily. 

Doge, (walks a few steps, then stops.) I feel 
athirst — will no one bring me here 



A cup of water ? 
Bar. I 

Mar. And I 

Lor. And I 

[The DofJE takes a goblet from the hand of 
Loredano. 
Doge. I take yours, Loredano, from the hand 
Most lit for such an hour as this. 
Lor. Why so ? 

Doge. 'Tis said that our Venetian crystal has 
Such pure antipathy to poisons as 
To burst, if aught of venom touches it. 
You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 
Lor. Well, sir ! 

Doge. , Then it is false, or you are true. 

For my own part, I credit neither ; 'tis 
An idle legend. 

Mar. You talk wildly, and 

Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my husband ! 
Bar. He sinks ! — support him ! — quick — a chair—" 

support him ! 
Doge. The bell tolls on ! — lets hence — my brain's 

on fire ! 
Bar. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 
Doge. No. 

A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy ! 
Off with your arms '.—That bell! 

[The Doge drops down and dies. 
Mar. My God ! My God ! 

Bar. (to Lor. J Behold ! your work's completed ! 
Chief of the Ten. Is there then 

No aid ? Call in assistance ! 
Att. 'Tis all over. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his obsequies 
Shall be such as befits his name and nation, 
His rank and his devotion to the duties 
Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
To do himself and them full justice. Brethren, 
Say, shall it not be so ? 

Bar. He has not had 

The misery to die a subject where 
He reign'd : then let his funeral rites be princely. 
Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then ? 
All, except Lor., answer, Yes. 

Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with him ! 
Mar. Signors, your pardon : this is mockery. 
Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, 
A moment since, while yet it had a soul, 
(A soul by whom you have increased your empire, 
And made your power as proud as was his glory,) 
And banish'd from his palace, and tore down 
From his high place, with such relentless coldness"; 
And now, when he can neither know these honors, 
Nor would accept them if he could, you,- signors, 
Purpose, with an idle and superfluous pomp, 
To make a pageant over what you trampled. 
A princely funeral will be your reproach, 
And not his honor. 

Chief of the Ten. Lady, we revoke not 
Our purposes so readily. 

Mar. I know it, 

As far as touches torturing the living. 
I thought the dead had been beyond even you, 
Though (some, no doubt) consign'd to power which 

may 
Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
Leave him to me ; you would have done so for 
His dregs of life, which you have kindly shorten'd 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



341 



It is my last of duties, and may prove 
A dreary comfort in my desolation. 
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 
And the apparel of the grave. 

Chief of the Ten. Do you 

Pretend still to this office ? 

Mar. I do, signor. 

Though his possessions have been all consumed 
In the state's service, I have still my dowry, 
"Which shall be consecrated to his rites, 
And those of [She stops with agitation. 

Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your children. 

Mar. Ay, they are fatherless, I thank you. 

Chief of the Ten. We 

Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and follow'd 
Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
As Doge, but simply as a senator. 

Mar. I have heard of murderers, who have interr'd 
Their victims ; but ne'er heard, until this hour, 
Of so much splendor in hypocrisy 
O'er those they slew. I've heard of widow's tears — 
Alas ! I have shed some — always thanks to you ! 



I've heard of heirs in sables — you have left none 
To the deceased, so you would act the part 
Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done ! as one day 
I trust Heaven's will be done too ! 

Chief of the Ten. Know you, lady, 

To whom you speak, and perils of such speech ? 

Mar. I know the former better than yourselves ; 
The latter — like yourselves ; and can face both. 
Wish you more funerals ? 

Bar. Heed not her rash words ; 

Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 

Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down. 

Bar. (turning to Lor., who is writing upon his 
tablets.) What art thou writing 
With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets ? 

Lor. (pointing to the Doge's body.) That he has 
paid me ! * 

Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe you ? 

Lor. A long and just one ; Nature's debt and 
mine. [Curtain falls. 



* " Vha pagata." An historical fact. See the History of Venice, br P 
Daru, page 411, vol. 2. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCAHL 



Extrait de VHistoire de la Repulique de Venise par 
P. Daru, de V Academie Francaise, torn. II. 

Depuis trente ans, la republique n'avait pas 
depose les armes. Elle avait acquis les provinces 
de Brescia, de Bergame, de Creme, et la principaute 
de Ravenne. 

Mais ces guerres continuelles faisaient beaucoup 
de malheureux et de mecontents. Le doge Fran- 
cois Foscari, a qui on ne pouvait pardonner d'en 
avoir ete le promoteur, manifesta une seconde fois, 
en 1442, et probablement avec plus de sincerite que 
la premiere, l'intention d'abdiquer sa dignite. Le 
conseil s'y refusa encore. Ou avait exige de lui le 
serment de ne plus quitter le dogat. II etait deja 
avance dans la vieillesse, conservant cependant 
beaucoup de force de tete et de caractere, et jouis- 
sant de la gloire d'avoir vu la rppublique etendre au 
loin les limites de ses domaines pendant son admin- 
istration. 

Au milieu de ces prosperitcs, de grands chagrins 
vinrent mettre a l'epreuve la fermete de son ame. 

Son fils, Jacques Foscari, fut accuse, en 1445, 
d'avoir recu des presents de quelques princes ou 
seigneurs etrangers, notamment, disait-on, du due 
de Milan, Philippe Visconti. C'etait non seulement 
une bassesse, mais une infraction des lois positives 
de la republique. 

Le conseil des dix traita cette affaire comme s'il 
se fut agi d'un delit commis par un particulier 
obscur L'accuse fut amene devant ses juges, 



devant le doge, qui ne crut pas pouvoir s'abstenir 
de presider le tribunal. La, il fut interroge, applique 
a la question,* declare coupable, et il entendit, de 
la bouche de son pere, l'arret qui le condamnait a 
un bannissement perpetuel, et lo releguait a Naples 
de Romanie, pour y finir ses jours. 

Embarque sur une galere pour se rendre au lieu 
de son exil, il tomba malade a Trieste. Les solicita- 
tions du doge obtinrent, non sans difficulte, qu'on 
lui assignat une autre residence. Enfin, le conseil 
des dix lui permit de se retirer a Trevise, en lui 
imposant l'obligation d'y rester sous peine de mort, 
et de se presenter tous les jours devant le gouverneur. 

II y etait depuis cinq ans, lorsqu'un des chefs du 
conseil des dix assassine. Les soupcons se porte- 
rent sur lui; un de ses domestiques qu'on avait vu 
a Venise fut arrete et subit la torture. Les bour- 
reaux ne purent lui arracher aucun aveu. Ce 
terrible tribunal se fit amener le maitrc, le soumit 
aux memes epreuves ; il resista a tous les tourments, 
ne cessant d'attester son innocence ; f mais on ne 



• E datagli la cordo per avere da lui la verita ; chiamato ft consiglio d>5 
dieci colla giunta, nel quale fu messer lo doge, fu sentenziato. (Mario 
Sanuto, Vite de Ducchi. F. Foscari.) 

t E fu tormentato ne maj confesso cosa alcuna, pure parve ai consiglio de* 
dieci di confmarlo in vita alia Canea. (Ibid.) Voici le texte de jugement : 
11 Cum Jacobus Foscari per occasionem percussionis et mortis Hermolai Do- 
nati fuit retentus examinatus, et propter significationes, testificationes, et 
scripturas quee habentur contra eum, clare apparet ipsum esse reum crimiud 
pradicti, sed propter incantationis et verba qua sibi reperta sunt, de quibus 
eiistit indictia manifesta, videtur propter obstiuatam mentem suam, non east 



342 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



vit dans cette Constance que de 'obstination ; de ce 
qu'il t^isait le fait, on conclut que ce fait existait ; 
on attribua sa fermete a la magie, et on le relegua a 
la Canoe. De cette terre lointaine, le banni, digno 
alors de quelque pitie, ne cessait d'ecrire a son pcre, 
a ses amis, pour obtenir quelque adoucissement a 
sa deportation. N'obtenant rien, et sachant que la 
terreur qu'inspirait le conseil des dix ne lui per- 
mettait pes d'esp.rer de trouver dans Venise une 
seule voix qui s'< levat en sa faveur; il fit une lettre 
pour le nouveau due ce Milan, par laquelle, au nom 
des bons offices que Sforce avail recus du chef de la 
republique, il implorait son intervention en faveur 
d'un innocent, du fils du doge. 

Cette lettre, selon quelqucs historiens, fut confine 
a un marchand, qui avait promis de la faire parvenir 
au due ; mais qui, trop averti de ce qu'il avait a 
craindre en se rendant l'intermediare d'une parcille 
correspondance, se hata, en debarquant a Venise, 
de la remettre au chef de tribunal. Une autre 
version, qui parait plus sure, rapporte que la lettre 
fut surprise par un espion, attache au pas de 
1' exile. * 

Ce fut un nouveau d^lit dont on eut a punir 
Jacques Foscari. Reclamer la protection d'un 
prince etranger etait un crime, dans un sujet de la 
republique. Une galrre partit sur-le-champ pour 
l'amener dans les prisons de Venise. A son arrivce 
il fut soumis a l'estrapade.f C't tait une singuliere 
destinee, pour le citoyer d'une republique et pour 
le fils d'un prince, d'etre trois fois dans sa vie 
applique a la question. Cette fois la torture etait 
d'autant plus odieuse, qu'elle n'avait point d'objet, 
le fait qu'on avait a lui reprocher, etant incontes- 
table. 

Quand on demanda a l'accuso, dans les intervalles 
que les bourreaux lui accordaient, pourquoi il avait 
ecrit la lettre qu'on lui produisait, il n pondit que 
e'etait precisement parce qu'il ne doutait pas qu'elle 
ne tombat entre les mains du tribunal, que toute 
autre voie lui avait ete fermee pour fair parvenir 
venir ses reclamations, qu'il s'attendait bien qu'on 
le ferait amener a Venise ; mais qu'il avait tout 
risqui' pour avoir la consolation de voir sa femme, 
son pere, et sa mere, encore une fois. 

Sur cette naive declaration, on confirma sa sen- 
tence d'exil ; mais on l'aggrava, en y ajoutant qu'il 
serait retenu en prison pendant un an. Cette 
rigueur, dont on usait envers un malheureux, etait 
sans doute odieuse ; mais cette politique, qui de- 
fendait a tous les citoyens de faire intervenir les 
etrangers dans les affaires interieures de la repub- 
lique, etait sage. Elle etait chez eux une maxime 
de gouverne'ment et une maxime inflexible. L'his- 
torien Paul Morosini % a conte que l'empereur 
Fredric III. pendant qu'il etait l'h6te des Venitiens, 
demanda, comme une faveur particuliere, l'admission 
d'un citoyen dans le grand conseil, et la grace 
d'un ancien gouverneur de Candie, gendre du doge, 
et banni pour sa mauvaise administration, sans 
pouvoir obtenir ni l'une ni l'autre. 

Cependant, on ne put refuser au condamne la 
permission de voir sa femme, ses enfants, ses pa- 
rents, qu'il allait quitter pour toujours. Cette der- 
niere entrevue mcrae fut accompagnee de cruautc, 
par la severe circonspection, qui retenait les 
epanchements de la douleur paternelle et conjugale. 



possible extrahere ab ipso illam veritatem, qua clara est per scripturas et per 
testificationes, quoniam in tune aliquam nee vocem, nee genjtum, sed solum 
intra dentes voces ipse videtur et auditur infra se loqui, etc. . . . Tanem non 
est standum in istis terminis, propter honorem staus nostri et pro multis res- 
pectibus, pnesertim quod regimen nostrim occupatur in hac re, et qui inter- 
dictum est amplins progredere : vadit pars, quod dictus Jacobus Foscari, 
propter ea qua habentur de illo, mittatur in coofinium in civitate Canes," 
etc. — Notice sur le proces de Jacques Foscari, dans un volume, intitule Rac- 
colta di memorie storiche e annecdote, per formar la Storia dell' eccellentis- 
simo consiglio di X della sua prima instituzione sino a' giorni nostri, con la 
diverse variazoni e riforme nelle varie epoche successe. (Archives de Venise.) 

• La notice citee ci dessus, qui rapporte les actes de cettes procedure. 

t Ebbe prima per sapere la verita trenta squassi di corda. (Marin Sanuto, 
Vite de' Ducbi. F. Foscari.) 

J Hinoria di Venezia, lib. 23. 



Ce ne fut point dans l'interieur de leur apparte- 
ment, ce fut dans une des grandes salles du palais, 
qu'une femme, accompagnee de ces quatre fils, vint 
faire les derniers adieux a son mari, qu'un pcre oc- 
togenaire et le dogaresse accablee d'infirmites, 
jouirent un moment de la triste consolation demeler 
leurs larmes a celles de leur exile. II se jetaa leurs 
genoux en leur tendant des mains disloquees par la 
torture, pour les supplier de solliciter quelque adou- 
cissement a la sentence qui venait d'etre prononcee 
contre lui. Son pere eut le courage de lui repondre : 
" Non, mon fils, respectez votre arret, et ofrissez 
sans murmure a la seigneurie." * A ces mots il se 
separa, de l'infortune, qui fut sur-le-champ em- 
barque pour Candie. 

L'antiquite vit avec autant d'horreur vue d'admi- 
ration un pere condamnant ses fils evidemment 
coupables. Elle hesita pour qualifier de vertu sub- 
lime ou de ferocite cet effort qui parait au-dessus de 
la nature humaine ; f mais ici, ou la premiere faute 
n'etait qu'une faiblesse, ou la seconde n'etait pas 
provee, ou la troisieme n'avait.rien de criminel, 
comment concevoir la Constance d'un pere, qui voit 
torturer trois fois sons fils unique, qui l'entend con- 
damner sans preuves, et qui n'eclate pas en plaintes ; 
qui ne l'aborde que pour lui montrer un visage plus 
austere qu'attendri, et qui, au moment de s'en 
separer pour jamais, lui interdit les murmures et 
jusqu'a i'esperance? Comment expliquer une si 
cruelle circonspection, si ce n'est en avouant, a 
notre honte, que la tyrannie peut obtenir de l'espece 
humaine les memes efforts que la vertu ? La servi- 
tude aurait-elle son hi rolsme comme la liberte ? 

Quelque temps apres ce jugement, ou decouvrit 
le veritable auteur de l'assassinat, dont Jacques 
Foscari, portait le peine ; mais il n'etait plus temps 
de reparer cette atroce injustice, le malheureux 
etait mort dans sa prison. 

II me reste a raconter la suite des malheurs du 
pere. L'histoire les attribue a l'impatience qu'ava- 
ient ses enemis et ses rivaux de voir vaquer sa place. 
Elle accuse formellement Jacques Loredan, l'un 
des chefs du conseil des dix, de s'etre livre contre 
ce viellard aux conseils d'une hame hereditaire, et 
qui depuis long temps divisait leurs maisons. J 

Francois Foscari avait essaye de le faire cessei, 
en offrant sa fille a l'illustre amiral Pierre Loredan, 
pour un de ses fils. L'alliance avait ete rejete, et 
l'inimitie des deux families s'en etait accrue. Dans 
tous les conseils, dans toutes les affaires, le doge 
trouvait toujours les Loredans prets a combattre 
ses propositions ou ses interets. II lui echappa un 
jour de dire qu'il ne se croirait rcellment prince, 
que lorsque Pierre Loredan aurait cesse de vivre. 
Get amiral mourut quelque temps apres, d'ime in- 
commodite assez prompte qu'on ne put expliquer. 
II n'en fallut pas davantage aux malveillants pour 
insinuer que Francois Foscari, ayant desire cette 
mort, pouvait bien l'avoir hatce. 

Ces bruits s'accrediterent encore lorsqu'on vit aussi 
prrir subitement Marc Loredan, fr're de Pierre, et 
cela dans le moment ou, en sa qualite d'avogador, il 



• Marin Sanuto, dans sa chronique, Vite de' Duchi, se sert ici sans en 
avoir eu l'intention d'une expression asaez en^iirique ; " II doge era vecchio 
in decrepita eta e caminiva con una rnazzelta : E quatldo gli audo parlogli 
moito constantemente che parea die non Ibsse suo figliuolo, licet fosse figliuolo 
unico, e Jacopo disse, messer padre, vi prego die procmi.u.- per me, acciocche 
io torni a casa mia. II doge disse : Jacopo, va e obbedisci a qucllo che vuole 
la terra, e non cercar pifl oltre." 

| Cela fut un acle que Ton ne sgauroit ny suffissament loner, ny assez 
blasmer : car, ou e'estoit une excellence de vertu, qui rendoit ainsi son cceur 
impassible, ou ame violence de p;ission qui le rendoit insensible, dont ne ['une no 
l'autre n'est chose petite, ainsi surpassant l'ordinaire d'humaine nature et 
tenant ou de la divinite ou de la bestialite. Mais il est plus raisonnable que 
le jugement des bommes s'accorde a sa gloire, que la foiblesse des Jugeans 
fasse des croire sa vertu. Mais pour lors quand il se fut retire, tout le monde 
demeura sur la place, comme transy d'horreur et de frayeur, par un long 
temps sans mot dire, pour avoir veu ce qui avait ete fait. (Plutarque, Vale- 
rius Publicola.) 

J Je suis principalement dans ce recit, une relation manuscrite de la depo- 
sition de Frangois Foscari, qui est dans le volume intitule Raccolta di memo- 
rie storiche e annecdote, per formar la Storia dell' excellentisaimo consiglio dl 
X. (Archives de Venise.) 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



343 



instruisait un proces contre Andre Donato, gendrc 
du doge, accuse de peculat. On ecrivit sur la tombe 
de l'amiral qu'il avait ete enleve a la patrie par le 
poison. 

II n'y avait aucune preuve, aucun indice contre 
Francois Foscari, aucune raison meme de le soup- 
conner. Quand sa vie entiere n'aurait pas dementi 
une imputation aussi odieuse, il savait que son rang 
ne lui prommettait ni l'impunite ni meme l'indul- 
gence. La mort tragique de l'un de ses predeces- 
seurs Ten avertissait, et il n'avait que trop d'exem- 
ples domestiques du soin que le conseil des dix 
prenait d'humilier le chef de la republique. 

Cependant, Jacques Loredan, fils de Pierre, 
croyait ou feignait de croire avoir a venger les 
partes de sa famille.* Dans ses livres de comptes 
(car il faisait le commerce, comme a cette epoque 
presque tous les patriciens,) il avait inscrit de sa 
propre main le doge au nombre de ses debiteurs, 
pour la mort, y etait-il-dit, de mon pere et de mon 
oncle.f De l'autre cote du registre, il avait laisse 
une page en blanc, pour y faire mention du recouvre- 
ment de cette dette, et en effet, apprts la parte du 
doge, il ecrivit sur son registre, il me l'a payee — 
l'ha pagata. 

Jacques Loredan fut elu membre du conseil des 
dix, en devint un des trois chefs, et se promit bien 
de profiter de cette occasion pour accomplir la ven- 
geance qu'il nv ditait. 

Le doge en sortant de la terrible epreuve qu'il 
Tenant de subir, pendant le proces de son fils, s'etait 
retire au fond de son palais, incapable de se Iivrer 
aux affaires, consume de chagrins, accable de 
vieillesse, il ne se montrait plus en public, meme 
dans les conseils. Cette retraite, si facile a expliquer 
dans un vieillard octogenaire si malheureux, deplut 
aux decemvirs, qui voulurent y voir un murmure 
contre ieur anets. 

Loredan commenca par se plaindre devant ses 
collegues du tort que les infirmites du doge, son 
absence des conseils, apportaient a l'expedition des 
affaires, il finit par hasarder et reussit a faire agreer 
la proposition de le deposer. Ce n'etait pas la 
premiere fois que Venise avait pour prince un 
homme dans la caducite ; l'usage et les lois y avaient 
pourvu ; dans ces circonstances le doge etait sup- 
plee par le plus ancien du conseil. Ici, cela ne 
suffisait pas aux ennemis de Foscari. Pour donner 
plus de solennite a la deliberation, le conseil des 
dix demanda une adjonction de vint-cinq senateurs ; 
mais comme on n'en enoncait pas l'objet, et que le 
grand conseil etait loin de le soupconner, il se 
trouva que Marc Foscari, frere du doge, leur fut 
donne pour l'un des adjoints. Au lieu de l'admettre 
e la d lib 'ration, ou de reclame contre se choix, on 
enferma ce senateur dans une chambre separee, et 
on lui fit jurer de ne jamais parler de cette exclusion 
qu'il eprouvait, en lui declarant qu'il y allait de sa 
vie; ce qui n'empucha pas qu'on n'inscrivit son 
nom au bas du decret comme s'il y eiit pris part.J 

Quand on en vint y la deliberation, Loredan la 
provoqua en ces termes : § "Si l'utilite publiquc 
doit imposer silence a tous les interets prives, je ne 
doute pas que nous ne prenions aujourd'hui une 
mesure que la patrie reclame que nous lui devons. 
Les etats ne peuvent se maintenir dans un ordre de 
choses immuable ; vous n'avez qu'a voir comme le 
ndtre est change, et combien il le serait d'avantage 
s'il n'y avait une autorite assez ferme pour y porter 
remede. J'ai honte de vous faire remarquer la con- 
fusion qui regne dans les conseils, le desordre des 
deliberations, l'encombrement des affaires, et la 
legerete avec laquelle les plus importantes sont 



* Hasce tanvn injurias qnamvia imaginarias non tarn ad auimum revoca- 
verat Jacobus Lauredanus defuucturum nepos, quam in abecaderium vindio 
tam opportuna. (Palazzi Pasti Ducales.) 

t Ibid, el i'Hisioire Venitienne de Vianolo. 

X II faut cependant remarquer que dans ia notice oil 1'on raconte ce fait, la 
deliberation est rapportee, que les vin^t-cinq adjoints y sont nomrnes, et que 
le nom de Marc Foscari ne s'y trouve pas. 

$ Cette harangue se lit dans la notice cilee ci-dessus. 



decidees ; la license de notre jeunesse, le peu 
d'assiduite des magistrats, l'introduction de nouve- 
autes dangereuses. Quel est l'effet de ces desordres ? 
de compromettre notre consideration. Quelle en 
est la cause ? l'absence d'un chef capable de moderer 
les uns, de diriger les autres, de donner l'exemple a 
tous, et de maintenir la force des lois. 

" Ou est le temps ou nos decrets etaient aussitdt 
executes que rendus ? Ou Francois Carrare se 
trouvait investi dans Padoue, avant de pouvoir etre 
seulement informe que nous voulions lui faire la 
guerre? nous avons vu teut le contraire dans la 
derniere guerre contre le due de Milan. Malheu- 
reuse la republique qui est sans chef! 

" Je ne vous rappelle pas tous ces inconvenients 
et leurs suites deplorables, pour vous affliger, pour 
vous effrayer, mais pour vous faire souvenir que 
vous etes les maitres, les conservateurs de cet etat, 
fonde par vos peres, et de la liberie que nous devons 
a leurs travaux, a leurs institutions. Ici, le mal 
indique le remede. ' Nous n'avons point de chef, il 
nous en faut un. Notre prince est notre ouvrage, 
nous avons done le droit de juger son merite quand 
il s'agit de l'elire, et son incapacite quand elle se 
manifeste. J'ajouterai que le peuple, encore bien 
qu'il n'ait pas le droit de prononcer sur les actions 
de ses maitres, hpprendra ce changement avec 
transport. C'est la providence, je n'en doute pas, 
qui lui inspire elle-meme ces dispositions, pour vous 
avertir que la republique reclame cette resolution, 
et que le sort de l'etat est en vos mains." 

Ce discours n'eprouva que de timides contradic- 
tions ; cependant, la deliberation dura huit jours. 
L'assemblee, ne se jugeant pas aussi sure de l'ap- 
probation universelle que l'arateur voulait le lui 
faire croire, desirait que le doge donnat lui-meme sa 
demission. II avait deja proposee deux fois, et on 
n'avait pas voulu l'accepter. 

Aucune loi ne portait que le prince fut revocable ; 
il etait au contraire a vie et les exemples qu'on 
pouvait citer de plusieurs doges deposes, prouvaient 
que de telles revolutions avaient toujours ete le 
resultat d'un mouvement populaire. 

Mais d'ailleurs, si le doge pouvait etre depose, ce 
n'etait pas assurement par un tribunal compose 
d'un petit nombre de membres, institue pour punir 
les crimes, et nullemcnt investi du droit de revoquer 
ce que le corps souverain de 1' etait avait fait. 

Cependant, le tribunal arreta que les six conseil- 
lers de la seigneurie, et les chefs du conseil des dix, 
se transporteraient aupres du doge pour lui signiger, 
que l'excellentissime conseil avait juge convenable 
qu'il abdiquat une dignite dont son age ne lui per- 
mettait plus de remplir les fonctions. On lui 
donnait 1500 ducats d'or pour son entretien et 
vingt-quatrt heures pour se debider.* 

Foscari repondit sur-le-champ avec beaucoup de 
gravite, que deux fois il avait voulu se demettre de 
sa charge ; qu'au lieu de le lui permettre, on avait 
exige de lui le serment de ne plus reiterer cette 
demande ; que la providence avait prolonge ses 
jours pour l'eprouver et pour l'afflige, que cependant 
on n'etait pas en droit de reproacher sa longue vie 
a un homme qui avait employe quatre-vingt-quatre 
ans au service de la republique ; qu'il etait pret 
encore a lui sacrifier sa vie ; mais que, pour sa 
dignite, il la tenait de la republique entiere, et qu'il 
se reservait de repondre sur ce sujet, quand la 
volonte generale se serait legalement manifestee. 

Le lendemain, a l'heure iudiquee, les conseillers 
et les chefs des dix se presenttrent. II ne voulut 
pas leur donner d'autre reponse. Le conseil s'as- 
sembla sur-le-champ, lui envoya demander encore 
une fois sa resolution seance tenante, et, la reponse 
ayant ete la meme, on prononca que le doge etait 
releve de son serment et depose de sa dignite, on 
lui assignait une pension de 1500 ducats d'or, en lui 
enjoignant de sortir du palais dans huit jours, sous 
peine de voir tous ses biens confisques.f 



* Ce Decret est rapporte textuellement dans la notice. 
+ La notice rapporte aussi ce decret. 



344 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Le lendemain, ce decret fut porte au doge, et ce 
fut Jacques Loredan qui eut la cruelle joie de le lui 
presenter. II rcpondit : " Si j'avais pu pn voir que 
ma vieillesse fut prejudiciable a l'l tat, le chef de la 
rcpublique ne se serait pas montre assez ingrat, 
pour preferer sa dignite a la patrie ; mais cette vie 
lui ayant ete utile pendant tant d'annees, je voulais 
lui en con sacrer jusqu'au dernier moment. Le 
dccret est rendu, je m'y conformerai." Api\ s avoir 
parle ainsi, il sc d pouilla des marques de sa digniti', 
remit l'anneau ducal, qui fut brise en sa pr sence. 
et des le jour suivant il quitta ce palais, qu'il avait 
habite pendant trente-cinq ans, accompagne de son 
frere, de ses parents, et de ses amis. Un secretaire, 
qui se trouva sur le perron, l'invita a descendre 
par un escalier derobc, afin d'eviter la foule du 
peuple, qui s'i tait rassernbl • dans les cours, mais 
il s'y refusa, disant quil voulait descendre par on il 
etait monte ; et quand il fut au bas de l'esealier 
des geants, il se retourna, appuye sur la beqiiiUe, 
vers le palais en prof rant ces paroles: " Mes 
services m'y avaient appelle, la malice de mes enne- 
mis m'en fait sortir." 

La foule qui s'ouvrait sur son passage, et qui avait 
peut-etre desire sa mort, etait emue de respect et 
d'attendrissement.* Rentiv dans sa maison, il re- 
commanda a sa famille d'oublier les injuries de ses 
ennemis. Personne dans les divers corps de l'etat 
ne se crut en droit de s'i tonner, qu'un prince ina- 
movile cut etc deposr sans qu'on lui reprochat 
rien : que l'etat cut perdu sod chef, a l'insu du senat 
et du corps souverain lui-meme. Le peuple seut 
laissa echapper quelques regrets : une proclamation 
du conseil des dix prescrivit le silence le plus absolu 
sur cette affaire, sous peine de mort. 

Avant de donner un successeur a Francois Fos- 
cari, une nouvelle loi fut rendu'e, qui defendait au 
doge d'ouvrir et de lire autrement qu'en pit sence de 
ses conseillers, les d pCches des ambassadeurs de k 
repubiique, et les lettres des princes ctrangers.f 

Les electeurs entrtrent au conclave et nommerent 
au dogat Paschal Malipier le 30 Octobre, 1457. La 
cloche de Saint-Marc, qui annoncait a Vtnise son 
nouveau prince, vint frapper l'oreille de Francois 
Foscari; cette fois sa fermete l'abandonna, il tprou- 
va un tel saisissement, qu'il mourut le lendemain. j 

La rcpublique arreta qu'on lui rendrait les memes 
honneurs funcbres que s'il fut mort dans l'exercice 
de sa dignite; mais lorsqu'on se pi\senta pour enlc 
ver ses restes, sa veuve, qui de son nom etait Marine 
Nani, di clara qu'elle ne le souifrirait point ; qu'on 
ne devait pas traitor en prince aprts sa mort celui 
qui vivant on avait depouille de la couronne, et que 
puisqu'il avait consume ses bien au service de l'etat, 
elle suurait, consacrer sa dot a lui faire rendres les 
derniers honneurs. § On ne tint aucun compte de 
cette resistance, et malgre les protestations de 
l'ancienne dogaresse, le corps fut enleve, revetu 
des ornemens ducaux, expose en public, et les 
obseques furent c< It bri es avee la pompe accou 
tumee. Le nouveau doge assista au convoi en robe 
de senateur. 

La pitie qu'avait inspiree le malheur de ce vieil 
lard, ne fut pas tout-a-fait sterile. Un an apres, on 
osa dire que le conseil des dix avait outrepasse ses 
pouvoirs, et il lui fut defendu par une loi du grand 
conseil de s'ing rer a l'avenir de juger le prince, a 
moins que ce ne fut pour cause de ftlonie.|| 

Un acte d'autorite tel que la d> position d'un 
doge inamovible de sa nature, aurait pu exciter un 
soub vement genera^, ou au moins occasioner une 
division dans une r. publique autrement constitute 
que Ycnise. Mais depuis trois ans, il existait dans 
cellc-ci une magistrature, ou plutot une autorite, 
devant laquelle tout devait se faire. 



Extrait de I'Histoire des RJpubliques Italiennes du 
Moyen Age. Par J. C. L. Simonde de Sismondi, 
torn. x. 

Le Doge de Venise, qui avait prevenu par ce 
traite une guerre non moins dangeruse que celle 
qu'il avait terminee presque en me me temps par le 
traite de Lodi, etait alors parveuu a une extreme 
vieillesse. Francois Foscari occupait cette pre- 
mii re dignite de l'etat des le 15 Avril, 1423. Quoi- 
qu'il fut deja age de plus decinquante-un ans a 
l'epoque de son election', iletait cependant le plus 
jeune des quarante-un < lecteurs. II avait eu beau- 
coup de peine a parvenir au rang qu'il convoitait, 
et son ( lection avait ( te conduite avec beaucoup 
d'addresse. Pendant plusieurs jours de scrutin ses 
amis les plus zi h s s 'etaient abstenus de lui donner 
leur suffrage, pour que les autres ne le considt ras- 
sent pas comme un concurrent redoubtable.* Le 
conseil des dix craignait son credit parmi la noblesse 
pauvre, parce qu'il avait cherche a se la rendre 
favorable, tandis qu'il etait procurateur de Saint- 
Marc, en faisant employer plus de trente mille 
ducats a doter des jeunes filles de bonne maison, ou 
a etablir de jeunes gentilshommes. On craignait 
encore sa nombreuse famille, car alors il etait ptre 
de quatre enfans, et marie de nouveau ; enfin on 
redoutait son ambition et son gout pour la guerre. 
L 'opinion que ses adversaires s'ttaient formfe de 
lui fut verifiee par les ( vt nemens ; pendant trente- 
quatre ans que Foscari fut a la tete de la n publique, 
elle ne cessa point de combattre. Si les hostilitcs 
etaient suspendues durant quelques mois, e'etait 
pour recommencer bientot avec plus de vigueur. 
Ce fut l'epoque ou Yenise etendit son empire sur 
Brescia, Bergame, Ravenne, et Creme ; ou elle 
fonda sa domination de Lombardie, et parut sans 
cesse sur le point d'asservir toute cette province. 
Profond, courageux, inrbranlable, Foscari com- 
muniqua aux conseils son propre caractcre, et ses 
talents lui firent obtenir plus d'influence sur la 
repubiique que n'avaient exerce la plupart de ses 
pr- d' cesscurs. Mais si son ambition avait eu pour 
but l'aggrandissement de sa famille, elle fut cruel- 
lement trompee ; trois de ses fils moururent dans 
les huit annces qui suivirent son election ; le 
quatritme, Jacob, par lequel la maison Foscari s'est 
perp<tu<e, fut victime de la jalousie du conseil des 
dix, et empoisonna par ses malheurs les jours de 
son pore.f 

En effet, le conseil des dix, redoublant de defiance 
envers le chef de l'etat, lorsqu'il le voyait plus fort 
par ses talens et sa popularity veillait sans cesse 
siir Foscari, pour le punir de son credit, et de sa 
gloire. Au mois de Fevrier, 1445, Michel Bevilacqua, 
Florentin, exile a Yenise, accusat en secret Jacques 
Foscari, aupres des inquisiteurs d'etat, d'avoir recu 
du due Philippe Yisconti, des presens d'argent et 
de joy aux, par les mains des gens de sa maison. 
Telle etait l'odieuse procedure adoptee a Venise, 
que sur cette accusation secrete le fils du doge du 
representant de la majeste de la rcpublique, fut mis 
a la torture. On lui arracha par l'estrapade l'aveu, 
des charges port< es contre lui ; il fut rel< gue pour 
le reste de ses jours a Napoli de Romanie, avec 
obligation de sc presenter chaque matirf' au com- 
mandant de la place, j Cependant, le vaisseau qui 
le portait ayant louche a Trieste, Jacob, grieve- 
ment malade des suites de la torture, et plus encore 
de 1'humiliatioB qu'il avait eprouvee, demanda en 
grace au conseil des dix de n'etre pas envoye plus 
loin. II obtint cette faveur, par une d liberation du 
28 Decembre, 1446 ; il fut rappele a Trevise : et il 
eut la liberte d'habiter tout le Trevisan indifferem- 
ment.^ 

II vivait en paix a Trevise ; et la fille de Leonard 



* On lit dans la notice ces propres mots : " Se losse stato in loro potere 
tolortieri lo avrebbero restituito." 
t Hist, di Venetia, di Paolo Morosini, lit. 24. 
I Hist, di Pietro Justiniani, lib. 8. 
5 Hist. d'Ejjnatio, liv. 6, cap. 7. 
U Ce decret est du 25 Octobre, 1458. La notice le rappone. 



* Marin Sanuto, Vite de' Duchi di Venezia, p. 967. 
+ Ibid. p. 968. 
X Ibid. p. 968. 
§ Ibid. p. 1123. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



345 



Contarini, qu'il avait epousee le 10 Fevrier, 1441, 
etait venue le joindre dans son exil, lorsque le 5 
Novembre, 1450, Almoro Donato, chef du conseil 
des dix, fut assassine. Les deux autres inquisiteurs 
d'<'tat, Triadano Gritti et Antonio Venieri, porterent 
leur soupcons sur Jacob Foscari, paice-qu'un 
domestique a lui, nomine Olivier, avait ete vu ce 
soir-li m3me a Venise, et avait des premiers donne 
la nouvelle de cet assassinat. Olivier fut mis a la 
torture, mais il nia jusqu'a la fin, avec un courage 
inebranlable, le crime dont on l'accusait, quoique 
ses juges eussent la barbarie de lui faire donner 
jusqu'a quatre-vingts tours d'estrapade. Cepen- 
dant, comme Jacob Foscari avait de puissans motifs 
d'inimitie contre le conseil des dix, qui l'avait con- 
damn', et qui temoignait de la haYne au doge son 
pi re, on essay a de mettre a son tour Jacob a la 
torture, et Ton prolongea contre lui ces affreux 
tourmens, sans reussir a en tirer aucune confession. 
Malgre sa denegation, le conseil des dix le condamna 
a Ctre transporte a la Can' e, et accorda une recom- 
pense a son delateur. Mais les horribles douleurs 
que Jacob Foscari avait eprouvees avaieut trouble 
sa raison, ses persecuteurs touches de ce dernier 
malheur, permirent qu'on le ramenat a Venise le 25 
Mai, 1451. II embrassa son pere, il puisa dans ses 
oxhortations quelque courage et quelque calme, 
et il fut reconduit imm»diatement a la Came.* 
Sur ces entrefaites, Nicolas Erizzo, homme deja 
note pour un precedent crime, con&ssa, en mou- 
rant, que c'etait lui qui avoit tue Almoro Do- 
nato. f 

Le malheureux doge, Francois Foscari, avait deja 
cherche a plusieurs reprises, a abdiquer une dignite 
si funeste a lui-meme et a sa famille. II lui sem- 
blait que, redescendu au rang de simple citoyen, 
comme il n'inspirerait plus de crainte ou de jalousie, 
on n'accablerait plus son fils par ces efiroyables 
persecutions. Abattu par la mort de .ses premiers 
enfans, il avoit voulu, des le 26 Juiu, 1433, deposer 
une dignite, durant l'exercice de laquelle sa patrie 
avait ete tourmentee par la guerre, par la peste, et 
par des malheurs de tout genre. £ II renouvela cette 
proposition apres les jugemens rendus contre son 
fils ; mais le conseil des dix le retenait forcement 
sur le tr6ne, comme il retenait son fils dans les 
fers. 

En vain Jacob Foscari, oblige de se presenter 
chaque jour au gouverneur de la Canee, reclamait 
contre l'injustice de sa derniere sentence, sur 
laquelle la confession d'Erizzo ne lassait plus de 
doutes. En vain il demandait grace au farouche 
conseil des dix ; il ne pouvait obtenir aucune 
reponse. Le desir de revoir son pere et sa mere," 
arrives tous deux au dernier terme de la vieillesse, 
le desir de revoir une patrie dont la cruaute ne 
meritait pas un si tendre amour, se changerent en 
lui en une vraie ureur. Ne pouvant retourner a 
Venise pour y vivre libre, il voulut du moins y aller 
cheicher un supplice. II ecrivit au due de Milan 
a la fin de Mai, 1456, pour implorer sa protection 
aupres du senat : et sachant qu'une telle lettre 
serait consideree comme un crime, il l'exposa lui- 
meme dans un lieu ou il etait sur qu'elle serait 
saisie par les espions qui l'entouraient. En effet, 
la lettre etant deferee au conseil des dix, on l'envoya 
chercher aussitot, et il fut reconduit a Venise le 19 
Juillet, 1456.§ 

Jacob Foscari ne nia point sa lettre, il raconta en 
meme temps dans quel but il l'avait ecrite et com- 
ment il l'avait fait tomber entre les mains de son 
delateur. Malgre ces aveux, Foscari fut remis a la 
torture, et on lui donna trente tours d'estrapade, 
pour voir s'il confirmerait ensuite ses depositions. 
Quand on le detacha de la corde, on le trouva 



* Marin Sanuto, Vite de' Duchi di Venezia, p. 1138.— M. Ant. Sabellico, 
Dcoa III. L. IV. f. 187. 
t Marin Sanuto, p. 1139. 
j Ibid. p. 1032. 
§ Ibid. p. 1162. 

44 



dechire par ces horribles secousses. Les juges 
permirent alms a son pere, a sa mere, a sa femme, 
et a ses fils, d'aller le voir dans sa prison. Le vieux 
Foscari, appuye sur sun baton, ne se traina qu'avec 
peine, dans la chambre ou son fils unique etait panse 
de ses blessures. Ce fils demandait encore la grace 
de mourir dans sa maison. — " Retourne a ton exil, 
mon fils, puisque ta patrie l'ordonne," lui dit le 
doge, " et soumets-toi a sa volonte." Mais en 
rentrant dans son palais, ce malheureux vieillard 
s'evanoult, epuise par la violence qu'il s'> tait 
faite. Jacob devait encore passer une amre en 
prison a la Canee, avant qu'on lui rendit la 
meme liberte limitee a laquelle il etait reduit 
avant cet evenement ; mais a peine fut .il d^ - 
barque sur cette terre d'exil, qu'il y mourut de 
douleur.* 

Des-lors, et pendant quinze mois, le vieux doge, 
accable d'annees et de chagrins, ne recouvra plus la 
force de son corps ou eelle de son ame ; il n'assistait 
plus a aucun des conseils, et il ne pouvait plus 
remplir aucune des fonctions de sa dignite. II etait 
entre dans sa quatre-vingt-sixieme annee, et si le 
conseil des dix avait ete susceptible de quelque 
pitie, il aurait attendu en silence la fin, sans doute 
prochaine, d'une carriere marquee part tant de gloire 
et tant de malheurs. Mais le chef du conseil des dix 
etait alors Jacques Loredano, fils de Marc, et neveu 
de Pierre, le grand amiral, qui touteleur vie avaient 
ete les ennemis acharnes du vieux doge. lis avaient 
transmis leur haYne a leurs enfans, et cette vieille 
ranc une »n' etait pas encore satisfaite.f A l'insti- 
gation de Loredano, Jerome Barbarigo, inquisiteur 
d'etat, proposa au conseil des dix, au mois d'Octo- 
bre, 1457, de soumettre Foscari a une nouvelle 
humiliation. Des que ce magistrat ne pouvait plus 
remplir ses fonctions, Barbarigo demanda qu'on 
nommat un autre doge. Le conseil, qui avait refuse 
par deux fois l'abdication de Foscari, parce que la 
constitution ne pouvait la permettre, hesita avant 
de se mettre en contradiction avec ses propres 
decrets. Les discussions dans le conseil et la junte 
se prolongerent pendant huit jours, jusque fort 
avant dans le nuit. Cependant, on fit entrer dans 
l'assemblee Marco Foscari, procurateur de Saint- 
Marc, et frere du doge, ppur qu'il fut lie par le 
redoubtable serment du secret, et qu'il ne put arre- 
ter les menees de ses ennemis. Enfin, le conseilse 
rendit aupres du doge, et lui demanda d'abdiquer 
volontairement un emploi qu'il ne pouvait plus 
exercer. " J'ai jure," repondit le vieillard, " de 
remplir jusqu'a ma mort, selon mon honneur et ma 
canscience, les fonctions auxquelles ma patrie m'a 
appele. Je ne puis medelir moi-meme de mon 
sermenf ; qn'un ordre des conseils dispose de moi, 
je m'y soi*mettrai, mais je ne le devancerai pas." 
Alors une nouvelle deliberation du conseil delia 
Francois Foscari de son serment ducal, lui assura 
une pension de deux mille ducats pour le reste de 
sa vie, et lui ordonna d'evacuer en trois jours le 
palais, et de depeser les ornemens de sa dignite. 
Le doge ayant remarque parmi les conseillers qui 
lui porterent cet ordre, un chef de quarante qu'il 
ne connoissait pas demanda son nom : " Je suis le 
fils de Marco Memmo," lui dit le conseiller. — "Ah! 
ton pere etait mon ami," lui dit le vieux doge, en 
soupirant. II donna aussitot des ordres pour qu'on 
transportat ses effets dans une maison a lui ; et le 
lendemain 23 Octobre on le vit, se soutenat a peine, 
et appuye sur son vieux frere, redescendere ces 
memes escaliers sur lesquels, trente-quatre ans 
auparavant, on l'avait vu installe avec tant de 
pompe, et traverser ces memes salles ou la repub- 
lique avait recu rer sermens. Le peuple entier 
parut indigne de tant de durete exercee contre un 
vieillard qu'il respectait et qu'il aimait; mais le 
conseil des dix fit publier une defense de parler de 



• Marin Sauuto, p. 1163.— Navagiero, Stor. Venez. p. 1118. 

t Vetter Saudi Storia civile Veneaana P. II. L. VIII. p. 715—717. 



346 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cette revolution, sous peine d'etre traduit devant 
les inquisiteurs d'etat. Le 20 Octobre, Pasqual 
Malipieri, procurateur de Saint-Marc, fut elu pour 
successeur de Foscari ; celui-ci n'eut pas neanmoins 
l'humiliation de vivre sujet, la ou il avait regne. 
En entendant le son des cloches, qui sonnaient en 
actions de graces pour cette election, il mourut 
subiteraent d'une hemorrhagic causee par une veine 
qui s'eclata dans sa poitrine.* 



"Le doge, blesse de trouver constamment un 
contradicteur et un censeur si amer dans son fr<re, 
lui dit un jour en plein conseil: "Messire Augustin, 
vous faite tout voire possible pour hater ma mort ; 
vousvous flattez de me succeder; mais, si les autres 
vous connaissent aussi bien que je vous connais, ils 
n'auront garde de vous elire." La-dcssus il se le 
leva, emu del colore, rentra dans son appartcment, 
et mourut quelques jours apres. Ce frere, contre 
le lequel il s'etait emporte, fut precisement le suc- 
cesseur qu'on lui donna. C'etait un mi rite dont 
on aimait a tenir compte ; surtout a un parent, de 
s'rtre mis en opposition avec le chef de la repub- 
lique."t — Daru, Histoire de Venise, vol. ii. sec. xi. 
p. 533. 



In Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent work 
upon " Italy," I perceive the expression of "Rome 
of the Ocean " applied to Venice. The same phrase 
occurs in the "Two Foscari." My publisher can 
vouch for me that my tragedy was written and sent 
to England some time before I had seen Lady Mor- 
gan's work, which I only received on the 16th of 
August. I hasten, however, to notice the coinci- 
dence, and to yield the -originality of the phrase to 
her who first placed it before the public. I am the 
more anxious to do this, as I am informed (for I 
have seen but few of the specimens, and those 
accidentally) that there have lately been brought 
against me charges of plagiarism. I have also had 
an anonymous sort of threatening intimation of 
the same kind, apparently with the intent of extort- 
ing money. To such charges I have no answer to 
make. One of them is ludicrous enough. I am 
reproached for having formed the description of a 
shipwreck in verse from the narrative of many 
actual shipwrecks in 2»'Ose, selecting such materials 
as were most striking. Gibbon makes it a merit 
in Tasso " to have copied the minutest details of 
the Siege of Jerusalem from the Chronicles." In 
me it may be a demerit, I presume : let it remain 
so. Whilst I have been occupied in defending 
Pope's character, the lower orders of Grub street 
appear to have been assailing mine: this is as it 
should be, both in them and in me. One of the accu- 
sations in the nameless epistle alluded to is still 
more laughable : It states seriously that I " received 
five hundred pounds for writing advertisements for 
Day and Martin's patent blacking ! " This is the 
highest compliment to my literary powers which I 



* Marin Sanuto, Vite de' Duchi di Venezia, p. 1164. Chronicon Eu<ti- 

binum, T. XXI. p. 992. — Christoforo da Soldo Istoria Bresciana, T. XXI. p. 
891. — Navagiero, Storio Veueziana, XXI. p. 1120. M. A. Sabellico Deca 
III. l. vni. f. 201. 

t The Venetians appear to have had a particular turn for breaking the 
hearts ol" their Doges j the above is another instance of the kind in the Doge 
Marco Barbarigo ; he was succeeded by his brother Augustino Barbarigo, 
whose chie*" merit is above mentioned. 



ever received. It states also " that a person has 
been trying to make the acquaintance of Mr. 
Townsend, a gentleman of the law, who was with 
me on business in Venice three years ago, for the 
purpose of obtaining any defamatory particulars of 
my life from this occasional visiter." Mr. Town- 
send is welcome to say what he knows. I mention 
these particulars merely to show the world in 
general what the literary lower world contains, and 
their way of setting to work. Another charge made, 
I am told, in the " Literary Gazette " is, that I 
wrote the notes to " Queen Mab : " a work which I 
never saw till some time after its publication, and 
which I recollect showing to Mr. Sotheby as a poem 
of great power and imagination. I never wrote a 
line of the notes, nor ever saw them except in their 
published form. No one knows better than their 
real author, that his opinions and mine differ 
materially upon the metaphysical portion of that 
work ; though in common with all who are 
not blinded by baseness and bigotry, I highly 
admire the poetry of that and his other publi 
cations. 

Mr. Southey, too, in his pious preface to a poem 
whose blasphemy is as harmless as the sedition of 
Wat Tyler, because it is equally absurd with that 
sincere production, calls upon the " legislature to 
look to it," as the toleration of such writings led to 
the French Revolution : not such writings as Wat 
Tyler, but as those of the " Satanic School." This 
is not true, and Mr. Southey knows it to be not 
true. Every French writer of any freedom was 
persecuted ; Voltaire and Rousseau were exiles, 
Marmontel and Diderot were sent to the Bastile, 
and a perpetual war was waged with the whole class 
by the existing despotism. In the next place the 
French Revolution was not occasioned by any 
writings whatsoever, but must have occurred had 
no such writers ever existed. It is the fashion to 
attribute every thing to the French Revolution, 
and the French Revolution to every thing but its 
real cause. That cause is obvious — the government 
exacted too much, and the people could neither give 
nor bear more. Without this, the Encyclopedists 
might have written their fingers off without the 
occurrence of a single alteration. And the English 
Revolution — (the first, I mean) — what was it occa- 
sioned by ? The Puritans were surely as pious and 
moral as Wesley or his biographer ! Acts — acts on 
the part of government, and not writings against 
them, have caused the past convulsions, and are 
tending to the future. 

I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolu- 
tionist ; 1 wish to see the English constitution 
restored and not destroyed. Born an aristocrat, 
and naturally one by temper, with the greater part 
of my present property in the funds, what have / to 
gain by a revolution ? Perhaps, I have more to 
lose in every way than Mr. Southey, with all his 
places and presents for panegyrics and abuse into 
the bargain. But that a revolution is inevitable, I 
repeat. The government may exult over the repres- 
sion of petty tumults ; these are but the receding 
waves repulsed and broken for a moment on the 
shore, while the great tide is still rolling on and 
gaining ground with every breaker. Mr. Southey 
accuses us of attacking the religion of the country ; 
and is he abetting it by writing lives of Wesley* 
One mode of worship is merely destroyed by 
another. There never was, nor ever will be, a 
country vtfithout a religion. We shall be told of 
France again ; but it was only Paris and a frantic 
party, which for a moment upheld their dogmatic 
nonsense of theophilanthropy. The church of Eng- 
land, if overthrown, will be swept away by the 
sectarians, and not by the skeptics. People are 
too wise, too well-informed, too certain of their 
own immense importance in the realms of space, 
ever to submit to the impiety of doubt. There 
may be a few such diffident speculators, lik« 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



347 



water in the pale sunbeam of human reason, 
but they are very few ; and their opinions, with- 
out enthusiasm or appeal to the passions, can 
never gain proselytes — unless, indeed, they are 
persecuted — that, to be sure, will increase any- 
thing. 

Mr. S. with a cowardly ferocity, exults over the 
anticipated " death-bed repentance " of the objects 
of his dislike ; and indulges himself in a pleasant 
"Vision of Judgment," in prose as well as verse, 
full of impious impudence. What Mr. S.'s sensa- 
tions or ours may be in the awful moment of leaving 
this state of existence neither he nor we can pre- 
tend to decide. In common, I presume, with most 
men of any reflection, / have not waited for a 
"death-bed" to repent of many of my actions, 
notwithstanding the "diabolical pride" which this 
pitiful renegado in his rancour would impute to 
those who scorn him. Whether upon the whole 
the good or evil of my deeds may preponderate is 
not for me to ascertain ; but, as my means and 
opportunities have been greater, I shall limit my 
present defence to an assertion (easily proved, if 
necessary), that I, "in my degree," have done 
more real good in any one given year, since I was 
twenty, than Mr. Southey in the whole course of his 
shifting and turn-coat existence. There are several 
actions to which I can look back with an honest 
pride, not to be damped by the calumnies of a hire- 
ling. There are others to which I recur with sorrow 
and repentance ; but the only act of my life of 
which Mr. Southey can have any real knowledge, 



as it was one which brought me in contact with a 
near connexion of his own, did no dishonor to that 
connexion nor to m*! 

I am not ignorant of Mr. Southey's calumnies on 
a different occasion, knowing them to be such, 
which he scattered abroad on his return from 
Switzerland against me and others : they have done 
him no good in this world, and, if his creed be the 
right one, they will do less in the next. What his 
"death-bed"' may be, it is not* my province to 
predicate: let him settle it with his Maker, as I 
must do with mine. There is something at once 
ludicrous and blasphemous in this arrogant scribbler 
of all work sitting down to deal damnation and 
destruction upon his fellow-creatures, with Wat 
Tyler, the Apotheosis of George the Third, and the 
Elegy on Martin the regicide, all shuffled together 
in his writing-desk. One of his consolations ap- 
pears to be a Latin note from the work of a Mr. 
Landor, the author of " Gebir," whose friendship 
for Robert Southey will, it seems, "be an honor to 
him when the ephemeral disputes and ephemeral 
reputations of the day are forgotten." I for one 
neither envy him " the friendship," nor the glory in 
reversion which is to accrue from it, like Mr. Thelus- 
son's fortune in the third and fourth generation. 
This friendship will probably be as memorable as 
his own epics, which (as I quotod to him ten or 
twelve years ago in "English Bards") Porson said 
" would be remembered when Homer and Virgil are 
forgotten, and not till then." For the present, I 
leave him. 



SARDANAPALUS ; 

A TRAGEDY. 

TO 

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE 

A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE 

OF A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGE LORD, THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, 

WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY, 

AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 

THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM 

IS ENTITLED . 

SARDANAPALUS. 



PREFACE. 

In publishing the tragedies of Sardanapalus and 
the Two Foscari, I have only to repeat that they were 
not composed with the most remote view to the stage. 

On the attempt made by the Managers in a for- 
mer instance, the public opinion has been already 
expressed. " 

With regard to my own private feelings, as it 
seems that they are to stand for nothing, I shall 
say nothing. 

For the historical foundation of the compositions 
in question, the reader is referred to the Notes. 

The Author has in one instance attempted to 
preserve, and in the other to approach the " uni- 
ties ; " conceiving that with any very distant depar- 
ture from them, there may be poetry, but can be no 
drama. He is aware of the unpopularity of this 
notion in present English literature ; but it is not a 
system of his own, being merely an opinion, which, 
not very long ago, was the law of literature through- 
out the world, and is still so in the more civilized 
parts of it. But "Nous avons change tout cela," 
and are reaping the advantages of the change. The 
writer is far from conceiving that any thing he can 
adduce by personal precept or example can at all 
approach his regular, or even irregular predecessors ; 
he is merely giving a reason why he preferred the 
more regular formation of a structure however 
feeble, to an entire abandonment of all rules what- 
soever. Where he has failed, the failure is in the 
architect, — and not in the art. 



In this tragedy it has been my intention to follow 
the account of Diodorus Siculus : reducing it, how- 
ever, to such dramatic regularity as I best could, 
and trying to approach the unities. I therefore 
suppose the rebellion to explode and succeed in one 
day by a sudden conspiracy instead of the long war 
of the history. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Men. — Sardanapalus, King of Nineveh, and 

Assyria-, <§•<?. 
Arbaces, the Mede, who aspired to the 

Throne. 
Beleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
Salememes, the King's Brother-in-law. 
Altada, an Assyrian Officer of the 

Palace. 
Pania. 
Zames. 
Sfero. 
Balea. 

Women. — Zarina, the Queen. 

Myrrha, an Ionian female Slave, and 
the Favorite of Sardanapalus. 
Women Smposing the Harem of Sardanapalus, 
Guards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, 

Scene— a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. 





' -X--'?*?^ 



N • 



&-r 



\ : 



!■.-; ' 



SARDANAPALUS. 



349 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Palace. 

Salemenes, (solus.) He hath wrong'd his queen, 
but still he is her lord ; - 
He hath wrong'd ray sister, still he is my brother ; 
He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sov- 
ereign, 
And I must be his friend as well as subject : 
He must not perish thus. I will not see 
The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale ; 
He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
There is a careless courage which corruption 
Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, 
Repress'd by circumstance, but not destroy'd — 
Steep'd, but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness. 
If born a peasant, he had been a man 
To have reach'd an empire ; to an empire born, 
He will bequeath none ; nothing but a name, 
Which his sons will not prize in heritage : — 
Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
His sloth and shame, by only being that 
"Which he should be, as easily as the thing 
He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
To sway his nations than consume his life ? 
To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul, 
And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield 

not 
Health like the chase, nor glory like the war — 
He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 

[Soimd of soft music heard from within. 
To rouse him short of thunder. Hark ! the lute, 
The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women, 
Must chime iff to the echo of his revel, 
While the great king of all we know of earth 
Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
Lies negligent^ by to be caught up 
By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it. 
Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
The reeking odors of the perfumed trains, 
And see the bright gems of the glittering girls, 
At once his chorus and his council, flash 
Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels, 
As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female, 
The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. 
He comes ! Shall I await him ? yes, and front him, 
And tell him what all good men tell each other, 
Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves, 
Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 



SCENE II. 

Enter Sardanapalus effeminately dressed, his 
head croicned wit Ji flowers, and his robe negligently 
flowing, attended by a train of women and young 
slaves. 

Sar. (speaking to some of his attendants. J Let 
the pavilion over the Euphrates 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 



For an especial banquet ; at the hour 

Of midnight we will sup there: see nought wanting 

And bid the gallery be prepared. Thesis 

A cooling breeze which crisps the broacWlear river 

We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 

To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 

We'll meet again in that the sweetest hour, 

When we shall gather like the stars above us, 

And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs » 

Till then, let each be mistress of her time, 

And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha, 1 choose, 

Wilt thou along with them or me ? 

Myr. My lord 

Sar. My lord, my life! why answereth thou so 
coldly ? 
It is the curse of kings to be so answer'd. 
Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — say, wouldst 

thou 
Accompany our guests, or charm away 
The moments from me ? 

Myr. The king's choice is mine. 

Sar. I pray thee say not so : my chiefest joy 
Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
I do not dare to breathe my own desire, 
Lest it should clash with thine ; for thou art still 
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others 

Myr. I would remain : I have no happiness 
Save in beholding thine ; yet 

Sar. Yet ! what yet ? 

Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

Myr. I think the present is the wonted houi 
Of council ; it were better I retire. 

Sal. (comes forioard and says,) The Ionian slave 
says well ; let her retire. 

Sar. Who answers ? How now, brother ? 

Sal. ■ The queen's brother, 

And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 

Sar. (addressing his train.) As I have said, let 
all dispose their hours 
Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 

[ The court retiring. 
(To Myrrha, icho is going.) Myrrha! I thought 
thou wouldst remain. 

Myr. Great king, 

Thou didst not say so. 

Sar. But thou lookedst it ; 

I know each glance of those Ionic eyes, 
Which said thou wouldst not leave me. 

Myr. Sire ! your brother 

Sal. His consort's brother, minion of Ionia ! 
How darest thou name me and not blush ? 

Sar. Not blush ! 

Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make hei 

crimson 
Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows, 
And then reproach her with thine own cold blind- 
ness, 
Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Myrrha? 

Sal. Let them flow on ; she wecps_ for more than 
one, 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 

Sar. Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow ! 

Sal. Curse not thyself — millions do that already. 

Sar. Thou dost forget thee : make me not 
remember 
I am a monarch. 

Sal. Would thou couldst ' 



350 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Myr. My sovereign, 

I pray, and thou, too, prince, permit my absence. 

Sar. Sinne it must be so, and this churl has 
chrek'd 
Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 
An empire than thy presence. [Exit Myriuia. 

Sal. It may be, 

Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever ! 

Sar. Brother, 

I can at least command myself, who listen 
To language such as this ; yet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature. 

Sal. 'Tis beyond 

That easy, far too easy, idle nature, 
Which I would urge thee. O that I could rouse 

thee! 
Though 'twere against myself. 

Sar. By the god Baal ! 

The man would make me tyrant. 

Sal. So thou art. 

Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
Of blood and chains ? the despotism of vice — 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants, 
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master, 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power 
And those who should sustain it ; so that whether 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove fatal : 
The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer; 
The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 

Sar. Why what makes thec the mouth-piece of 
the people ? 

Sal. Forgiveness of the queen, my sister's wrongs ; 
A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly, 
In more than words ; respect for Nimrod's line ; 
Also, another thing thou knowest not. 

Sar. What's that ? 

Sal. To thee an unknown word. 

Sar. Yet speak it ; 

I love to learn. 

Sal. Virtue. i 

Sar. Not know the word ! 

Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
Worse than the rabble's shout, or splitting trumpet ; 
I've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 

Sal. To change the irksome theme, then, hear of 
vice. 

Sar. From whom ? 

Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 

Sar. Come, I'm indulgent, as thou knowest, 
patient, 
A.s thou hast often proved — speak out, what moves 
thee ? 

Sal. Thy peril. 

Sar. Say on. 

Sal. Thus, then : all the nations, 

For they are many, whom thy father left 
In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 

Sar. 'Gainst me! What would the slaves ? 

Sal. A king. 



Sar. And what 

Am I then ? 

Sal. In their eyes a nothing ; but 

In mine a man who might be something still. 

Sar. The railing drunkards ! why, what would 
they have ? 
Have they not peace and plenty ? 

Sal. Of the first 

More than is glorious ; of the last, far less 
Than the king recks of. 

Sar. Whose then is the crime, 

But the false satraps, who provide no better ? 

Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who ne'er 
looks 
Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
Beyond them, 'tis but to some mountain palace, 
Till summer heats wear down. O glorious Baal ! 
Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
A god, or at the least shinest like a god 
Through the long centuries of thy renown, 
This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, 
Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril ! 
For what ? to furnish imposts for a revel, 
Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 

Sar. I understand thee — thou wouldst have me go 
Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
Which the Chaldeans read — the restless slaves 
Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes, 
And lead them forth to glory. 

Sal. Wherefore not ? 

Scmiramis — a woman only — led 
These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
Of Ganges, 

Sur. 'Tis most true. And hozv return'd ? 

Sal. Why, like a man — a hero ; baffled, but 
Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she made 
Good her retreat to Bactria. 

Sar. And how many 

Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 

Sal. Our annals say not. 

Sar. Then I will sly for them — 

That she had better woven within her palace 
Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 
Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens, 
And wolves, and men — the fiercer of the three, 
Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory ? 
Then let me live in ignominy ever. 

Sal. All warlike spirits have not the same fate. 
Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
Which she once sway'd — and thou might' st sway. 

Sar. I sway them — 

She but subdued them. 

Sal. It may be ere long 

That they will need her sword more than your 
sceptre. 

Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was there not ? 
I've heard my Greek girls speak of such — they say 
He was a god, that is, a Grecian god, 
An idol foreign to Assyria's worship, 
Who conquer'd this same golden realm of Ind 
Thou prat'st of, where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 

Sal. I have heard of such a man ; and thou 
perceiv'st 
That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 

Sar. And in his godship I will honor him — 
Not much as man. What ho ! my cupbearer ! 



SARDANAPALUS. 



351 



Sal. What means the king ? 
Sar. To worship your new god 

And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 

Enter Cupbearer. 

Sar. (addressing the Cupbearer.) Eiu^ me the 
golden goblet thick with gemsj^B 
Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence ! 
Fill full, and bear it quickly. [Exit Cupbearer. 

Sal. Is this moment 

A fitting one for the resumption of 
Thy yet unslept-off revels ? 

He-enter Cupbearer, with wine. 

Sar. (taking the cup from him.) Noble kinsman, 
If these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
Conquered the whole of India, did he not ? 

.S'«/. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity. 

Sar. Not so : — of all his conquests a few columns 
Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 
Thought them worth purchase and conveyance, are 
The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed, 
The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke. 
But here, here in this goblet is the title 
To immortality — the immortal grape 
From which he first express'd the soul, and gave 
To gladden that of man, as some atonement 
For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 
Had it not been for this, he would have been 
A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 
And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 
A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 
Here's that which deified him — let it now 
Humanize thee ; my surly, chiding brother, 
Pledge me to the Greek god ! 

Sal. For all thy realms 

I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 

Sar. That is to say, thou thinkest him a hero, 
That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god, 
Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchantment, 
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, 
And Fear her danger ; opens a new world 
When this, the present, palls. Well, then /pledge 

thee 
And him as a true man, who did his utmost 
In good or evil to surprise mankind. [Drinks. 

Sal. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 

Sar. And if I did, 'twere better than a trophy, 
Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
My present purpose : since thou wilt not pledge me, 
Continue what thou pleasest. 
(To the Cupbearer.) Boy, retire. 

[Exit Cupbearer. 

Sal. I would hut have recall'd thee from thy dream : 
Better by me awaken'd than rebellion. 

Sar. Who should rebel ? or why ? what cause ? 
pretext ? 
I am the lawful king, descended from 
A. race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
What have I done to thee, or to the people, 
That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up against me ? 

Sal. Of what thou hast done to me, I speak not. 

Sar. But 

Thou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen : is't 
not so ? 

Sal. Think ! Thou hast wrong'd her ! 

Sar. Patience, pris.ee, and hear me. 



She has all power and splendor of her station, 

Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs, 

The homage and the appanage of sovereignty. 

I married her as monarchs wed — for state, 

And loved her as most husbands love their wives. 

If she or thou supposedst I coufd link me 

Li-ke a Chaldean peasant to his mate, 

He knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 

Sal. I pray thee, change the theme : my blood 
disdains 
Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord ! 
Nor would she deign to accept divided passion 
With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
The queen is silent. 

Sar. And why not her brother ? 

Sal. I only echo thee the voice of empires, 
Which he who long neglects not long will govern. 

Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves ! they 
murmur 
Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them 
To dry into the desert's dust by myriads, 
Or whiten with their bones the banks of Ganges ; 
Nor decimated them with savage laws, 
Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
Or Babylonian walls. 

Sal. Yet these are trophies 

More worthy of a people and their prince 
Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubines, 
And lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtue. 

Sar. Or for my trophies I have founded cities : 
There's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
In one day — what could that blood-loving beldame, 
My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
Do more, except destroy them ? 

Sal. 'Tis most true ; 

I own thy merit in those founded cities, 
Built for a whim, recorded with a verse 
Which shames both them and thee to coming ages. 

Sar. Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though well 
built, 
Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what 
Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of life and rule, 
But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief record. 
Why, those few lines contain the history 
Of all things human ; hear — " Sardanapalus, 
The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, and love ; the rest's not worth a fillip." • 

Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
For a king to put up before his subjects ! 

Sar. Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless set up 
edicts — 
" Obey the king — contribute to his treasure — 
Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bidding- 
Fall down and worship, or get up and toil." 
Or thus — " Sardanapalus on this spot 
Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
These are their sepulchres, and this his trophy." 
I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, and glide 
Ungroaning to the tomb ; I take no license 
Which I deny to them. We all are men. 

Sal. Thy sires have been revered as gods — 

Sar. In dust 

And death, where they are neither gods nor men I 
Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 
At least they banqueted upon your gods, 



352 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And died for lack of farther nutriment. 

Those gods were merely men ; look to their issue — 

I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 

But nothing godlike, unless it may be 

The thing which you condemn, a disposition 

To love and to be merciful, to pardon 

The follies of my species, and (that's human) 

To be indulgent to my own. 

Sal. Alas ! 

The doom of Nineveh is seal'd. — Wo — Wo 
To the unrivall'd city ! 

Sar. What dost dread ? 

Sal. Thou art guarded by thy foes ; in a few hours 
The tempest may break out which overwhelms thee, 
And thine and mine ; and in another day 
What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 

Sar. What must we dread ? 

Sal. Ambitious treachery, 

"Which has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
There is resource : empower me with thy signet 
To quell the machinations, and I lay 
The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 

Sar. The heads — how many ? 

Sal. Must I stay to number, 

When even thine own's in peril ? Let me go ; 
Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 

Sar. I will trust no man with unlimited lives. 
When we take those from others, we nor know 
What we have taken, nor the thing we give.^ 

Sal. Wouldst thou not take their lives who seek 
for thine ? 

Sar. That's a hard question— but, I answer, Yes. 
Cannot the thing be done without ? Who are they 
Whom thou suspectest ? — Let them be arrested. 

Sal. I would thou'wouldst not ask me : the next 
moment 
Will send my answer through thy babbling troop 
Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 
Even to the city, and so baffle all. — 
Trust me. 

Sar. Thou knowest I have done so ever: 
Take thou the signet. [Gives the signet. 

Sal. I have one more request. — 

Sar. Name it. 

Sal. That thou this night forbear the banquet 
In the pavilion over the Euphrates. 

Sar. Forbear the banquet ! Not for all the plotters 
That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come, 
And do their worst : I shall not blench for them ; 
Nor rise the sooner ; nor forbear the goblet ; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not. 

Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, 
if needful ? 

Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armor, and 
A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 
And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth : 
A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
And now I think on't, 'tis long since I've used them, 
Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother ? 

Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic trifling ? — 
If need be, wilt thou wear them ? 

Sar. Will I not ? 

Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with less, I'll use the sword 
Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. 

Sal. They say, thy sceptre's turn'd to that already ? 

Sar. That's false ! but let them say so ; the old 

Greeks, 



Of whom our captives often sing, related 
The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
The populace of all the nations seize 
Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 

Sal. Thgv did not speak thus of thy fathers. 

Sar. A N° i 

They darecraot. They were kept to toil and combat,. 
And never changed their chains but for their armor : 
Now they have peace and pastime, and the license 
To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 
I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
For all the popular breath that e'er divided 
A name from nothing. What are the rank tongues 
Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeding, 
That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 
Their noisome clamor ? 

Sal. You have said they are men ; 

As such their hearts are something. 

Sar. So my dogs are ; 

And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed ; 
Thou hast my signet : — since they are tumultuous, 
Let them be temper'd, yet not roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain, 
Given or received ; we have enough within us, 
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
Not to add to each other's natural burden 
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 
By mild reciprocal alleviation, 
The fatal penalties imposed on life : 
But this they know not, or they will not know. 
I have, by Baal ! done all I could to soothe them : 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not with their civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit them, 
Passing my own as suited me. 

Sal. Thou stopp'st short 

Of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 

Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
To be aught save a monarch ; else for me 
The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to 
be so. 

Sar. What mean'st thou ? — 'tis thy secret ; thou 
desirest 
Few questions, and I'm not of curious nature. 
Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 
Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 
Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
The peaceful only ; if they rouse me, better 
They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashes, 
" The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
To one wide desert chase of brutes, who were, 
But would no more, by their own choice, be human. 
What they have found me, they belie ; that which 
They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 
To speak it worse ; and let them thank themselves. 

Sal. Then thou at last canst feel ? 

Sar. Feel ! who feels not 

Ingratitude ? 

Sal. I will not pause to answer 

With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that 

energy 
Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee, 
And thou may'st yet be glorious in thy reign, 
As powerful in thy realm. Farewell ! 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. (solus.) Farewell ! 



SARDANAPALUS. 



353 



He s gone ; and on his finger bears my signet, 

Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern 

As I am heedless ; and the slaves deserve 

To feel a master. "What may be the danger, 

I know not : he hath found it, let. him quell it. 

Must I consume my life — this little life— 

In guarding against all may make it less ? 

It is not worth so much ! It were to die 

Before my hour, to live in dread of death, 

Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me, 

Because they are near ; and all who are remote, 

Because they are afar. But if it should be so — 

If they should sweep me off from earth and empire, 

Why, what is earth or empire of the earth ? 

I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image ; 

To die is no less natural than those — 

Acts of this clay ! 'Tis true I have not shed 

Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 

My name became the synonyme of death — 

A terror and a trophy. But for this 

I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 

[f I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 

Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vein 

Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 

Of Nineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd 

On objects which could cost her sons a tear : 

If then they hate me, 'tis because I hate not : 

If they rebel, 'tis because I oppress not. 

Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not 

sceptres, 
And mow'd down like grass, else all we reap 
Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
Of dicontents infecting the fair soil, 
Making a desert of fertility. — 
I'll think no more. Within there, ho ! 

Enter an Attendant. 
Sar. Slave, tell 

The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence. 
Attend. King, she is here. 

Myrrha enters. 

Sar. (apart to Attendant.) Away ! 
(Addressing Myrrha. J Beaiitiful being 

Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; 
It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest : let me 
Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet 

oracle, 
Communicates between us, though unseen, 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

Myr. There doth. 

Sar. I know there doth, but not its name ; 

What is it ? 

Myr. In my native land a god, 

And in my heart a feeling like a god's, 
Exalted : yet I own 'tis only mortal ; 
For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — 

That is, it would be happy ; but 

[Myrriia pauses. 

Sar. There comes 

For ever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness : let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 

Myr. My lord ! — 

Sar. My lord — my king — sire — sovereign ; thus it 
is — 
For ever thus address'd with awe. I ne'er 
45 



Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 

Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 

Have gorged themselves up to equality 

Or I have quaff 'd me down to their abasement. 

Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names, 

Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was I prized 

them, 
That is, I suffer'd them from — slaves and nobles ; 
But when they falter from the lips I love, 
The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 
And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. 

Myr. Would that we could ! 

Sar. And dost thou feel this ?— Why i 

Myr. Then thou wouldst know what thou canst 
never know. 

Sar. And that is 

Myr. The true value of a heart ; 

At least, a woman's. 

Sar. I have proved a thousand — 

A thousand, and a thousand. 

Myr. Hearts ? 

Sar. I think so. 

Myr. Not one ! the time may come thou may'st. 

Sar. It will 

Hear, Myrrha ; Salemcnes has declared — 
Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more than I — 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

Myr. He did well. 

Sar. And say'st thou so ? 

Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
And made thee weep and blush ? 

Myr. I should do both 

More frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou speak'st of peril — 
Peril to thee 

Sar. Ay, from dark plots and snares 

From Medes — and discontented troops and nations. 
I know not what — a labyrinth of things — 
A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we'll think no more on't— 
But of the midnight festival. 

Myr. 'Tis time 

To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 

Sar. What ? — and dost thou fear : 

Myr. Fear ? — I'm a Greek, and how should I feai 
death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 

Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale ? 

Myr. I love. 

Sar. And do not I ? I love thee far — far more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
Which, it may be, are menaced ; — yet I blench not. 

Myr. That means thou lovest nor thyself nor me ; 
For he who loves another loves himself, 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms^and lives are not to be so lost. 

Sar. Lost ! — why who is the aspiring chief who 
dared 
Assume to win them ? 



354 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Myr. Who is he should dread 

To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him ? 

Sar. Myrrh a ! 

Myr. Frown not upon me : you have smiled 

Too often on me not to make those frowns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
Which they may augur. — King, I am your subject ! 
Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you ! — 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
A. slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature, 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 

Sar. Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair, 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 

Myr. And without love where dwells security ? 

Sar. I speak of woman's love. 

Myr. The very first 

Of human life must spring from woman's breast, 
Your first small words are taught you from her lips, 
Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs 
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, 
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 

Sar. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music ; 
The very chorus of the tragic song 
I have heard thee talk of as the favorite pftistime 
Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 

Myr. I weep not. — But I pray thee, do not speak 
About my fathers or their land. 

Sar. Yet oft 

Thou speakest of them. 

Myr. True — true : constant thought 

Will overflow in words unconsciously ; 
But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds me. 

Sar. Well, then, how wouldst thou save me, as 
thou saidst ? 

Myr. By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren. 

Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors — 
I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
Do more ? 

Myr. Alas ! my lord, with common men 
There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king, 
'Tis sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 

Sar. And I have never sought but for the last. 

Myr. And now art neither. 

Sar. Dost thou say so, Myrrha ? 

Myr. I speak of civic popular love, seff-\o\e, 
Which means that men are kept in awe and law, 
Yet not oppress'd— at least they must not think so ; 
Or if they think so, deem it necessary, 
To ward ofrfcworse oppression, their own passions. 
A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel, 
And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 

Sar. Glory ! what's that ? 

Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

Sar. They cannot answer ; when the priests speak 
for them, 
Tis for some small addition to the temple. 

Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's 
founders. 

bar. They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot, 



But what wouldst have ? the empire has been founded 
I cannot go on multiplying empires. 

Myr. Preserve thine own. 

Sar. At least I will enjoy it. 
Come, Myrrha, let us on to the Euphrates ; 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
And the pavilion, deck'd for our return, 
In fit adornment for the evening banquet, 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unto the stars which are above us 
Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
Crown'd with fresh flowers like 

Myr. Victims. 

Sar. No, like sovereigns, 

The shepherd kings of patriarchal times, 
Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths* 
And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on^ 

Enter Paxia. 

Pan. May the king live for ever ! 

Sar. Not an hour 

Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
This language, which makes life itself a lie, 
Flattering dust with eternity. Well, Pania ! 
Be brief. 

Pan. I am charged by Salemenes to 
Reiterate his prayer unto the king, 
That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
The palace ; when the general returns, 
He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

Sa?: What ! am I then coop'd ? 

Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell prince Salemenes, 
Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 

Pan. I must obey, and yet — 

Myr. Oh, monarch, listen. — 

How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
Within these palace walls in silken dalliance, 
And never shown thee to thy people's longing ; 
Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified, 
The satraps uncontroll'd, the gods unvvorshipp'd, 
And all things in the anarchy of sloth, 
Till all, save evil, slumber'd through the realm ! 
And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, 
A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou not 
Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 
For them, for thee, for thy past father's race, 
And for thy son's inheritance ? 

Pa?i. 'Tis true ! 

From the deep urgency with which the prince 
Despatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
Must dare to add my feeble voice to that 
Which now has spoken. 

Sar. No, it must not be. 

Myr. For the sake of thy realm ! 

Sar. Away ! 

Pan. For that 

Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine. * 

Sar. These are mere phantasies ; 

There is no peril : — 'tis a sullen scheme 
Of Salemenes to approve his zeal, 
And show himself more necessary to us. 

Myr. By all that's good and glorious take this 
counsel. 

Sar. Business to-morrow 



SARDANAPALUS. 



355 



Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 

Sar. "Why let it come then unexpectedly 
'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love ; 
So let me fall like the pluck'd rose ! — far better 
Thus than be wither'd. 

Myr. Then thou wilt not yield, 

Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
A monarch into action, to forego 
A trifling revel. 

Sar. No. 

Myr. Then yield lor mine ; 

For my sake ! 

Sar. Thine, my Myrrha ! 

Myr. 'Tis the first 

Boon which I ever ask'd Assyria's king. 

Sar. That's true, and wer't my kingdom must be 
granted. 
Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence ! 
Thou hear'st me. 

Pan. And obey. [Exit Pania. 

Sar. I marvel at thee. 

What is thy motive Myrrha, thus to urge me ? 

Myr. Thy safety ; aud the certainty that nought 
Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 

Sar. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou ? 

Myr. Because thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 

Sar. To-morrow thou wilt smile at these vain 
fancies. 

Myr. If the worst come, I shall be where none 
weep, /■ 

And that is better than the power to smile. 
And thou ? 

Sar. I shall be king, as heretofore. 

Myr. Where ? 

Sar. With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 

Sole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 
Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing — 
But either that or nothing must I be ; 
I will not live degraded. 

Myr. Hadst thou felt 

Thus always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 

Sar. And who will do so now ? 

Myr. Dost thou suspect none ? 

Sar. Suspect ! — that's a spy's office. Oh ! we lose 
Ten thousand precious moments in vain words, 
And vainer fears. Within there ! — ye slaves, deck 
The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 
If I must make a prison of our palace, 
At least we'll wear our fetters jocundly ; 
If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
The summer dwelling on its beauteous border", 
Here we are still unmenaced. Ho ! within there ! 
[Exit Sardanapalus. 

Myr. (solus.) Why do I love this man ? My 
country's daughters 
Love none but heroes. But I have no country ! 
The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love him ; 
And that's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
The hour is coming when he'll need all love, 
And find none. To fall from him now were baser 
Than to have stabb'd him on his throne when highest 
Would have been noble in my country's creed : 
I w?s not made for either. Could I save him, 
I should not love him better, but myself; 
And I have need of the last, for I have fallen 
In my owh thoughts, by loving this soft stranger : 
And yet methinks I love him more, perciving 



That he is hated of his own barbarians, 

The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 

Could I but wake a single thought like those 

Which even the Phrygians felt when battling long 

'Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart, 

He would tread down the barbarous crowds, and 

triumph. 
He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 
Her master, and would free him from his vices. 
If not, I have a means of freedom still, 
And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 
May show him how alone a king can leave 
His throne. I must not lose him from my sight. 

[Exit. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

The Portal of the same Hall of the Palace. 

Seleses, (solus.) The sun goes down : methinks 
he sets more slowly, 
Taking his last look of Assyria's empire ; 
How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds 
Like the blood he predicts. If not in vain, 
Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which rise, 
I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 
The edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremble 
For what he brings the nations, 'tis the furthest 
Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 
An earthquake should announce so great a fall — 
A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk, 
To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 
Its everlasting page the end of what 
Seem'd everlasting ; but oh ! thou true sun ! 
The burning oracle of all that live, 
As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 
Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 
Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 
All glorious burst from ocean ? why not dart 
A beam of hope athwart the future years, 
As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh ! hear me ! 
I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 
I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall, 
And bow'd my head beneath thy mid-day beams, 
When my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch'd 
For thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee, 
And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee, 
And ask'd of thee, and thou hast answer'd — but 
Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks — 
Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowledge, 
To the delighted west, which revels in 
Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
Death, so it be but glorious ? 'Tis a sunset ; 
And mortals may be happy to resemble 
The gods but in decay. 

Enter Arbaces, by an inner door. 

Arb. Beleses, why 

So rapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some realm of undiscover'd day ? 
Our business is with night — 'tis come. 

Bel. But not 

Gone. 



356 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Arb. Let it roll cm — we are ready. 

Bel. Yes. 

Would it were over. 

Arb. Does the prophet doubt, 

To whom the very stars shine victory ? 

Bel. I do not doubt of victory — but the victor. 

Arb. Well, let thy science settle that. Meantime 
I have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will out-sparkle our allies — your planets. 
There is no more to thwart us. The she-king, 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
The waters with his female mates. The order 
Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
The first cup which he drains will be the last 
Quaff 'd by the line of Nimrod. 

Bel. 'Twas a brave one. 

Arb. And is a weak one — 'tis worn out — we'll 
mend it. 

Bel. Art sure of that ? 

Arb. Its founder was a hunter — 

I am a soldier — what is there to fear ? 

Bel. The soldier. 

Arb. And the priest, it may be ; but 

If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
Your king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
No less than mine ? 

Bel. Look to the sky. 

Arb. I look. 

Bel. What seest thou ? 

Arb. A fair summer's twilight, and 

The gathering of the stars. 

Bel. And midst them, mark 

Yon earliest, and the brightest which so quivers, 
As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 

Arb. Well ? 

Bel. 'Tis thy natal ruler — thy birth planet. 

Arb. (touching his scabbard.) My star is in this 
scabbard : when it shines, 
It shall out-dazzle comets. Let us think 
Of what is to be done to justify 
Thy planets and their portents. When we conquer, 
They shall have temples — ay, and priests — and thou 
Shalt be the pontiff of — what gods thou wilt ; 
For I observe that they are ever just, 
And own the bravest for the most devout. 

Bel. Ay, and the most devout for brave — thou 
hast not 
Seen me turn back from battle. 

Arb. No ; I own thee 

As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain, 
As skilful in Chaldea's worship ; now, 
Will it but please thee to forget the priest, 
And be the warrior ? 

Bel. Why not both ? 

Arb. The better ; 

And yet it almost shames me, we shall have 
So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
Degrades the very conqueror. To have pluck'd 
A bold and bloody despot from his throne, 
And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel, 
That were heroic or to win or fall ; 
But to upraise my sword against this silkworm, 
And hear him whine, it may be 

Bel. Do not deem it : 

He has that in him which may make you strife yet ; 
And were he all you think, his guards are hardy, 
And headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 

Arb. They'll not resist. 



Bel. Why not ? they are soldiers. 

Arb. True 

And therefore need a soldier to command them, i 

Bel. That Salemenes is. 

Arb. But not their king. 

Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that governs, 
For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 

Bel. But 

Not from the council — there he is ever constant. 

Arb. And ever thwarted ; what would you have 
more 
To make a rebel out of? A fool reigning, 
His blood dishonor'd, and himself disdain'd ; 
Why, it is his revenge we work for. 

Bel. Could 

He but be brought to think so : this, I doubt of. 

Arb. What, if we sound him ? 

Bel. Yes — if the time served. 

Enter Balea. 

Bal. Satraps ! The king commands your presence 
at 
The feast to-night. 

Bel. To hear is to obey. 

In the pavilion ? 

Bal. No ; here in the palace. 

Arb. How ! in the palace ? it was not thus order'd. 

Bal. It is so order'd now. 

Arb. And why ? 

Bal. I know not. 

May I retire ? 

Arb. Stay. 

Bel. (to Arb. aside.) Hush ! let him go his way. 
(Alternately to Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the mon- 
arch, kiss the hem 
Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
Will take the crumbs he deigns to scatter from 
His royal table at the hour — was't midnight ? 

Bal. It was : the place the hall of Nimrod. Lords, 
I humble me before you, and depart. [Exit Balea. 

Arb. I like not this same sudden change of place ; 
There is some mystery : wherefore should he change 
it? 

Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times a day : 
Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
And moves more parasangs in its intents 
Than generals in their marches, when they seek 
To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou muse ? 

Arb. He loved that gay pavilion, — it was ever 
His summer dotage. 

Bel. And he loved his queen — 

And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
And he has loved all things by turns, except 
Wisdom and glory. 

Arb. Still— I like it not. 
If he has changed — why, so must wc : the attack 
Were easy in the isolated bower, 
Beset with drowsy guards and drunken courtiers ; 
But in the hall of Nimrod 

Bel. Is it so ? 

Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on ? 

Arb. ' When the hour comes 

Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily play'd 
for— 



SARDANAPALUS. 



357 



But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 

Bel. I have foretold already — thou wilt win it : 
Then on, and prosper. 

Arb. Now were I a soothsayer, 

I would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
With them, nor their interpreter. Who's here ! 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. Satraps ! 

Bel. My prince ! 

Sal. Well met — I sought ye both, 

But elsewhere than the palace. 

Arb. Wherefore so ? 

Sal. Tis not the hour. 

Arb. The hour ! — what hour ? 

Sal. Of midnight. 

Bel. Midnight, my lord ! 

Sal. What, are you not invited ? 

Bel. Oh ! yes — we had forgotten. 

Sal. Is it usual 

Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 

Arb. Why — we but now received it. 

Sal. Then why here ? 

Arb. On duty. 

Sal. On what duty ? 

Bel. On the state's. 

We have the privilege to approach the presence, 
But found the monarch absent. 

Sal. And I too 

Am upon duty. 

Arb. May we crave its purport ? 

Sal. To arrest two traitors. Guards ! Within 
there ! 

Enter Guards. 
Sal. (continuing.) Satraps, 

Your swords. 

Bel. (delivering his.) My lord, behold my scimetar. 
Arb. (drawing his sword.) Take mine. 
Sal. (advancing.) I will. 

Arb. But in your heart the blade — 

The hilt quits not this hand. 

Sal. (drawing.) How ! dost thou brave me ? 

'Tis well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 

Arb. Soldiers ! Ay — 

A lone you dare not. 

Sal. Alone ! foolish slave — 

What is there in thee that a prince should shrink 

from 
Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
Thy strength : thy tooth is nought, without its 

venom — 
The serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him down. 
Bel. (interposing.) Arbaces ! Are you mad ? Have 
I not render'd 
My sword ? Then trust like me our sovereign's justice. 
Arb* No — I will sooner trust the stars thou prat'st 
of 
And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
Of my own breath and body — so far that 
None else shall chain them. 

Sal. (to the Guards.) You hear him and me. 

Take him not, — kill. 

[The Guards attach Arbaces, who defends him- 
self valiantly and dexterously till they waver. 
Sal. Is it even so; and must 



I do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! see 
How you should fell a traitor. 

[Salemenes attacks Arb\ces. 

Enter Sardanapalus unci Train. 

S ar - Hold your hands — 

Upon your lives, I say. AVhat, deaf or drunken ? 
My sword ! O fool, I wear no sword : here, fellow, 
Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 

[Sardanapalus snatches a sword from cne of 
the soldiers, and makes between the combatants 
— they separate. 

Sar. In my very palace ! 

What hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
Audacious brawlers ? 

Bel. She, your justice. 

Sal. Or— 

Your weakness. 

Sar. (raising his sword.) How ? 

Sal. Strike ! so the blow's repeated 

Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment, 
I trust, for torture — I'm content. 

Sar. What— him ! 

Who dares assail Arbaces ? 

Sal. I ! 

Sar. Indeed ! 

Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant ? 

Sal. (showing the signet.) Thine. 

Arb. (confused.) The king's ! 

Sal. Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 

Sar. I parted not from this for such a purpose 

Sal. You parted with it for your safety — I 
Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in person 
Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
I was your representative. 

Sar. Then sheathe 

Your swords. * 

[Arbaces and Salemenes return their swords 
to the scabbards. 

Sal. Mine's sheathed : I pray you sheathe not 
yours ; 
'Tis the sole sceptre left thee now with safety. 

Sar. A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 
(To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon back. 

Well, sirs, 
What doth this mean ? 

Bel. The prince must answer that. 

Sal. Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 

Sar. Treason — Arbaces ! treachery and Beleses— 
That were an union I will not believe. 

Bel. Where is the proof ? 

Sal. I'll answer that, if once 
The king demands your fellow-traitor's sword. 

Arb. (to Sal.) A sword which hath been drawn ?s 
oft as thine 
Against his foes. 

Sal. And now against his brother, 

And in an hour or so against himself. 

Sar. That is not possible : he dared not ; no — 
No — I'll not hear of such things. These vain 

bickerings 
Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues, and baser 
Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives. 
You must have been deceived, my brother. 

Sal. First 

Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
And I will answer all. 

Sar. Why, if I thought so- 



358 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But no, it cannot be : the Mede Arbaces — 

The trusty, rough, true soldier — the best captain 

Of all who discipline our nations No, 

I'll not insult him thus, to bid him render 

The scimetar to rue he never yielded 

Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 

Sal. (delivering back the sic/net. J Monarch, take 
back your signet. 

Sat: No, retain it ; 

But use it with more moderation. 

Sal. Sire, 

I used it for your honor, and restore it 
Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
Bestow it on Arbaces. 

Sar. So I should : 

He never ask'd it. 

Sal. Doubt not, he will have it, 

Without that hollow semblance of respect. 

Bel. I know not what hath prejudiced the prince 
So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 
Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 

Sal. Peace, factious priest, and faithless soldier ! 
thou 
Unit'st in thy own person the worst vices 
Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
For those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
Is, at the least, a bold one, and not temper'd 
By the tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 

Bel. Hear him, 

My liege — the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
The worship of the land, which bows the knee 
Before your fathers. 

Sar. Oh ! for that I pray you 

Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 
Am mortal, and believing that the race 
From whence I sprung are — what I see them — ashes. 

Bel. King ! Do not deem so : they are with the 
stars, 
And 

Sar. You shall join them there ere they will rise, 
If you preach farther — Why, this is rank treason. 

Sal. My lord ! 

Sar. To school me in the worship of 

Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 
Give him his sword. 

Sal. My lord, and king, and brother, 

I pray ye pause. 

Sar. Yes and be sermonized, 

And dinn'd, and deafen'd with dead men and Baal, 
And all Chaldea's starry mysteries. 

Bel. Monarch ! respect them. 

Sar. Oh ! for that — I love them ; 

I ?ove to watch them in the deep blue vault, 
And compare them with my Myrrha's eyes ; 
I love to see their rays redoubled in 
The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave, 
As the light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 
And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
Which fringe his banks : but whether they may be 
Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods, 
As others hold, or simply lamps of night, 
Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not. 
There's something sweet in my uncertainty 
I would not change for your Chaldean lore ; 
Besides I know of these all clay can know 
Of aught above it, or below it — nothing. 
I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty — 



When they shine on my grave I shall know neither 

Bel. For neither, sire, say better. 

Sar. I will wait, 

If it so please you, pontiff, for that knowledge. 
In the mean time receive your sword, and know 
That I prefer your service militant 
Unto your ministry — not loving cither. 

Sal. (aside.) His lusts have made him mad. Thej 
must I save him, 
Spite of himself. 

Sart Please you to hear me, satraps ! 

And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee 
More than the soldier ; and would doubt thee all, 
Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 
In peace — I'll not say pardon — which must be 
Earn'd by the guilty ; this I'll not pronounce ye, 
Although upon this breath of mine depends 
Your own ; and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 
But fear not — for that I am soft, not fearful — 
And so live on. Were I the thing some think me, 
Your heads would now be dripping the last drops 
Of their attainted gore from the high gates 
Of this our palace, into the dry dust, 
Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 
They would be crown'd to reign o'er — let that pass. 
As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty, 
Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit better men 
Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
And should I leave your fate to sterner judges, 
And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 
Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are, were 
Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 

Arb. Sire, this clemency— 

Bel. (interrupting him.) Is worthy of yourself; 
and, although innocent, 
We thank 

Sar. Priest ! keep your thanksgivings for Belus ; 
His offspring needs none. 

Bel. But being innocent 

Sar. Be silent — Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal, 
Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not grateful. 

Bel. So we should be, were justice always done 
By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 
Must oft receive her right as a mere favor. 

Sar. That's a good sentence for a homily, 
Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
To plead thy sovereign's cause before his people. 

Bel. I trust there is no cause. 

Sar. No cause, perhaps ; 

But many causers : — if ye meet with such 
In the exercise of your inquisitive function 
On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
In some mysterious twinkle of the stars, 
Which are your chronicles, I pray you note, 
That there are worse things betwixt earth and heaven 
Than him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 
Enough to spare even those who would not spare him 
Were they once masters — but that's doubtful. 

Satraps ! 
Your swords and persons are at liberty 
To use them as ye will — but from this hour 
I have no call for either. Salemenes ! 
Follow me. 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus, Salemenes, and tht 
Train, %c. leaving Arbaces and Beleses. 

Arb. Beleses ! 

Bel. Now what think you ? 

Arb. That we are lost 



SARDANAPALUS. 



359 



Bel. That we have won the kingdom. 

Arb. What? thus suspected — with the sword slung 
o'er us 
But by a single hair, and that still wavering, 
To be blown down by his imperious breath 
Which spared us — why, I know not. 

Bel. Seek not why ; 

But let us profit by the interval. 
The hour is still our own — our power the same — 
The night the same we destined. He hath changed 
Nothing except our ignorance of all 
Suspicion into such a certainty 
As must make madness of delay. 

Arb. ■ And yet 

Bel. What, doubting still ? 

Arb. He spared our lives, nay, more, 

Saved them from Salemenes. 

Bel. And how long 

Will he so spare ? till the first drunken minute. 

Arb. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly ; 
Gave royally what we had forfeited 
Basely 

Bel. Say bravely. 

Arb. Somewhat of both, perhaps. 

But it has touch'd me, and, whate'er betide, 
I will no further on. 

Bel. And lose the world ! 

Arb. Lose any thing except my own esteem. 

Bel. I blush that we should owe our lives to such 
A king of distaffs ! 

Arb. But no less we owe them ; 

And I should blush far more to take the granter's ! 

Bel. Thou may'st endure whate'er thou wilt, the 
stars 
Have written otherwise. 

Arb. Though they came down, 

And marshall'd me the way in all their brightness, 
I would not follow. 

Bel. This is weakness — worse 

Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead, 
And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 

Arb. Methought he look'd like Nimrod as he 
spoke, 
Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
Looking the monarch of the kings around it, 
And sways, while they but ornament, the temple. 

Bel. I told you that you had too much dospised 
him, 
And that there was some royalty within him — 
What then ? he is the nobler foe. 

Arb. But we 

The meaner : — Would he had not spared us ! 

Bel. So— 

Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 

Arb. No — but it had been better to have died 
Than live ungrateful. 

Bel. Oh, the souls of some men ! 

Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
Fools treachery — and, behold, upon the sudden, 
Because for something or for nothing, this 
Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
'Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 
Into — what shall I say ? — Sardanapalus ! 
T know no name more ignominious. 

Arb. But 

An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
Had held his life but lightly — as it is, 
I must forgive you, even as he forgave us — 
Semiramis herself would not have done it. 



Bel. No — The queen liked no shares of the 
kingdom, 
Not even a husband. 

Arb. I must serve him truly 

Bel. And humbly ? 

Arb. No, sir, proudly — being honest 

I shall be nearer thrones than you to heaven ; 
And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 
You may do your own deeming — you have codes. 
And mysteries and corollaries of 
Right and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 
And must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 
And now you know me. 

Bel. Have you finish'd ? 

Arb. les— 

With you. 

Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well 

As quit me ? 

Arb. That's a sacerdotal thought, 

And not a soldier's. 

Bel. Be it what you will — 

Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me. 

Arb. No, 

There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
Than in a phalanx. 

Bel. If it must be so — 

I'll on alone. 

Arb. Alone ! 

Bel. Thrones hold but one. 

Arb. But this is fill'd. 

Bel. With worse than vacancy ■ 

A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 
I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urged you ; 
Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly, 
Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
Into a shallow softness ; but now, rather 
Than see my country languish, I will be 
Her savior or the victim of her tyrant, 
Or one or both, for sometimes both are one ; 
And, if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 

Arb. Your servant ! 

Bel. Why not ? better than be slave, 

The pardon'd slave of she Sardanapalus. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 

Arb. It is obey'd ere spoken. 

Bel. Notwithstanding, 

Let's hear it. 

Pan. Forthwith, on this very night, 

Repair to your respective satrapies 
Of Babylon and Media. 

Bel. With our troops ? 

Pan. My order is unto the satraps and 
Their household train. 

Arb. But 

Bel. It must be obey'd; 

Say, we depart. 

Pan. My order is to see you 

Depart, and not to bear your answer. 

Bel. (aside.) Ay ! 

Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 

Pan. I will retire to marshal forth the guard 
Of honor which befits your rank, and wait 
Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 

[Exit Pania 

Bel. Noic then obey ! 



860 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Arb. Doubtless. 

Bel. Yes, to the gates 

That grate the palace, which is now our prison. 
No further. 

Arb. Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed ! 

The realm itself, in all its wide extension, 
Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 

Bel. Graves ! 

Arb. If I thought so, this good sword should dig 
One more than mine. 

Bel. It shall have work enough. 

Let me hope better than thou augurest ; 
At present let us hence as best we may. 
Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
This order as a sentence ? 

Arb. Why, what other 

Interpretation should it bear ? it is 
The very policy of orient monarchs — 
Pardon and poison — favors and a sword — 
A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
How many satraps in his father's time — 
For he I own is, or at least was, bloodless — 

Bel. But icill not, can not be so now. 

Arb. . I doubt it. 

How many satraps have I seen set out 
In his sire's day for mighty vice-royalties, 
Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how, 
But they all sicken'd by the way, it was 
So long and heavy. 

Bel. Let us but regain 

The free air of the city, and we'll shorten 
The journey. 

Arb. 'Twill be shorten'd at the gates, 

It may be. 

Bel. No ; they hardly will risk that. 

They mean us to die privately, but not 
Within the palace or the city walls, 
Where we are known and may have partisans : 
If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
No longer with the living. Let us hence. 

Arb. If I but thought he did not mean my life 

Bel. Fool ! hence what else should despotism 

alarm'd 
Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 

Arb. Towards our provinces : 

Bel. No ; towards your kindom. 

There's time, there's heart, and hope, and power, 

and means, 
Which their half measure leaves us in full scope. — 
Away ! 

Arb. And I even yet repenting must 
Relapse to guilt ! 

Bel. Self defence is a virtue, 

Sole bulwark of all right. Away, I say ! 
Let's leave this place, the air grows thick and 

choking, 
And the walls have a scent of nightshade — hence ! 
Let us not leave them time for further council. 
Our quick departure proves our civic zeal : 
Our quick departure hinders our good escort, 
The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
The orders of some parasangs from hence ; 

Nay, there's no other choice, but hence, I say. 

[Exit with Areaces, who follows reluctantly . 

Enter Sardanapaltjs and Salemenes. 
Sar. Well, all is remedied, and without bloodshed, 
That worst of mockeries of a remedy.; 
We are now secure by these men's exile. 



Sal. Yes, 

As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
Twined round their roots. 

Sar. Why, what wouldst have me do ? 

Sal. Undo what you have done. 

Sar. Revoke my pardon ? 

Sal. Replace the crown now tottering on your 
temples. 

Sar. That were tyrannical. 

Sal. But sure. 

Sar. We are so. 

What danger can they work upon the frontier ? 

Sal. They are not there yet — never should they 
be so, 
Were I well listened to. 

Sar. Nay, I have listen'd 

Impartially to thee — why not to them ? 

Sal. You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
I take my leave to order forth the guard. 

Sar. And you will join us at the banquet ? 

Sal. Sire, 

Dispense with me — I am no wassailer : 
Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 

Sar. Nay, but 'tis fit to revel now and then. 

Sal. And fit that some should watch for those 
who revel 
Too oft. Am I permitted to depart ? 

Sar. Yes Stay a moment, my good Salemenes, 

My brother, my best subject, better prince 

Than I am king. You should have been the 

monarch, 
And I — I know not what, and care not; but 
Think not I am insensible to all 
Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough yet kind, 
Though oft reproving, sufferance of my follies. 
If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 
That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 
The advice was sound ; but, let them live : we will 

not 
Cavil about their lives — so let them mend them. 
Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, 
Which their death had not left me. 

Sal. Thus you run 

The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors — 
A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 
Still let them be made quiet. 

Sar. Tempt me not : 

My word is past. 

Sal. But it may be recall'd. 

Sar. 'Tis royal. 

Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 

This half indulgence of an exile serves 
But to provoke — a pardon should be full, 
Or it is none. 

Sar. And who persuaded me 

After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
Only dismiss'd them from our presence, who 
Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 

Sal. True ; that I had forgotten ; that is, sire, 
If they e'er reach their satrapies — why, then, 
Reprove me more for my advice. 

Sar. And if 

They do not reach them — look to it ! — in safety, 
In safety, mark me — and security — 
Look to thine own. 

Sal. Permit me to depart ; 

Their safety shall be cared for. 

Sar. Get thee hence, then 

And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother- 



SARDANAPALUS. 



361 



Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. (solus.) That man is of a temper too severe ; 
Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
From all the taints of common earth — while I 
Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers ; 
But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
If I have err'd this time, 'tis on the side 
Where error sits more lightly on that sense, 
I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes pleasure, 
A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
To court its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
Questions which mortal never dared to ask me, 
Nor Baal, though an oracular deity — 
Albeit his marble face majestical 
Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
His brows to changed expression, till at times 
I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous — 
And here comes Joy's true herald. 

Enter Myrrha. 

Myr King ! the sky 

Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder, 
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
Will you then quit the palace ? 

Sar. Tempest, sayst thou : 

Myr. Ay, my good lord. 

Sar. For my own part, I should be 

Not ill content to vary the smooth scene, 
And watch the warring elements ; but this 
Would little suit the silken garments and 
Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Myrrha, 
Art thou of those who dread the roar of clouds ? 

Myr. In my own country we respect their voices 
As auguries of Jove. 

Sar. Jove — ay, your Baal — 

Ours also has a property in thunder, 
And ever and anon some falling bolt 
Proves his divinity, and yet sometimes 
Strikes his own altars. 

Myr. That were a dread omen. 

Sar. Yes- -for the priests. Well, we will not go 
forth 
Beyond the palace w 7 alls to-night, but make 
Our feast within. 

Myr. Now, Jove be praised ! that he 

Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. The 

gods 
Are kinder to thee, than thou to thyself, 
And flash this storm between thee and thy foes, 
To shield thee from them. 

Sar. Child, if there be peril, 

Mcthinks it is the same within these walls 
As on the river's brink. 

Myr. Not so ; these walls 

Are high and strong, and guarded. Treason has 
To penetrate through many a winding way, 
And massy portal ; but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

Sar. No, nor in the palace, 

Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
Nested in pathless clefs, if treachery be ; 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king, 
The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm ; 
The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
46 



Banish'd, and far upon their way. 

Myr. They live, then ? 

Sar. So sanguinary ? Thou ! 

Myr. I would not shrink 

From just infliction of due punishment 
On those who seek your life : wer't otherwise, 
I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
The princely Salemenes. 

Sar. This is strange ; 

The gentle and the austere are both against me, 
And urge me to revenge. 

Myr. 'Tis a Greek virtue. 

Sar. But not a kingly one — I'll none on't ; or 
If ever I indulge in't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 

Myr. These men sought to be so. 

Sar. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and springs 
From fear 

Myr. For you. 

Sar. No matter still, 'tis fear. 

I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath, 
Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childish helplessness of Asian woman. 

Myr. My lord, I am no boaster of my love, 
Nor of my attributes : I have shared your splendor, 
And will partake your fortunes. You may live 
To find one slave more true than subject myriads ; 
But this the gods avert ! I am content 
To be beloved on trust for what I feel, 
Rather than prove it to you in your griefs, 
Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 

Sar. Griefs cannot come where perfect love exists, 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
That which it could not scare away. Let's in — 
The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
To meet the invited guests, who grace our feast. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of the Palace illuminated. — Sardanap- 
ALUS and his Guests at Table. — A Storm without, 
and Thunder occasionally heard during the 
Banquet. 

Sar. Fill full ! why this is as it should be : here 
Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 

Zam. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, pleasure 
sparkles. 

Sar. Is not this better now than Nimrod's 
huntings, 
Or my wild grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 
She could not keep when conquer'd ? 

Altada. Mighty though 

They were, as all the royal line have been, 
Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 
The acme of Sardanapalus, who 
Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true glory. 

Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which glory 
Is but the path. What is it that we seek ? 
Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short to it 



362 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And not gone tracking it through human ashes, 
Making a grave with every footstep. 

Zam. No ; 

All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 

Sar. Art sure of that ? I have heard otherwise, 
Some say that there be traitors. 

Zam. Traitors they 

Who dare to say so ! — 'Tis impossible. 
What cause ? 

Sar. What cause ? true, — fill the goblet up, 

We will not think of them : there are none such, 
Or if there be, they are gone. 

Alt. Guests, to my pledge ! 

Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
The safety of the king — the monarch, say I ! 
The god Sardanapalus ! 

[Zanies and the Guests kneel, and exclaim — 
Mightier than 
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 

[It thunders as they kneel : some start up in 
confusion. 

Zam. Why do you rise, my friends ? in that 
strong peal 
His father gods consented. 

Myr. Menaced, rather. 

King, wilt thou bear this mad impiety ? 

Sar. Impiety ! — nay, if the sires who reign'd 
Before me can be gods, I'll not disgrace 
Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends ; 
Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there ; 
I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 

Alt. Both— 

Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 

Sar. Methinks the thunders still increase : it is 
An awful night. 

Myr. Oh yes, for those who have 

No palace to protect their worshippers. 

Sar. That's true, my Myrrha ; and could I convert 
My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
I'd do it. 

Myr. Thou'rt no god, then, not to be 
Able to work a will so good and general, 
As thy wish would imply. 

Sar. And your gods, then, 

Who call, and do not ? 

Myr. Do not speak of that, 

Lest we provoke them. 

Sar. True, they love not censure 

Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has 

struck me. 
Were there no temples, would there, think ye, be 
Air worshippers ? that is, when it is angry, 
And pelting as even now. 

Myr. The Persian prays 

Upon his mountain. 

Sar. Yes, when the sun shines. 

Myr. And I would ask if this your palace were 
Unroof 'd and desolate, how many flatterers 
Would lick the dust in which the king lay low ? 

Alt. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 
The Assyrians know no pleasure but their king's ; 
And homage is their pride. 

Sar. Nay, pardon, guests, 

The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 

Alt. Pardon! sire: 

We honor her of all things next to thee. 
Hark ! what was that ? 



Zam. That ! nothing but the jar 

Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 

Alt. It sounded like the clash of — hark again ! 

Zam. The big rain pattering on the roof. 

Sar. No more 

Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order ? 
Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou know'st, 
Who in thy country threw 

E>\ter Paxia, with his sword and garments bloody, 
and disordered. The Guests rise in confusion. 

Pan. (to the Guards.) Look to the portals ; 

And with your best speed to the walls without. 
Your arms ! To arms ! the king's in danger. Mon- 
arch ! 
Excuse this haste, — 'tis faith. 

Sar. Speak on. 

Pan. It is 
As Salemenes fear'd ; the faithless satraps 

Sar. You are wounded — give some wine. Take 
breath, good Pania. 

Pan. 'Tis nothing — a mere flesh wound. I am 
worn 
More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 
Than hurt in his defence. 

Myr. Well, sir, the rebels ? 

Pa?i. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 
Their stations in the city, they refused 
To march ; and on my attempt to use the power 
Which I was delegated with, they call'd 
Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 

Myr. All? 

Pan. Too many. 

Sar. Spare not of thy free speech, 

To spare mine ears the truth. 

Pan. My own slight guard 

Were faithful, and what's left of it is still so. 

Myr. And are these all the force still faithful ? 

Pan. No — 

The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, still urged 
By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs, 
Are numerous, and make strong head against 
The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
An orb around the palace, where they mean 
To centre all their force, and save the king. 
(He hesitates.) I am charged to 

Myr. 'Tis no time for hesitation. 

Pan. Prince Salemenes doth implore the king 
To arm himself, although but for a moment, 
And show himself unto the soldiers : his 
Sole presence in this instant might do more 
Than hosts can do in his behalf. 

Sar. What, ho ! 

My armor there. 

Myr. And wilt thou ? 

Sar. Will I not ? 

Ho, there ! — but seek not for the.buckler : 'tis 
Too heavy : — a light cuirass and my sword. 
Where are the rebels ? 

Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 

From the outward wall, the fiercest conflict rages. 

Sar. Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho 
Order my horse out. There is space enough 
Even in our courts, and by the outer gate, 
To marshal half the horsmen of Arabia. 

[Exit Sfero for the armor. 

Myr. How I do love thee ! 

Sar. I ne'er doubted it. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



363 



Myr. But now I know thee. 

Sar. (to his Attendant.) Bring down my spear 
too — 
Where's Salemenes ? 

Pan. Where a soldier should be, 

In the thick of the fight. 

Sar. Then hasten to him Is 

The path still open, and communication 
Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx ? 

Pan. 'Twas % 

When I late left him, and I have no fear ; 
Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 

Sar. Tell him to spare his person for the present, 
And that I will not spare my own — and say, 
I come. 

Pan. There's victory in the very word. 

[Exit Pania. 

Sar. Altada — Zames — forth, and arm ye ! There 
Is all in readiness in the armory. 
See that the women are bestow'd in safety 
In the remote apartments ; let a guard 
Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 
The post but with their lives — command it, Zames. 
Altada, arm yourself, and return here ; 
Your post is near our person. 

[Exeunt Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrha. 

Enter Sfero and others with the King's Arms, §c. 

Sfe. King ! your armor. 

Sar. (arming himself.) Give me the cuirass — so : 
my baldric ; now 
My sword ; I had forgot the helm — where is it ? 
That's well — no, 'tis too heavy : you mistake, too, 
It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
A diadem around it. 

Sfe. Sire, I deem'd 

That too conspicuous from the precious stones 
To risk your sacred brow beneath — and, trust me, 
This is of better metalf though less rich. 

Sar. You deem'd ! Are you too turn'd a rebel ? 
Fellow 
Your part is to obey ; return, and — no — 
It is too late — I will go forth without it. 

Sfe. At least wear this. 

Sar. Wear Caucasus ! why, 'tis 

A mountain on my temples. 

Sfe. Sire, the meanest 

Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
All men will recognize you — for the storm 
Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her 
brightness. 

Sar. I go forth to be recognized, and thus 
Shall be so sooner, Now — my spear ! I'm arm'd. 

[In going stops short, a?fd turns to Sfero. 
Sfero — I had forgotten, bring the mirror.* 

Sfe. The mirror, sire ? 

Sar. Yes, sir, of polish'd brass, 

Brought from the spoils of India — but be speedy. 

[Exit Sfero. 

Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
Why went you not forth with the other damsels ? 

Myr. Because my place is here. 

Sar. And when I am gone 

Myr. I follow. 

Sar. You ! to battle ? 

Myr. If it were so, 



* Such the mirror Otho held 
la the Illjrian field." — See Juvenal. 



'Twere not the first Greek girl had trod the path 
I will await here your return. 

Sar. The place 

Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
If they prevail ; and, if it should be so, 
And I return not 

Myr. Still we meet again. 

Sar. How ? 

Myr. In the spot where all must meet at last- 
In Hades ! if there be, as I believe, 
A shore beyond the Styx : and if there be not, 
In ashes. 

Sar. Darest thou so much ? 

Myr. I dare all things 

Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest 

Re-enter Sfero with the mirror. 

Sar. (looking at himself.) This cuirass fits me 
well, the baldric better, 
And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 

[Flings away the helmet after trying it again. 
Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
Altada ! Where's Altada ? 

Sfe. Waiting, sire, 

Without : he has your shielain readiness. 

Sar. True ; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
Myrrha, embrace me ; — yet once more— once more 
Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 

Myr. Go forth, and conquer ! 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus and Sfero. 
Now, I am alone, 
All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
Not for that he is king ; for now his kingdom 
Rocks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty Jove ! 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian, 
'Who knows not of Olympus ! yes, I love him 

Now, now, far more than Hark — to the war 

shout ! 
Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

[She draws forth a small vial. 
This cunning Colchian poison, which my father 
Learn'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught 

me 
How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
I half forgot I was a slave : — where all 
Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude, 
So they are served in turn by something lower 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
Are chains. Again that shout ! and now the clash 
Of arms — and now — and now 

Enter Altada. 
Alt. Ho, Sfero, ho ! 

Myr. He is not here ; what wouldst thou witib 
him ? How 
Goes on the conflict ? 
Alt. Dubiously and fiercely. 

Myr. And the king ? 



364 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Alt. Like a king. I must find Sfero, 

And bring him a new spear and his own helmet. 
He fights till now bareheaded, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face, 
And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light, 
His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features, 
And the broad fillet which crows both. 

Myr. Ye gods, 

"Who fulminate o'er my father's land, protect him ! 
Were you sent by the king ? 

Alt. By Salemenes, 

Who sent me privily upon this charge, 
Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
The king ! the king fights as he revels ! ho ! 
What, Sfero ! I will seek the armory — 
He must be there. [Exit Altada. 

Myr. 'Tis no dishonor — no — 

'Tis no dishonor to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff, surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once, 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood, 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle, 
As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
That a Greek girl should be his paramour, 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir ? 

Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Lost, 

Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
Is Zames ? 

Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 

To watch before the apartment of the women. 

[Exit Officer. 

Myr. (solus.) He's gone ; and told no more than 
that all's lost ! 
What need have I to know more ? In those words, 
Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
Of thousands, and the fortunes of all left 
With life, are merged; and I, too, with the great, 
Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least 
My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
Shall count me with his spoils. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. Away with me, 

Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
A moment — all that's left us now. 

Myr. The king ? 

Pan. Sent me here to conduct you hence, beyond 
The river, by a secret passage. 

Myr. . Then 

He lives 

Pati. And charged me to secure your life, 

And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
He can rejoin you. 

Myr. Will he then give way ? 

Pan. Not till the last. Still, still he does whate'er 
Despair can do ; and step by step disputes 
The very palace. 

Myr. They are here, then : — ay, 

1'heir shouts come ringing through the ancient halls, 



Never profaned by rebel echoes till 
This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
Farewell to all of Nimrod ! Even the name 
I* now no more. 

Pan. Away with me — away ! 

Myr. No : I'll die here ! — Away, and tell your king 
I loved him to the last. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes, with sold- 
ders. Pania quits Myrrha, and ranges himself 
with them. 

Sar. Since it is thus, 

We'll die where we were born — in our own hall's. 
Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have despatched 
A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
All fresh and faithful ; they'll be here anon. 
All is not over.— Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pania returns toward Myrrha. 

Sal. We have breathing time ; yet once more 
charge, my friends — 
One for Assyria ! 

Sar. Rather say for Bactria ! 

My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
King of your nation, and we'll hold together 
This realm as province. 

Sal. Hark ! they come — they come. 

Enter Beleses and Arbaces with the Rebels. 
Arb. Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! 

Charge ! 
Bel. On! on! — Heaven fights for us, and with us. — 
On! 
[They charge the King and Salemenes with 
their Troops, who defend themselves till the 
arrival of Zames, with the Guard before men- 
tioned. The Rebels are then driven off, and 
pursued by Salemenes, 8$c. As the King is 
going to join the pursuit, Beleses crosses 
him. 
Bel. Ho ! tyrant — J will end this war. 
Sar. Even so, 

My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject: — yield, I pray thee. 
I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 
Bel. Thine hour is come. 

Sar. No, thine. — I've lately read, 

Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
And, ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now be crush'd. 
Bel. But not by thee. 

[They fight ; Beleses is wounded and disarmed. 
Sar. (raising his sword to despatch him, ex- 
claims) — Now call upon thy planets ; will they shoot 
From the sky to preserve their seer and credit ? 

[^4 party of Rebels enter, a?id rescue Beleses. 
They assail the King, who, in turn, is rescued 
by a party of his Soldiers, who drive the 
Rebels off. 
The villain was a prophet after all. 
Upon them — ho ! there — victory is ours. 

[Exit hi pursuit. 
Myr. (to Pan.) Pursue ! Why stand'st thou 
here, and leavest the ranks 
Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee ? 
Pan. The king's command was not to quit thee. 
Myr. Me! 

Think not of me — a sinsle soldier's arm 



SARD ANAP ALUS. 



36o 



Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 

I need no guard : what, with a world at stake, 

Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I say, 

Or thou art shamed ! Nay, then / will go forth, 

A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife, 

And bid thee guard me there — where thou shouldst 

shield 
Thy sovereign. [Exit Myrrha. 

Pan. Yet stay, damsel ! She's gone. 

If aught of ill betide her, better I 
Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
For that too ; and can I do less than he, 
Who never flash'd a scimetar till now ? 
Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
In disobedience to the monarch. [Exit Pania. 

Enter Altada and Sfero by an opposite door. 

Alt. Myrrha ! 

What ! gone ? yet she was here when the fight raged, 
And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them ? 

Sfe. I saw both safe, when late the rebels fled : 
They probably are but retired to make 
Their way back to the harem. 

Alt. If the king 

Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
To worse than captive rebels. 

Sfe. Let us trace them ; 

She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than his recover'd kingdom. 

Alt. Baal himself 

Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
His silken son to save it ; he defies 
All augury of foes or friends ; and like 
The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
As sweeps the air, and deluges the earth. 
The man's inscrutable. 

Sfe. Not more than others. 

All are the sons of circumstance : away — 
Let's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
Tortur'd for his infatuation, and 
Condemn'd without a crime. [Exeunt 

Enter Salemenes and Soldiers, <$e. 

Sal. The triumph is 

Flattering : they are beaten backward from the 

palace, 
And we have open'd regular access 
To the troops station'd on the other side 
Euphrates, who may still be true ; nay, must be, 
When they hear of our victory. But where 
Is the chief victor ? where's the king ? 



Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis, 8$c., and Myrrha. 

Sar. Here, brother. 

Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 

Sar. Not quite ; but let it pass. 
We've clear'd the palace 

Sal. And I trust the city. 

Our numbers gather : and I've ordered onward 
A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved, 
All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 



In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 

Sa7\ It is already, or at least they march'd 
Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
Who spared no speed. I am spent : give me a seat 

Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 

S ar - 'Tis no place to rest on 

For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 

[They place a seat. 
A peasant's stool, I care not what : so — now 
I breathe more freely. 

Sal- _ This great hour has proved 

The brightest and most glorious of your life. 

Sar. And the most tiresome. Where'! my cup- 
bearer ? 
Bring me some water. 

Sal. (smiling.) 'Tis the first time lie 

Ever had such an order : even I, 
Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
Suggest a purpler beverage. 

Sar. Blood, doubtless. 

But there's enough of that shed ; as for wiue, 
I have learn'd to-night the price of the pure element 
Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renew'd, 
With greater strength than the grape ever gave me 
My charge upon the rebels. Where's the soldier 
Who gave me water in his helmet ? 

One of the Guards. Slain, sire ! 

An arrow pierced hk brain, while, scattering 
The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
To place it on his brows. 

Sar. Slain ! unrewarded ! 

And slain to serve my thirst : that's hard, poor slave ; 
Had he but lived, I would have gorged him with 
Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
The pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch'd 
As I am now. [ They bring xcater — he drinks. 

I live again — from henceforth 
The goblet I reserve for hours o>f love, 
But war on water. 

Sal. And that bandage, sire, 

Which girds your arm ? 

Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses. 

Myr. Oh ! he is wounded ! . 

Sar. Not too much of that ; 

And yet it feels a little stiff and painful, 
Now I am cooler. 

Myr. You have bound it with 

Sar. The fillet of my diadem : the first time 
That ornament was ever aught to me, 
Save an encumbrance. 

Myr. (to the attendants.) Summon speedily 
A leech of the most skilful : pray, retire ; 
I will unbind your wound and tend it. 

Sar. Do so, 

For now it throbs sufficiently ; but what 
Know'st thou of wounds ? yet wherefore do I ask ? 
Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
This minion ? 

Sal. Herding with the other females, 

Like frighten'd antelopes. 

Sar. No : like the dam 

Of the young lion, femininely raging, 
(And femininely meaneth furiously, 
Because all passions in excess are female,) 
Against the hunter flying with her cub, 
She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers, 
In the pursuit. 

Sal. Indeed ! 



366 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Sar. You see, this night 

Made warriors of more than me. I paused 
To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 
Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long 

hair 
As it stream'd o'er her ; her blue veins that rose 
Along her most transparent brow ; her nostril 
Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 
Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din, 
As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash, 
Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling ; her 
Waved arms, more dazzling with their own born 

whiteness 
Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
From a dead soldier's grasp ; all these things made 
Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
Of Victory, or Victory herself, 
Come down to hail us her's. 

Sal. (aside.) This is too much ; 

Again the love-fit's on him, and all's lost, 
Unless we turn his thoughts. 

(Aloud.) But pray thee, sire, 
Think of your wound — you said even now 'twas 
painful. 
Sar. That's true, too ; but I must not think 

of it. 
Sal. I have look'd to all things needful, and will 
now 
Receive reports of progress made in such 
Orders as I had given, and then return 
To hear your further pleasure. 

Sar. Be it so. 

Sal. (in retiring.) Myrrha ! 

Myr. Prince ! 

Sal. You have shown a soul to-night, 

Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 

I have no time : thou lovest the king ? 

Myr. I love 

Sardanapalus. 
Sal. But w r ouldst have him king still ? 

Myr. I would not have him less than what he 

should be. 
Sal. Well then, to have him king, and yours, and 
all 
He should, or should not be ; to have him live, 
Let him not sink back into luxury. 
You have more power upon his spirit than 
Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
Raging without : look well that he relapse not. 

Myr. There needed not the voice of Salemenes 
To urge me on to this : I will not fail. 

All that a woman's weakness can 

Sal. Is power 

Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his ; 
Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. Myrrha ! what, at whispers 

With my stern brother ? I shall soon be jealous. 
Myr. (smiling.) You have cause, sire ; for on the 
earth there breathes not 
A man more worthy of a woman's love — 
A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — 
A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 

Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. I must not 
Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
That throws me into shade ; yet you speak truth. 

Myr. And nowretire, to have your wound look'd to. 
Pray, lean on me. 
Sar. Yes love ! but not from pain. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

Sardanapalus discovered sleeping upon a Couch, 
and occasionally disturbed in his slumbers, with 
Myrrha watching. 

Myr. (sola, gazing.) I have stolen upon his rest, 
if rest it be, 
Which thus convulses slumber : shall I wake him ? 
No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet ! 
Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreams, 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd, 
Look like thy brother, Death — so still — so stirless — 
For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
Are happiest of all within the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unawakening twin 
Again he moves — again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust' 
Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — yet not yet : who knows 
From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; but if 
I quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
His wound, though slight, may cause all this, and 

shake 

Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 
Let nature use her own maternal means, — 
And I await to second not disturb her. 

Sar. (awakening.) Not so — although ye multiplied 
the stars, 

And gave them to me as a realm to share 
From you and with you ! I would not so purchase 
The empire of eternity. Hence — hence — 
Old hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye, 
Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes ! 
Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols, 
If your priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly beldame ! 
Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
The carcasses of Inde — Away ! away ! 

Where am I ? Where the spectres ? Where No — 

that 
Is no false phantom : I should know it 'midst 
All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha ! 

Myr. Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy brow the 
drops 
Gather like night dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world, 
And thou art loved of this. Be of good cheer ; 
&l\ will go well. 

Sar. Thy hand — so — 'tis thy hand ; 

'Tio flesh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
Myself that which I was. 

Myr. At least know me 

For what I am, and ever must be — thine. 

Sar. I know it now. I know this life again. 
Ah, Myrrha I have been where we shall be. 

Myr. My lord ! 

Sar. I've been i' the grave — where the worms are 
lords, 

And kings are But I did not deem it so ; 

I thought 'twas nothing. 

Myr. So it is ; except 

Unto the timid, who anticipate 



SARDANAPALUS. 



367 



That which may never be. 

Sar. Oh, Myrrha! if 

Sleep show such things, what may not death 
disclose ? 

Myr. I know no evil death can show, which life 
Has not already shown to those who live 
Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
A shore, where mind survives, 'twill be as mind, 
All unincorpoiate : or if there flits 
A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay, 
Which stalks, methinks, between our souls and 

heaven, 
And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, 
Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 

Sar. I fear it not ; but I have felt — have seen — 
A legion of the dead. 

Myr. And so have I. 

The dust we tread upon was once alive, 
And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou seen ? 
Speak it, 'twill lighten thy dimm'd mind. 

Sar. Methought 

Myr. Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — ex- 
hausted ; all 
Which can impair both strength and spirit ; seek 
[lather to sleep again. 

Sar. Not now — I would not 

Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
What I have dreamt: — and canst thou bear to 
hear it ? 

Myr. I can bear all things, dreams of life or death, 
Which I participate with you, in semblance 
Or full reality. 

Sar. And this look'd real, 

I tell you : after that these eyes were open, 
I saw them in their flight — for then they fled. 

Myr. Say on. 

Sar. I saw, that is, I dream 'd myself 

Here — here— even where we are, guests as we were, 
Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest, 
Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
Of thee and Zames, and our accustom'd meeting, 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
And deadly face — I could not recognize it, 
Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where ; 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Was still, yet lighted ; his long locks curl'd down 
On his vast bust whence a huge quiver rose 
With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing, 
That peep'd up bristling through his serpent hair. 
I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
Between us, but he answer'd not — I fill'd it — 
He took it not, but stared upon me, till 
I trembled at the fix'd glare of his eye : 
I frown'd upon him as a king should frown — 
He frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upo.n me 
With the same aspect, which appall'd me more, 
Because he changed not ; and I tum'd for refuge 
To milder guests, and sought them on the right, 

Where thou wert wont to be. But 

[He pauses. 

Myr. What instead ? 

Sar. In thy own chair — thy own place in the 
banquet — 
1 sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
Instead — a gray-hair'd, wither'd, bloody-eyed, 
A.nd bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing, 
Female in garb, and crown'd upon the brow, 
Furrow'd with years, yet sneering with the passion 



Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
Sate : — my veins curdled. 

Myr. Is this all ? 

Sar. Upon 

Her right hand — her lank, bird-like right hand — 

stood 
A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on 
Her left, another, fill'd with — what I saw not, 
But tum'd from it and her. But all along 
The table sate a range of crowned wretches, 
Of various aspects, but of one expression. 

Myr. And felt you not this a mere vision ? 

Sar. No: 

It was so palpable, I could have touch'd them. 
I turn'd from one face to another, in 
The hope to find at last one which I knew 
Ere I saw theirs ; but no — all turn'd upon me, 
And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but stared 
Till I grew stone, as they seem'd half to be, 
Yet breathing stone, for I felt life in them, 
And life in me : there was a horrid kind 
Of sympathy between us, as if they 
Had lost a part of death to come to me, 
And I the half of life to sit by them. 
We were in an existence all apart 

From heaven or earth and rather let me see 

Death all than such a being ! 

Myr. And the end ? 

Sar. At last I sate marble, as they, when rose 
The hunter, and the crew ; and smiling on me — 
Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon me — I should say, 
His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the woman's 
Thin lips relax'd to something like a smile. 
Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each hand 
Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
Mere mimics even in death — but I sate still : 
A desperate courage crept through every limb, 
And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh'd 
Full in their phantom faces. But then — then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine : I took it, 
And grasp'd it — but it melted from my own, 
While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 

Myr. And was : the ancestor of heroes, too, 
And thine no less. 

Sar. Ay, Myrrha, but the woman, 

The female who remain'd, she flew upon me, 
And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisses, 
And flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung ; 
The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
Embraced me, while I shrunk from her, as if, 
In lieu of her remote decendant, I 
Had been the son who slew her for her incest. 
Then — then a chaos of all loathsome things 
Throng'd thick and shapeless: I was dead, yet 

feeling — 
Buried, and raised again — consumed by worms, 
Purged by the flames, and wither'd in the air ! 
I can fix nothing further of my thoughts, 
Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thee, 
In all these agonies, and woke and found thee. 

Myr. So shalt thou find me ever at thy side, 
Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
But think not of these things— the mere creations 
Of late events, acting vpon a frame 



368 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Unused to toil, yet overwrought by toil 
Such as might try the sternest. 

Sar. I am better. 

Now that I see thee once more, what was seen 
Seems nothing. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. Is the king so soon awake ? 

Sar. Yes, brother, and I would I had not slept ; 
For all the predecessors of our line 
Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them. 
My father was among them, too ; but he, 
I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
Between the hunter-founder of our race, 
And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
Whom you call glorious. 

Sal. So I term you also, 

Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
By daybreak I propose that we set forth, 
And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite quell'd. 

Sar. How wears the night ? 

Sal. There yet remain some hours 

Of darkness : use them for your further rest. 

Sar. No, not to-night, if 'tis not gone: methought 
I pass'd hours in that vision. 

Myr. Scarcely one ; 

I watch'd by you : it was a heavy hour, 
But an hour only. 

Sar. Let us then hold council ; 

To-morrow we set forth. 

Sal. But ere that time, 

I had a grace to seek. 

Sar. 'Tis granted. 

Sal. Hear it 

Ere you reply too readily ; and 'tis 
For your ear only. 

Myr. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 

Sar. Freedom only ! 

That slave deserves to share a throne. 

Sal. Your patience — 

'Tis not yet vacant, and 'tis of its partner 
I come to speak with you. 

Sar. How ! of the queen ? 

Sal. Even so. I judged it fitting for their safety, 
That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
For Paphligonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
Governs ; and there at all events secure 
My nephews and your sons their lives, and with them 
Their just pretensions to the crown in case 

Sar. I perish — as is probable : well thought — 
Let them set forth with a sure escort. 

Sal. That 

Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates ; but ere they 
Depart, will you not see 

Sar. My sons ? It may 

Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep; 
And what can I reply to comfort them, 
Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn smiles ? 
You know I cannot feign. 

Sal. But you can feel ; 

At least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
Requests to see you ere you part — for ever. 

Sar Unto what end ? what purpose ? I will grant 
Aught — all that she can ask — but such a meeting. 
Sal. Tou know, or ought to know, enough of 
women, 



Since you have studied them so steadily, 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
Their fancy, than the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
But 'twas her wish — she is my sister — you 
Her husband — will you grant it ? 

Sar. 'Twill be useless ; 

But let her come. 

Sal. I go. [Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. We have lived asunder 

Too long to meet again — and now to meet ! 
Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow 
To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows. 
Who have ceased to mingle love ? 

Re-enter Salemenes and Zarina. 

Sal. My sister ! Courage, 

Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 

Zar. I pray thee, brother, leave me. 

Sal. Since you ask it. 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Zar. Alone with him ! How many a year has past, 
Though we are still so young, since we have met, 
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
He loved me not : yet he seems little changed — 
Changed to me only — would the change were mu- 
tual ! 
He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a word — 
Nor look — yet he teas soft of voice and aspect — 
Indifferent, not austere. My lord ! 

Sar. Zarina ! 

Zar. No, not Zarina — do not say Zarina. 
That tone — that word — annihilate long years, 
And things which make them longer. 

Sar. 'Tis too late 
To think of these past dreams. Let's not re- 
proach — 
That is, reproach me not — for the last time 

Zar. And first. I ne'er reproach'd you. 

Sar. 'Tis most true, 

And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
Than But our hearts are not in our own power. 

Zar. Nor hands ; but I gave both. 

Sar. Your brother said 

It was your will to see me, ere you went 
From Nineveh with (He hesitates.) 

Zar. Our children : it is true. 

I wish'd to thank you that you had not divided 
My heart from all that's left it now to love — 
Those who are yours and mine, who look like you, 
And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
Once but they have not changed. 

Sar. Nor ever will. 

I fain would have them dutiful. 

Zar. I cherish 

Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us. 

Sar. Deem not 

I have not done you justice : rather make them 
Resemble your own line than their own sire. 
I trust them with you — to you : fit them for 

A throne, or, if that be denied You have heard 

Of .this night's tumults ? 

Zar. I had half forgotten, 

And could have welcomed any grief save yours, 
Which gave me to behold your face again. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



369 



Sar. The throne — I say it not in fear — but 'tis 
In peril ; they perhaps may never mount it : 
But let them not for this lose sight of it. 
I will dare all things to bequeath it them ; 
But if I fail, then they must win it back 
Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
Have wasted down my royalty. 

Zar. They ne'er 

Shall know from me of aught but what may honor 
Their father's memory. 

Sar. Rather let them hear 

The truth from you than from a trampling world. 
If they be in adversity, they'll learn 
Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless princes, 
And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 
My boys ! — I could have borne it were I childless. 

Zar. Oh ! do not say so — do not poison all 
My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 
And honor him who saved the realm for them, 
So little cared for as his own ; and if 

Sar. 'Tis lost, all earth will cry out thank your 
father ! 
And they will swell the echo with a curse. 

Zar. That they shall never do ; but rather honor 
The name of him, who, dying like a king, 
In his last hours did more for his own memory 
Than many monarchs in a length of days, 
Which date the flight of time, but make no annals. 

Sar. Our annals draw perchance unto their close; 
But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 
Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 

Zar. Yet, be not rash — be careful of your life, 
Live but for those who love. 

Sar. And who are they ? 
A slave, who loves from passion — I'll not say 
Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and loves ; 
A few friends, who have revell'd till we are 
As one, for they are nothing if I fall ; 
A brother I have injured — children whom 
I have neglected, and a spouse 

Zar. "Who loves. 

Sar. And pardons ? 

Zar. I have never thought of this, 

And cannot pardon till I have coudemn'd. 

Sar. My wife ! 

Zar. Now blessings on thee for that word ! 

I never thought to hear it more — from thee. 

Sar. Oh! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes — 
These slaves whom I have nurtured, pamper 'd, fed, 
And swoln with peace, and gorg'd with plenty, till 
They reign themselves — all monarchs in their man- 
sions, 
Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
His death, who made their lives a jubilee; 
While the few upon whom I have no claim 
Are faithful ! This is true, yet monstrous. 

Zar. 'Tis 

Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
Turn poison in bad minds. 

Sar. And good ones make 

Good out of evil. Happier than the bee, 
Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 

Zar. Then reap 

The honey, nor inquire whence 'tis derived. 
Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. 

Sar. My life insures me that. How long, bethink 
you, 
Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal ; 
47 



That is, where mortals are, not where they must be ? 

Zar. I know not. But yet live for my— that is, 
Your children's sake ! 

& ar - My gentle, wrong'd Zarina ! 

I am the very slave of circumstance 
And impulse — borne away with every breath ! 
Misplaced upon the throne— misplaced in life. 
I know not what I could have been, but feel 
I am not what I should be— let it end. 
But take this with thee : if I was not form'd 
To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 
Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I've doted 
On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
All that look'd like a chain for me or others, 
(This even rebellion must avouch ;) yet hear 
These words, perhaps among my last — that none 
E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not 
To profit by them — as the miner lights 
Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
That which avails him nothing : he hath found it, 
But 'tis not his — but some superior's, who 
Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
Which sparkles at his feet : nor dare he lift 
Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
The sullen earth. 

Zar. Oh ! if thou hast at length 

Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
I ask no more — but let us hence together, 
And / — let me say ice — shall yet be happy. 
Assyria is not all the earth — we'll find 
A world out of our own — and be more blest 
Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
An empire to indulge thee.' 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I must part ye — 

The moments, which must not be lost, are passing. 

Zar. Inhuman brother ! wilt thou thus weigh out 
Instants so high and blest ? 

Sal. Blest ! 

Zar. He hath been 

So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
Of quitting. 

Sal. So — this feminine farewell 

Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
I thought as much, and yielded against all 
My better bodings. But it must not be. 

Zar. Not be? 

Sal. Remain, and perish 

Zar. With my husband 

Sal. And children. 

Zar. Alas ! 

Sal. Hear me, sister, like 
My sister :— all's prepared to make your safety 
Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes ; 
'Tis not a single question of mere feeling, 
Though that were much — but 'tis a point of state : 
The rebels would do more to seize upon- 
The offsprings of their sovereign, and so crush 

Zar. Ah ! do not name it. 

Sal. Well, then, mark me : when 

They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels 
Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 
The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 

Zar. But could I not remain, alone ? 

Sal. What! leave 

Your children, with two parents, and yet orphans-* 



370 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



In a strange land — so young, so distant ? 

Zar. No— 

My heart will break. 

Sal. Now you know all — decide. 

Sar. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 
Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, 
You save the better part of what is left, 
To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
As yet beat in these kingdoms. 

Sal. The time presses. 

Sar. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 
T may be worthier of you — and, if not, 
Remember that my faults, though not atoned for, 
Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
Grieve more above the blighted name and ashes 

Which once were mightiest in Assyria — than 

But I grow womanish again, and must not ; 
I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 

Been of the softer order hide thy tears — 

I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
But let me not behold them ; they unman me 
Here when I had remann'd myself. My brother, 
Lead her away. 

Zar. Oh, God ! I never shall 

Behold him more ! 

Sal. (striving to conduct her.) Nay, sister, I must 
be obey'd. 

Zar. I must remain — away ! you shall not hold 
me. 
What, shall he die alone ? / live alone ? 

Sal. He shall not die alone; but lonely you 
Have lived for years. 

Zar. That's false ! I knew he lived, 

And lived upon his image — let me go ! 

Sal. (conducting her off the stage.) Nay, then, I 
must use some fraternal force, 
Which you will pardon. 

Zar. Never. Help me ! Oh ! 

Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from thee ? 

Sal. Nay — then all is lost again, 

If that this moment is not gain'd. 

Zar. My brain turns — 

My eyes fail — where is he ? [She faints. 

Sar. (advancing.) No — set her down — 

She's dead — and you have slain her. 

Sal. 'Tis the mere 

Faintness of o'erwrought passion : in the air 
She will recover. Pray, keep back. — [Aside.] I 

must 
Avail myself of this sole moment to 
Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 
I' the royal galley on the river. 

[Salemenes bears her off. 

Sar. (solus.) This, too — 

And this too must I suffer — I, who never 
Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
A voluntary pang ! But that is false — 
She loved me, and I loved her. — Fatal passion . 
Why dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina ! 
I must pay dearly for the desolation 
Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
But thee, I should have been an unopposed 
Monarch of honoring nations. To what gulfs 
A single deviation from the track 



Of human duties leads even those who claim 
The homage of mankind as their born due, 
And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 

Enter Myrrha. 

Sar. You here ! Who call'd you ? 

Myr. No one — but I heard 

Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 
And thought 

Sar. It forms no portion of your duties 

To enter here till sought for. 

Myr. Though I might, 

Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours, 
(Although they too were chiding,) which reproved 

me 
Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
Uncall'd for : I retire. 

Sar. Yet stay — being here. 

I pray you pardon me : events have sour'd me 
Till I wax peevish — heed it not : I shall 
Soon be myself again. 

Myr. I wait with patience, 

What I shall see with pleasure. 

Sar. Scarce a moment 

Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 

Myr. Ah! 

Sar. Wherefore do you start ? 

Myr. Did I do so ? 

Sar. 'Twas well you entered by another portal, 
Else you had met. That pang at least is spared her. 

Myr. I know to feel for her. 

Sar. That is too much, 

And beyond nature — 'tis nor mutual 
Nor possible. You cannot pity her, 
Nor she aught but 

Myr. Despise the favorite slave ? 

Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 

Sar. Scorn'd ! what, to be the envy of your sex, 
And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord ? 

Myr. Were you the lord of twice ten thousand 
worlds — 
As you are like to lose the one you sway'd — 
I did abase myself as much in being 
Your paramour, as though you were a peasant — 
Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 

Sar. You talk it weH 

Myr. And truly. 

Sar. In the hour 

Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
Against the falling ; but as I am not 
Quite fall'n, nor now disposed to bear reproaches, 
Perhaps because I merit them too often, 
Let us then part while peace is still between us. 

Myr. Part! 

Sar. Have not all past human beings parted 

And must not all the present one day part ? 

Myr. Why ? 

Sar. For your safety, which I will have look'd tc, 
With a strong escort to your native land ; 
And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom, 

Myr. I pray you talk not thus. 

Sar. The queen is gone : 

You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



371 



Myr. And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
You shall not force me from you. 

Sar. Think well of it— 

It soon may be too late. 

Myr. So let it be ; 

For then you cannot separate me from you. 

Sar. And will not ; but I thought you wish'd it. 

Myr. I ! 

Sar. You spoke of your abasement. 

Myr. And I feel it 

Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 

Sar. Then fly from it. 

Myr. 'Twill not recall the past — 

'Twill not restore my honor, nor my heart. 
No — here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
I live to joy in your great triumph ; should 
Your lot be different, I'll not weep, but share it. 
You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 

Sar. Your courage never — nor your love till now ; 
And none could make me doubt it save yourself. 
Those words 

Myr. Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 
Be in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
This very night, and in my further bearing, 
Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. 

Sar. I am content : and, trusting in my cause, 
Think we may yet be victors and return 
To peace — the only victory I covet. 
To me war is no glory — conquest no 
Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right 
Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs 
These men would bow me down with. Never, never 
Can I forget this night, even should I live 
To add it to the memory of others. 
I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
A green spot amidst desert centuries, 
On which the future would turn back and smile, 
And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
I thought to have made my realm a paradise, 
And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breath 
Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
My only guerdon — so they are my Myrrha : 

[He kisses her. 
Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and life ; 
They shall have both but never thee ! 

Myr. No, never ! 

Man may despoil his brother man of all 
That's great or glittering — kingdoms fall — hosts 

yield — 
Friends fail — slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 
Than all, the most indebted — but a heart 
That loves without self-love ! 'Tis here — now 
prove it. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I sought you — How ! she here again ? 

Sar. Return not 

Now to reproof: methinks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 

Sal. The only woman whom it much imports me 
At such a moment now is safe in absence — 
The queen's embark'd. 

Sar. And well ? say that much. 

Sal. Yes. 

Her transient weakness has pass'd o'er; at least, 



It settled into tearless silence : her 
Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 
Upon the palace towers as the swift galley 
Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the star- 
light ; 
But she said nothing. 

Sar. Would I felt no more 

Than she has said ! 

Sal. 'Tis now too late to feel ! 

Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, mar- 

shall'd 
By their two leaders, are already up 
In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks, 
Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
Been join'd by other satraps. 

Sar. What ! more rebels ? 

Let us be first, then. 

Sal. That were hardly prudent 

Now, though it was our first intention. If 
By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 
I've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
In strength enough to venture an attack, 
Ay, and pursuit too ; but till then, my voice 
Is to await the onset. 

Sar. I detest 

That waiting ; though it seems so safe to fight 
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
Strew' d to receive them, still I like it not — 
My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them. 
Though they were piled on moiuitains, I would have 
A pjuck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
Let me then charge. 

Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 

Sar. I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
Of soldiership, I loathe the word, and those 
Who pride themselves upon it ; but direct me 
Where I may pour upon them. 

Sal. You must spare 

To expose your life too hastily ; 'tis not 
Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
The whole war turns upon it — with it ; this 
Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — 
Prolong it — end it. 

Sar. Then let us end both ! 

'Twere better thus, perhaps, than prolong either ; 
I'm sick of one, perchance of both. 

[A trumpet sounds without. 

Sal. Hark ! 

Sar. Let us 

Reply, not listen. 

Sal. And your wound ! 

Sar. 'Tis bound — 

'Tis heal'd — I had forgotten it. Away ! 
A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper ; 
The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
To have struck so weakly. 

Sal. Now, may none this hour 

Strike with a better aim ! 

Sar. Ay, if we conquer; 

But if not, they will only leave to me 
A task they might have spared their king. Upon 
them! [Trumpet sounds again. 

Sal. I am with you. 

Sar. Ho, my arms ! again, my arms ! 

[Exeunt 



372 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The same Hall in the Palace. 

Mtrrha and Ba^ea. 

Myr. (at a window.) The day at last has broken. 
What a night 
Hath usher'd it ! How beautiful in heaven ! 
Though varied with a transitory storm, 
More beautiful in that variety ! 
How hideous upon earth ! where peace and hope, 
And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
By human passions to a human chaos, 
Not yet resolved to separate elements — 
'Tis warring still ! And can the sun so rise, 
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
Vapors more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, 
And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
So like we almost deem it permanent ; 
So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently 
Scatter'd along the eternal vault : and yet 
It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, 
And blends itself into the soul, until 
Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark not, 
Know not the realms where those twin genii 
(Who chasten and who purify our hearts, 
So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 
For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
The air with clamor) build the palaces 
Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
Briefly ; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 
Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
The rest of common, heavy, human hours, 
And dream them through in placid sufferance ; 
Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 
Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling, 
Which our eternal, restless agony 
Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 

Bal. You muse right calmly : and can you so 
watch 
The sunrise which may be our last ? 

Myr. It is 

Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
Those eyes, which never may behold it more 
For having look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
Without the reverence and the rapture due 
To that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
As I am in this form. Come, look upon it, 
The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 

Bal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once on earth 
He sway'd. 

Myr. He sways it now far more, then ; never 

Had earthly monarch half the peace and glory 
Which centres in a single ray of his. 

Bal. Surely he is a god ! 

Myr. So we Greeks deem too ; 

And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
Must rather be the abodes of gods than one 
Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with light 



That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 

Bal. Hark ! heard you not a sound ? 

Myr. No, 'twas mere fancy 

They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
As in late midnight conflict in the very 
Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
Since that insidious hour ; and here within 
The very centre, girded by vast courts 
And regal halls of pyramid proportions, 
Which must be carried one by one before 
They penetrate to where they then arrived, 
We are as much shut in even from the sound 
Of peril as from glory. 

Bal. But they reach'd 

Thus far before. 

Myr. Yes, by surprise, and were 

Beat back by valor ; now at once we have % 

Courage and vigilance to guard us. 

Bal. May they 

Prosper ! 

Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 
I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
How vainly ! 

Bal. Is is said the king's demeanor 

In the late action scarcely more appall'd 
The rebels than astonish'd his true subjects. 

Myr. 'Tis easy to astonish or appal 
The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of slaves ; 
But he did bravely. 

Bal. Slew he not Beleses ? 

I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 

Myr. the wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 
Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquish'd him 
In fight, as he had spared him in his peril ; 
And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 

Bal. Hark! 

Myr. You are right ; some steps approach, but 
slowly. 

Enter Soldiers bearing in Salemenes wounded, with 

a broken Javelin in his side; they scat him upon 

one of the Couches which furnish the Apartment. 

Myr. Oh, Jove ! 

Bal. Then all is over. 

Sal. That is false. 

Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 

Myr. Spare him — he's none: a mere court butterfly, 
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 

Sal. Let him live on, then. 

Myr. So wilt thou, I trust. 

Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here ? 

Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin struck 
you, 
You fell and fainted ; 'twas his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

Sal. 'Twas not ill done : 

For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 'tis vain, 
I feel it ebbing ! 

Myr. Let me see the wound ; 

I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
'Tis part of our instruction. War being constant, 
We are nerved to look on such things. 

Sol. Best extract 

The javelin. 

Myr. Hold ! no, no, it cannot be. 

Sal. I am sped, then ! 



SARDANAPALUS. 



373 



Myr. With the blood that fast must follow 
The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 

Sal. And I not death. Where was the king when 
you 
Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken ? 

Sol. Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back. 

Sal. Whom heard ye 

Named next to the command ? 

Sol. I did not hear. 

Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 'twas my last request 
That Zames take my posi until the junction, 
So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here : our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

Sol. But, prince 

Sal. Hence, I say ! here's a courtier and 

A woman, the best chamber company. 
As you would not permit me to expire 
Upon the field, I'll have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding ! 
[Exeunt the Soldiers. 

Myr. Gallant and glorious spirit ! must the earth 
So soon resign thee ? 

Sal. Gentle Myrrha, 'tis 

The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
As 'tis I have not outlived them. 

Myr. You wax paler. 

Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful : I would draw it forth 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The fight goes. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 

Sar. My best brother ! 

Sal. And the battle 

Is lost ? 

Sar. (despond ingly.) You see me here. 

Sal. I'd rather see you thus. 

[He draws out the weapon from the icound, and dies. 

Sar. And thus I will be soon ; unless the succor, 
The last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes, 
Arrive with Ofratanes. 

Myr. Did you not 

Receive a token from your dying brother, 
Appointing Zames chief? 

Sar. I did. 

Myr. Where's Zanies ? 

Sar. Dead. 

Myr. And Altada ? 

Sar. Dying. 

Myr. Pania ? Sfero ? 

Sar. Pania yet lives ; but Sfero's fled, or captive. 
I am alone. 

Myr. And is all lost ? 

Sar. Our walls, 

Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
Their present force, or aught save treachery : 
But i' the field 

Myr. I thought 'twas the intent 

Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
Till ye were strengthen'd by the expected succors. 

Sar. I overruled him. 

Myr. Well, the fault's a brave one, 

Sar. But fatal. Oh, my brother ! I would give 
These realms, of which thou wert the ornament, 



The sword and shield, the sole-redeeming honor 

To call back but I will not weep for thee ; 

Thou shalt be mourn' d for as thou wouldst be 

mourn'd. 
It grieves me most that thou coulclst quit this life 
Believing that I could survive what thou 
Hast died for — our long loyalty of race. 
If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 
Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement, 
(The tears of all the good are thine already.) 
If not, we meet again soon, if the spirit 
Within vis lives beyond : — thou readest mine. 
And dost me justice now. 'Let me once clasp 
That yet warm hand, and fold that throbless heart 
[Embraces the body 
To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
The body hence. 

Sol. Where ? 

Sar. To my proper chamber. 

Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there ; when this is done, we will 
Speak further of the rights due to such ashes. 

[Exeunt Soldiers with the body of Salemenes. 

Enter Pania. 

Sar. Well, Pania ! have you placed the guards and 
issued 
The orders fix'd on ? 

Pan. Sire, I have obey'd. 

Sar. And do the soldiers keep their hearts up ? 

Pan. Sire ? 

Sar. I'm answer'd ! When a king asks twice, and 
has 
A question as an answer to his question, 
It is a portent. What ! they are dishearten'd ? 

Pan. The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
Have made them 

Sar. Rage — not droop — it should have been. 

We'll find the means to rouse them. 

Pan. Such a loss 

Might sadden even a victory. 

Sar. Alas ! 

Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet, 
Though coop'd within these walls, they are strong, 

and we 
Have those without will break their way through 

hosts, 
To make their sovereign's dwelling what it was — 
A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 

Enter an Officer, hastily. 

Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak ! 

Off. I dare not. 

Sar. Dare not ? 

While millions dare revolt with sword in hand ! 
That's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we can hear 
Worse than thou hast to tell. 

Pan. Proceed, thou hearest. 

Offi. The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swoln" 
From the enormous mountains where it rises, 
By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroyed the bulwark. 

Pan. That's a black augury ! it has been said 
For ages, " that the city ne'er should yield 
To man, until the river grew its foe." 



374 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Sar. I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
How much is swept down of the wall ? 

Offi. About 

Some twenty stadii. 

Sar. And all this is left 

Pervious to the assailants ? 

Offi. For the present 

The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
And may be cross'd by the accustomed barks, 
The palace is their own. 

Sar. That shall be never. 

Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens, 
Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them, 
My fathers' house shall never be a cave 
For wolves to horde and howl in. 

Pan. With your sanctions 

I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
For the assurance of the vacant space 
As time and means permit. 

Sar. About it straight, 

And bring me back, as speedily as full 
And fair investigation may permit, 
Report of the true state of this irruption 
Of waters. [Exeunt Pania and the Officer. 

Myr. Thus the very waves rise up 
Against you. 

Sar. They are not my subjects, girl, 

And may be pardon'd, since they can't be punish'd. 
Myr. I joy to see this portent shakes you not. 
Sar. I am past the fear of portents : they can tell 
me 
Nothing I have not told myself since midnight : 
Despair anticipates such things. 

Myr. Despair ! 

Sar. No ; not despair precisely. When we know 
All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
Word than this is- to give it utterance : 
But what are words to us ? we have well nigh done 
With them and all things. 

Myr. Save one deed — the last 

And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
Of all that was — or is — or is to be — 
The only thing common to all mankind, 
So different in their births, tongues, sexes, natures, 
Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects, 
Without one point of union save in this, 
To which we tend, for which we're born, and thread 
The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life. 

Sar. Our clew being well nigh wound out, let's be 
cheerful. 
They who have nothing more to fear may well 
Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd ; 
As children at discover'd bugbears. 

Re-enter Pania. 

Pan. 'Tis 

As was reported : I have order'd there 
A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
Where it was strongest the required addition 
To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters. 

Sar. You have done your duty faithfully, and as 
My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 
Draw near a close. I pray you take this key : 

[Gives a key. 
It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 
Press'd by a nobler weight than e'er it bore — 



Though a long line of sovereigns have lain down 

Along its golden frame — as bearing for 

A time what late was Salemenes'.) Search 

The secret covert to which this will lead you t 

'Tis full of treasure ; take it for yourself 

And your companions : there's enough to load ye, 

Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too ; 

And all the inmates of the palace, of 

Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 

Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd foi 

pleasure, 
And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
The river's broad and swoln, and uncommanded 
(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
Fly ! and be happy ! 

Pan. Under your protection ! 

So you acompany your faithful guard. 

Sar. No, Pania ! that must not be ; get thee hence, 
And leave me to my fate. 

Pan. 'Tis the first time 
I ever disobey'd : but now 

Sar. So all men 

Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
Apes Treason from without. Question no further ; 
'Tis my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
Oppose it ? thou ! 

Pan. But yet — not yet. 

Sar. Well, then, 

Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
The signal. 

Pan. With a heavy but true heart, 

I promise. 

Sar. 'Tis enough. Now order here 

Fagots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 
Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark ; 
Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices, 
And mighty planks to nourish a tall pile; 
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre ; 
And heap them round yon throne. 

Pan. My lord ! 

Sar. I have said it, 

And yon have sworn. 

Pan. And could keep my faith 

Without a vow. [Exit Pania. 

Myr. What mean you ? 

Sar. You shall know 

Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 

Pania, returning with a Herald. 

Pan. My king, in going forth upon my duty, 
This herald has been brought before me, craving 
An audience. 

Sar. Let him speak. 

Her. The King Arbaces— — 

Sar. What, crown'd already ? — But, proceed. 

Her. Beleses, 

The anointed high-priest 

Sar. Of what god, or demon ? 

With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed ; 
You are sent to prate your master's will, and not 
Reply to mine. 

Her. And Satrap Ofratanes 

Sar. Why, he is ours. 

Her. (showing a ring.) Be sure that he is now 
In the camp of the conquerors ; behold 
His signet-ring. 

Sar. 'Tis his. A worthy triad ! 

Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 



SARDANAPALUS. 



375 



To see one treachery the less : this man 

Was thy true friend and ray most trusted subject. 

Proceed. 

Her. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
Of choice to single out a residence 
In any of the further provinces, 
Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
Condition that the three young princes are 
Given up as hostages. 
Sar. (ironically.) The generous victors ! 
Her. I wait the answer. 

Sar. Answer, slave ! how long 

Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 
Her. Since they were free. 

Sar. Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 

Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
Of treason, thoxigh its proxy only. Pania ! 
Let his head be thrown from our walls within 
The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
Away with him ! 

[Pania and the Guards seizing him. 
Pan. I never yet obey'd 

Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
Of royalty with treasonable gore : 
Put him to rest without. 

Her. A single word : 

My office, king, is sacred. 

Sar. And what's mine? 

That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
To lay it down r 

Her. I but obey'd my orders, 

At the same peril if refused, as now 
Incurr'd by my obedience. 

Sar. So there are 

New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
From birth to manhood ! 

Her. My life waits your breath. 

Yours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — yours 
May also be in danger scarce 4ess imminent : 
Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
A peaceful horald, unarm'd, in his office ; 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man — but that 
More holy tie which links us with the gods ? 

Sar. He's right. — Let him go free. — My life's 
last act 
Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take 

[Gives him a golden cvp from a table near. 
This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
And think of me ; or melt it into ingots, 
And think of nothing but their weight and value. 
Her. I thank you doubly for your life, and this 
Most gorgeous gift, which, renders it more precious. 
But must I bear no answer ? 

Sar. Yes, — I ask 

An hour's truce to consider. 

Her. But an hour's ? 

Sar. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
That time your masters hear no further from me, 
They are to deem that I reject their terms, 
And act befittingly. 

Her. I shall not fail 

To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 
Sar. And, hark ! a word more. 
Her. I shall not forget it, 



Whate'er it be. 

Sar. Commend me to Beleses ; 

And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
Him hence to meet me. 
Her- Where ? 

Sar - At Babylon. 

At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 
Her. I shall obey you to the letter. 

[Exit Herald 
Sar - Pania !— 

Now, my good Pania !— quick— with what I order'd 
Pan. My lord,— the soldiers are already charged. 
And, see ! they enter. 

[Soldiers enter, and form a pile about tht 
Throne, §e. 
Sar. Higher, my good soldiers, 

And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell it 
Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchable, 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'Twere to enkindle the strong tower of our 
Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect ! 
How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
For a king's obsequies ? 

Pan. Ay, for a kingdom's. 

I understand you, now. 
Sar. And blame me ? 

Pan. No — 

Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you. 
Myr. That duty's mine. 
Pan. A woman's ! 

Myr. Tis the soldier's 

Part to die for his sovereign, and why not 
The woman's with her lover. 
Pan. 'Tis most strange ! 

Myr. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou think'st it, 
In the meantime, live thou. — Farewell ! the pile 
Is ready. 

Pan. I should shame to leave my sovereign 
With but a single female to partake 
His death. 

Sar. Too many far have heralded 

Me to the dust, already. Get thee hence ; 
Enrich thee. 
Pan. And live wretched ! 

Sar. Think upon 

Thy vow: — 'tis sacred and irrevocable. 
Pan. Since it is so, farewell. 
Sar. Search well my chamber, 

Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold ; 
Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
Who slew me : and when you have borne away 
All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, — 
And as you sail, turn back ; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
Say what you saw at parting, and request 
That she remember what I said at one 
Parting more mournful still. 

Pan. That royal hand ! 

Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 



J 76 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A.nd these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
Would fain die with you ! 

[The Soldiers and Pania throng round him, 
kissing his hand and the hem of his robe. 

Sar. My best ! my last friends ! 

Let's not unman each other : part at once : 
All farewells should be sudden, when for ever, 
Else they make an eternity of moments, 
And clog the last sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be happy : trust me, I am not 
Now to be pitied ; or far more for what 
Is past than present ; — for the future, 'tis 
In the hands of the deities, if such 
There be : I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell. 
[Exeunt Pania and Soldiers. 

Myr. These men were honest : it is comfort still 
That our last looks should be on loving faces. 

Sar. And lovely ones, my beautiful ! — but hear me ! 
If at this moment, for we now are on 
The brink, thou feel'st an inward shrinking from 
This leap through flame into the future, say it : 
I shall not love thee less ; nay, perhaps more, 
For yielding to thy nature : and there's time 
Yet for thee to escape hence. 

Myr. Shall I light 

One of the torches that lie heaped beneath 
The ever-burning lamp that burns without, 
Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall ? 

Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer ? 

Myr. Thou shalt see. 

[Exit Myrrha. 

Sar. ( solus.) She's firm. My fathers ! whom I 
will rejoin, 
It may be, purified by death from some 
Of the gross stains of too material being, 
I would not leave your ancient first abode 
To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
If I have not kept your inheritance 
As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it, 
5four treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
Of arms, and records, monuments, and spoils, 
In which they would have revell'd, I bear with me 
To you in that absorbing element, 
Which most personifies the soul as leaving 
The least of matter unconsumed before 
Its fiery working : and the light of this 
Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 
Not a mere pillow form'd of cloud and flame, 
A beacon in the horizon for a day, 
And then a mount of ashes, but a light 
To lessen ages, rebel nations, and 
Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full many 
A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 
Sweep empire after empire, like this first 
Of empires, into nothing; but even then 
Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
A problem few dare imitate, and none 
Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 
Which led to such a consummation. 
Myrrha returns with a lighted Torch in one hand, 
and a Cup in the other. 

Myr. Lo ! 

I've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 

Sar. And the cup ? 

Myr. 'Tis my country's custom to 

Make a libation to the gods. 

Sar. And mine 

To make libations among men. I've not 
Forgot the custom ; and although alone, 



Will drain one draught in memory of many 
A joyous banquet past. 

[Sardanapalus takes the cup, and after drink- 
ing and tinkling the reversed cup, as a drop 
falls, exclaims — 

And this libation 
Is for the excellent Beleses. 

Myr. Why 

Dwells thy mind rather upon that man's name 
Than on his mate's in villany ? * 

Sar. ■ The one 

Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
Of human sword in a fiend's hand ; the other 
Is master-mover of his warlike puppet : 
But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pause, 
My Myrrha ! dost thou truly follow me, 
Freely and fearlessly ? 

Myr. And dost thou think 

A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
An Indian widow braves for custom ? 

Sar. Then 

We but await the signal. 

Myr. It is long 

In sounding. 

Sar. Now, farewell ; one last embrace. 

Myr. Embrace, but not the last; there is one more. 

Sar. True, the commingling fire will mix our ashes. 

Myr. And pure as is my love to thee, shall they, 
Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion. 
Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. 

Sar. Say it. 

Myr. It is that no kind hand will gather 

The dust of both into one urn. 

Sar. The better : 

Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, 
Than be polluted more by human hands 
Of slaves and traitors ; in this blazing palace, 
And its enormous walls of reeking ruin, 
We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 
Hath piled in her brick mountains, o'er dead kings, 
Or kine, for none know whether those proud piles 
Be for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis : 
So much for monuments that have forgotten 
Their very record ! 

Myr. Then farewell, thou earth ! 

And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia ! 
Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 
Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of 
thee! 

Sar. And that ? 

Myr. Is yours. 

[The trumpet of Pania sounds without. 

Sar. Hark ! 

Myr. Now ! 

Sar. Adieu, Assyria ! 

I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land, 
And better as my country than my kingdom. 
I satiated thee with peace and joys ; and this 
Is my reward ! and now I owe thee nothing, 
Not even a grave. [He mounts the pile 

Now, Myrrha ! 

Myr. Art thou ready ? 

Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 

[Myrrha fires the pile. 

Myr. 'Tis fired ! I come. 

[As Myrrha springs forward to throw herself 
into the flames, the Curtain falls. 



NOTES TO SARDANAPALUS. 



And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha. 

Page 349, line 60. 

" The Ionian name had been still more compre- 
hensive, having included the Achaians and the 
Boeotians, who, together with those to whom it was 
afterwards confined, would make nearly the whole 
of the Greek nation, and among the orientals it 
was always the general name for the Greeks." — 
Milford's Greece, vol. 1. p. 199. 



-" Sardanapalus 



The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, and love; the resfs not worth a fillip." 
Page 351, lines 103—106. 

"For this expedition he took not only a small 
chosen body of the phalanx, but all his light troops. 
In the first day's march he reached Anchialus, a 
town said to have been founded by the king of 
Assyria, Sardanapalus. The fortifications, in their 
magnitude and extent, still in Arrian's time, bore 
the character of greatness, which the Assyrians 
appear singularly to have affected in works of the 
kind. A monument representing Sardanapalus 
was found there, warranted by an inscription in 
Assyrian characters, of course in the old Assyrian 
language, which the Greeks, whether well or ill, 
interpreted thus : ' Sardanapalus, son of Anacyn- 
daraxes, in one day founded Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, play : all other human joys are not 
48 



worth a fillip.' Supposing this version nearly exact, 
(for Arrian says it was not quite so,) whether the 
purpose has not been to invite to civil order a peo- 
ple disposed to turbulence, rather than to recom- 
mend immoderate luxury, may perhaps reasonably 
be questioned. What, indeed, could be the object 
of a king of Assyria in founding such towns in a 
country so distant from his capital, and so divided 
from it by an immense extent of sandy deserts and 
lofty mountains, and, still more, how the inhab- 
itants could be at once in circumstances to abandon 
themselves to the intemperate joys which their 
prince has been supposed to have recommended, is 
not obvious ; but it may deserve observation that, 
in that line of coast, the southern of Lesser Asia, 
ruins of cities, evidently of an age after Alexander 
yet barely named in history, at this day astonish 
the adventurous traveller by their magnificence and 
elegance. Amid the desolation which, under a 
singularly barbarian government, has for so many 
centuries been daily spreading in the finest countries 
of the globe, whether more from soil and climate, 
or from opportunities for commerce, extraordinary 
means must have been found for communities to 
flourish there, whence it may seem that the meas- 
ures of Sardanapalus were directed by juster views 
than have been commonly ascribed to hiin : but 
that monarch having been the last of a dynasty, 
ended by a revolution, obloquy on his memory would 
follow of course from the policy of his successors 
and their partisans. 

"The inconsistency of traditions concerning Sar- 
danapalus is striking in Diodorus's account of him." 
—Milford's Greece, vol ix. pp. 311, 312, and 313. 



WERNER; OR, THE INHERITANCE: 

A TRAGEDY. 



THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, 
THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 

The following Drama is taken entirely from the 
", German's Tale, Kruitzner," published many years 
ago in Lee's Canterbury Tales ; written (I believe) 
by two sisters, of whom one furnished only this 
story and another, both of which are considered 
superior to the remainder of the collection. I h%.ve 
adopted the characters, plan, and even the language, 
of many parts of this story. Some of the charac- 
ters are modified or altered, a few of the names 
changed, and one character (Ida of Stralenheim) 
added by myself; but in the rest the original is 
chiefly followed. When I was young, (about four- 
teen, I think,) I first read this tale, which made a 
deep impression upon me ; and may, indeed, be said 
to contain the germ of much that I have since writ- 
ten. I am not sure that it ever was very popular ; 
or, at any rate, its popularity has since been eclipsed 
by that of other great writers in the same depart- 
ment. But I have generally found that those who 
had read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the 
singular power of mind and conception which it de- 
velopes. I should also add conception, rather than 
execution ; for the story might, perhaps, have been 
developed with greater advantage. Among those 
whose opinions agreed with mine upon this story, I 
could mention some very high names ; but it is not 
necessary, nor indeed of any use, for every one 
must judge according to his own feelings. I merely 
refer the reader to the original story, that he may 
see to what extent I have borrowed from it: and 
am not unwilling that he should find much greater 
pleasure in perusing it than the drama which is 
founded upon its contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 



1815, (the first I ever attempted, except one at thir- 
teen years old, called " Ulric and Ilvina," which I 
had sense enough to burn,) and had nearly com- 
pleted an act, when I was interrupted by circum- 
stances. This is somewhere among my papers in 
England ; but as it has not been found, I have re- 
written the first, and added the subsequent acts. 

The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape 
adapted, for the stage. 

February, 1822. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Men. — Werner. 
Ulric. 

Stralenheim. 
Idenstein. 
Gabor. 
Fritz. 
Henrick. 
Eric. 
Arnheim. 
Meister. 
Rodolph. 
Ltjdwig. 

Women. — Josephine. 

Ida Stralenheim. 

Scene — Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly 
in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 

Time— The Close of the Thirty Years' Wai. 



WERNER. 



379 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small Town 
on the Northern Frontier of Silesia — the Night 
tempesttwus. 

"Werner, and Josephine, his wife. 

Jos. My love, be calmer. 

Tie;-. I am calm. 

Jos. To me — 

Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy, 
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower ; 
But here ! 

Wer. Tis chill ; the tapestry lets through 
The wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 

Jos. Ah, no ! 

Wer. (smiling.) "Why ! wouldst thou have it so ? 

Jos. I would 

Have it a healthful current. 

Wer. Let it flow 

Until 'tis spilt or check'd — how soon, I care not. 

Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart ? 

Wer. All— all. 

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must 
break mine ? 

Wer. (approaching her sloiclg.) But for thee I had 
been — no matter what, 
But much of good and evil ; what I am, 
Thou knowest ; what I might or should have been, 
Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, nor 
Shall aught divide us. 

[Werner toalks on abruptly, and then ap- 
proaches Josephine. 

The storm of the night, 
Perhaps, affects me ; I'm a thing of feelings, 
And have of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my love ! 
In watching me. 

Jos. To see thee well is much — 
To see thee happy 

Wer. "Where hast thou seen such ? 

Let me be wretched with the rest ! 

Jos. But think 

How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain, 
Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth, 
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
Her surface. 

Wer. And that's not the worst : who cares 

For chambers ? rest is all. The wretches whom 
Thou namest — ay, the wind howls round them, and 
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
Abeggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. 

Jos. And art thou not now shelter'd from them all ? 

Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 

Jos. And that is something. 

Wer. True — to a peasant. 

Jos. Should the nobly born 

Be thankless for that refuge which their habits 
Of early delicacy render more 
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 



Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life ? 

Wer. It is not that, thou know'st it is not ; we 
Have borne all this, I'll not say patiently, 
Except in thee — but we have borne it. 

Jos. Well ? 

Wer. Something beyond our outward sufferings 
(though 
These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
Hath stung me eft, and, more than ever, now. 
When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means, 
And leaves us — no ! this is beyond me ! — but 
For this I had been happy — thou been happy — 
The splendor of my rank sustain'd — my name, 
My father's name — been still upheld ; and, more 
Than those 

Jos. (abruptly.) My son — our son — our Ulric 
Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms 
And all a mother's hunger satisfied. v 

Twelve years ! he was but eight then : — beautiful 
He was, and beautiful he must be now. 
My Ulric ! my adored ! 

Wer. I have been full oft 

The chase of Fortune : now she hath o'ertaken 
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay,*- 
Sick, poor, and lonely. 

Jos. Lonely ! my dear husband ? 

Wer. Or worse — involving all I love, in this 
Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, 
And all been over in a nameless grave. 

Jos. And I had not outlived thee ; but pray take 
Comfort ! We have struggled long ; and they who 

strive 
With fortune win or weary her at last. 
So that they find the goal or cease to feel 
Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our boy 

Wer. We were in sight of him, of every thing 
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow 
And to be baffled thus ! 

Jos. We are not baffled. 

Wer. Are we not pennyless ? 

Jos. We ne'er were wealthy. 

Wer. But I was born to wealth, and rank, and 
power ; 
Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas ! abused them, 
And forfeited them by my father's wrath, 
In my o'er-fervent youth ; but for the abuse 
Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death 
Left the path open, yet not without snares. 
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me. 
Become the master of my rights, and lord 
Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
Dominion and domain. 

Jos. Who knows ? our son 

May have return'd back to his grandsire, and 
Even now uphold thy rights for thee ? 

Wer. 'Tis hopeless. 

Since his strange disappearance from my father's, 
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course. 
I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
The promise that his anger would stop short 
Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
Upon my boy his father's faults and follies. 

Jos. I must hope better still,— at least we have yet 



380 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 

Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal sick- 
ness, 
More fatal than a mortal malady, 
Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace ; 
Even now I feel my spirit girt about 
By the snares of this avaricious fiend ; — 
How do I know he hath not track'd us here ? 

Jos. He does not know thy person ; and his spies, 
Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Ham- 
burgh. 
Our unexpected journey, and this change 
Of name, leave all discovery far behind : 
None hold us here for aught save what we seem. 

Wer. Save what we seem ! save what we are — sick 
beggars, 
Even to our very hopes. — Ha ! ha ! 

Jos. Alas ! 

That bitter laugh ! 

Wer. Who would read in this form 

The high soul of the son of a long line ? 
Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands ? 
Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
Of rank and ancestry ? in this worn cheek 
And famine-hollow'd brow, the lord of halls 
Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? 

Jos. You 

Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 
My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose for bride 
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 

Wer. An exile's daughter with an outcast son 
Were a fit marriage ; but I still had hopes 
To lift thee to the state we both were born for. 
Your father's house was noble though decay'd; 
And worthy by its birth to match with ours. 

Jos. Your father did not think so, though 'twas 
noble ; 
But had my birth been all my claim to match 
With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. 

Wer. And what is that in thine eyes ? 

Jos. All which it 

Has done in our behalf, — nothing. 

Wer. How, — nothing ? 

Jos. Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 
Thy heart from the beginning : but for this, 
We had not felt our poverty but as 
Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully ; 
But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers, 
Thou mightst have earn'd thy bread, as thousands 

cam it ; 
Or, if that seem'd too humble, tried by commerce, 
Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes, 

Wer. (ironically .) Andbeen an Hanseatic burgher? 
Excellent ! 

Jos. Whate'er thou mightst have been, to me thou 
art 
What no state high or low can ever change, 
My heart's first choice ; — which chose thee, knowing 

neither 
Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride ; nought, save thy 

sorrows : 
"While they last, let me comfort or divide them ; 
When they end, let mine end with them, or thee ! 

Wer. My better angel ! such I have ever found 
thee ; 
This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 
Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 
In youth was such as to unmake an empire, 



Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 
Chasten'd, subdued, out-worn, and taught to know 
Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee ! 
Trust me, when in my two-and-twentieth spring, 
My father barr'd me from my father's house, 
The last sole scion of a thousand sires, 
(For, I was then the last,) it hurt me less 
Than to behold my'boy and my boy's mother 
Excluded in their innocence from what 
My faults deserved — exclusion ; although then 
My passions were all living serpents, and 
Twined like the gorgon's round me. 

[A loud knocking is heard. 

Jos. Hark ! 

Wer. A knocking ! 

Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour ? We have 
Few visiters. 

Wer. And poverty hath none, 

Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
Well, I am prepared. 

[Werner puts his hand into his bosom, as if to 
search for some weapon. 

Jos. Oh, do not look so. I 

Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
In this lone spot of wintry desolation ; — 
The very desert saves man from mankind. 

She goes to the door. 

Enter Idexstein. 

Iden. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 
And worthy What's your name, my friend ? 

Wer. Are you 

Not afraid to demand it ? 

Iden. Not afraid ? 

Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if 
I asked for something better than your name, 
By the face you put on it. 

Wer. Better, sir! 

Iden. Better or worse, like matrimony : what 
Shall I say more ? You have been a guest this month 
Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure, 
His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 
And rats these twelve years — but 'tis still a palace)— 
I say yon have been our lodger, and as yet 
We do not know your name. 

Wer. My name is Werner. 

Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy name 
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board : 
I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 
The same. He is an officer of trust, 
Surgeon's assistant, (hoping to be surgeon,) 
And has done miracles i' the way of business. 
Perhaps you are related to my relative ? 

Wer. To yours ? 

Jos. Oh, yes ; we are, but distantly. 

Cannot you humor the dull gossip till 

[Aside to Werner. 
We learn his purpose ? 

Iden. Well, I'm glad of that ; 

I thought so long, such natural yearnings 
Play'd round my heart : — blood is not water, cousin, 
And so let's have some wine, and drink unto 
Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 
Friends. 

Wer. You appear to have drank enough already ; 
And if you had not, I've no wine to offer, 
Else it were yours : but this you know, or should 
know; 



WERNER. 



381 



You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see 
That I would be alone ; but to your business ! 
What brings you here ? 

Iden. Why, what should bring me here ? 

Wer. I know not, though I think that I could guess 
That which will send you hence. 

Jos. (aside. J Patience, dear Werner. 

Iden. You don't know what has happened, then ? 

Jos. How should we ? 

Iden. Tne river is o'erflow'd. 

Jos. Alas ! we have known 

That to our sorrow for these five days ; since 
It keeps us here. 

ilen. But what you don't know is, 

That a great personage, who fain would cross, 
Against the stream and three postilions' wishes, 
Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses, 
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 

Jos. Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 

Iden. Yes, of the monkey, 

And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
We know not if his excellency's dead 
Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown, 
As it is fit that men in office should be ; 
But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ; 
And now a Saxon, and Hungarian traveller, 
Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
The whirling river, have sent on to crave 
A lodging, or a grave, according as 
It may turn out with the live or dead body. 

Jos. And where will you receive him ? here, I hope, 
If we can be of service — say the word. 

Iden. Here ? no ; but in the prince's own apart- 
ment, 
As fits a noble guest : — 'tis damp, no doubt, 
Not having been inhaited these twelve years ; 
But then he comes from a much damper place, 
So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be 
Still liable to cold — and if not, why 
He'll be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'ertheless, 
I have ordered fire and all appliances 
To be got ready for the worst — that is, 
In case he should survive. 

Jos. Poor gentleman ! 

I hope he will with all my heart. 

Wer. Intendant, 

Have you not learn'd his name ? My Josephine, 

[Aside to his wife. 
Retire ; I'll sift this fool. [Exit Josephine. 

Iden. His name ? oh Lord ! 

Who knows if he hath now a name or no ? 
'Tis time enough to ask it when he's able 
To give an answer ; or if not, to put 
His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
Just now you chid me for demanding names ? 

Wer. True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 

Enter Gab or. 

Gab. If I intrude, I crave 

Iden. Oh, no intrusion ! 

This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home: 
But where's his excellency, and how fares he ? 

Gab. Wetly and wearily, but out of peril : 
He paused to change his garments in a cottage, 
(Where I doff'd mine for these, and came on hither,) 
And has almost recover'd from his drenching. 
He will be here anon. 



Iden. What ho, there ! bustle ! 

Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad 
[Gives directions to different servants,iuho enter 
A nobleman sleeps here to-night — see that 
All is in order in the damask chamber — 
Keep up the stove — I will myself to the cellar — 
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger) 
Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel ; for, 
To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this 
Within the palace precincts, since his highness 
Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
His excellency will sup, doubtless ? 

Gab. Faith ! 

I cannot tell : but I should think the pillow 
Would please him better than the table after 
His soaking in your river : but for fear 
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
■Jo sup myself, and have a friend without 
Who will do honor to your good cheer with 
A traveller's appetite. 

Iden. But are you sure 

His excellency But his name : what is it ? 

Gab. I do not know. 

Iden. And yet you saved his life. 

Gab. I help'd my frie-nd to do so. 

Iden. Well, that's strange, 

To save a man's life whom you do not know. 

Gab. Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 
I scarce should give myself the trouble. 

Iden. Pray, 

Good friend, and who may you be ? 

Gab. By my family 

Hungarian. 

Iden. Which is call'd ? 

Gab. It matters little. 

Iden. (aside.) I think that all the world are grown 
anonymous, 
Since no one cares to tell what he's call'd! 
Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? 

Gab. Sufficient. 

Iden. How many ? 

Gab. I did not count them. 

We came up by mere accident, and just - 

In time to drag him through his carriage window. 

Iden. Well, what would I give to save a great man ; 
No doubt you'll have a swinging sum as recompense. 

Gab. Perhaps. 

Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on ? 

Gab. I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
In the mean time, my best reward would be 
A glass of your Hockheimer — a green glass, 
Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 
O'erfiowing with the oldest of your vintage ; 
For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
Run hazard of being drown'd, (although I own 
It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you,) 
I'll pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend, 
And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, 
A wave the less may roll above your head. 

Iden. (aside.) I don't much like this fellow — close 
and dry 
He seems, two things which suit me not ; however, 
Wine he shall have ; if that unlocks him not, 
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 

[Exit Idenstein. 

Gab. {to Werner.) This master of the ceremonies 
is 
The intendant of the palace, I presume : 
'Tis a fine building, but decay'd. 



382 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Wer. The apartment 

Design'd for him you rescued will be found 
In fitter order for a sickly guest. 

Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not, 
For you seem delicate in health. 

Wer. (quickly. J Sir ! 

Gab. Pray 

Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you ? 

Wer. Nothing : but we are strangers to each other. 

Gab. And that's the reason I would have us less so : 
I thought our bustling guest without had said 
You were a chance and passing guest, the counter- 
part 
Of me and my companions. 

Wer. Very true. 

Gab. Then, as we never met before, and never, 
It may be, may again encounter, why, 
I thought to cheer up this old dung/eon here * 

(At least to me) by asking you to share 
The fare of my companions and myself. 

Wer. Pray, pardon me ; my health 

Gab. Even as you please, 

t have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
In bearing. 

Wer. I have also served, and can 

Requite a soldier's greeting. 

Gab. In what service ? 

The Imperial ? 

Wer. (quickly, and then interrupting himself.) I 
command — no — I mean 
I served ; but it is many years ago, 
When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
The Austrian. 

Gab. Well, that's over now, and peace 

Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift 
To live as they best may ; and, to say truth, 
Some take the shortest. 

Wer. What is that ? 

Gab. Whate'er 

They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands 
Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
Tneifcmaintcnance; the Chatelains must keep 
Their castle walls — beyond them 'tis but doubtful 
Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 
My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
I've little left to lose now. 

Wer. And I — nothing. 

Gab. That's harder still. You say you were a 
soldier. 

Wer. I was. 

Gab. You look one still. All soldiers are, 

Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 
Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim 
(While levell'd) at each other's hearts ; but when 
A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
The spark which lights the matchlock, we are 

brethren. 
You are poor and sickly — I am not rich but healthy ; 
I want for nothing which I cannot want ; 
You seem devoid of this — wilt share it ? 

[Gabor pulls out his purse. 

We>: Who 

Told you I was a beggar ? 

Gab. You yourself 

In saying yo\i were a soldier during peace-time. 

Wer. (looking at him with suspicion.) You know 
me not? 



Gab. I know no man, not even 

Myself : how should I then know one I ne'er 
Beheld till half an hour since ? 

Wer. Sir, I thank you. 

Your offer's noble were it to a friend, 
And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, 
Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank you. 
I am a beggar in all save his trade ; 
And when I beg of any one it shall be 
Of him who was the first to offer what 
Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. 

[Exit Werner. 

Gab. (solus.) A goodly fellow by his looks, 
though worn, 
As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 
Which tear life out of us before our time ; 
I scarce know which most quickly ; but he seems 
To have seen better days, as who has not 
Who has seen yesterday ? — But here approaches 
Our sage intendant, with the wine : however, 
For the cup's sake I'll bear the cupbearer. 

Enter Idenstein. 

Iden. 'Tis here ! the supernaculum ! twenty years 
Of age, if 'tis a day. 

Gab. Which epoch makes 

Young women and old wine ; and 'tis great pity, 
Of two such excellent things, increase of years, 
Which still improves the one, should spoil the other. 
Fill full — Here's to our hostess ! — your fair wife ! 

[Takes the glass. 

Iden. Fair ! — Well, I trust your taste in wine is 
equal 
To that you show for beauty ; but I pledge you 
Nevertheless. 

Gab. Is not the lovely woman 

I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 
An air, and port, and eye, which would have better 
Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days, 
"(Though in a garb adapted to its present 
Abandonment,) return'd my salutation — 
Is not the same your spouse ? 

Iden. I would she were ; 

But you're mistaken : — that's the stranger's wife. 

Gab. And by her aspect she might be a prince's : 
Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retains 
Much beauty, and more majesty. 

Iden. And that 

Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
At least in beauty : as for majesty, 
She has some of its properties which might 
Be spared — but never mind ! 

Gab. I don't. But who 

May be this stranger ? He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

Iden. There I differ. 

He's poor as Job, and not so patient ; but 
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him, 
Except his name, (and that I only learn'd 
To-night,) I know not. 

Gab. But how came he here ? 

Iden. In a most miserable old caleche, 
About a month since, and immediately 
Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. 

Gab. Tender and true ! — but why ? 

Iden- Why, what is life 

Without a living ? He has not a stiver. 

Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a person 
Of your apparent prudence should admit 



WERNER. 



383 



Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 

Iden. That's true ; but pity, as you know, does 
make 
One's heart commit these follies ; and besides, 
They had some valuables left at that time, 
"Which paid their way up to the present hour ; 
And so I thought they might as well be lodged 
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them. 
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
They served to air them, at the least as long 
As they could pay for fire-wood. 

Gab. Poor souls ! 

Iden. Ay, 

Exceeding poor. 

Gab. And yet unused to poverty, 

If I mistake not. Whither were they going ? 

Iden. Oh! Heaven knows where, unless to heaven 
itself. 
Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
For Werner. 

Gab. Werner ! I have heard the name : 

But it may be a feign'd one. 

Iden. Like enough ! 

But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his excellency's come. 
I must be at my post : will you not join me, 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Your humble duty at the door ? 

Gab. I dragg'd him 

From out that carriage when he would have given 
His barony or county to repel 
The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
He has valets now enough : they stood aloof then, 
Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, 
All roaring, " Help ! " but offering none ; and as 
For duty (as you call it) — I did mine then, 
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him 
here ! 

Iden. I cringe ! — but I shall lose the opportunity — 
Plague take it ! he'll be here, and I not there ! 

[Exit Idenstein, hastily. 

Re-enter Werner. 

Wer. (to himself.) I heard a noise of wheels and 
voices. How 
All sounds now jar me. 

Perceiving Gabor.] Still here ! Is he not 
A spy of my pursuers ? His frank offer 
So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
The aspect of a secret enemy ; 
For friends are slow at such. 

Gab. Sir, you seem rapt 

And yet the time is not akin to thought. 
These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron, 
Or count, (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
May be,) for whom this desolate village and 
Its lone inhabitants show more respect 
Than did the elements, is come. 

Iden. (without.) This way — 

This way, your excellency : — have a care, 
The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
So high a guest — Pray take my arm, my lord. 

Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants — 
partly his own, and partly retainers of the domain 
of which Idenstein is Intendant. 

Stral. I'll rest me here a moment. 



Iden. (to the servants.) Ho ! a chair ! 

Instantly, knaves ! [Stralenheim sits down. 

Wer. (aside.) 'Tis he ! 

Stral. I'm better now. 

Who are these strangers ? 

Iden. Please you, my good lord, 

One says he is no stranger. 

Wer. (aloud and hastily.) Who says that ? 

[They look at him xoith surprise. 

Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you ! — but 
Here's one his excellency may be pleased 
To recognize. [Pointing to Gabor. 

Gab. I seek not to disturb 

His noble memory. 

Stral. I apprehend 

This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
I owe my rescue. Is not that the other ? 

[Pointing to Werner. 
My state when I was succour'd must excuse 
My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 

Iden. He i — no, my lord ! he rather wants for 
rescue 
Than can afford it. 'Tis a poor sick man, 
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
From whence he never dream'd to rise. 

Stral. Methought 

That there were two. 

Gab. There were, in company; 

But, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
Was his : it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his strength 
And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do not waste 
Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nobler principal. 

Stral. Where is he ? 

An Atten. My lord, he tarried in the cottage where 
Your excellency rested for an hour, 
And said he would be here to-morrow. 

Stral. ' Till « 

That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks, 
And then 

Gab. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 

So much. My comrade may speak for himself. 

Stral. (fixing his eyes upon Werner: then aside.) 
It cannot be ! and yet he must be look'd to. 
'Tis twenty years since I beheld'him with 
These eyes : and, though my agents still have kept 
Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
My own from his, not to alarm him into 
Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
At Hamburgh those who would have made assurance 
If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now, 
To have been lord of Seigendorf, and parted 
In haste, though even the elements appear 
To fight against me, and this sudden flood 
May keep me prisoner here till 

[He pauses, and looks at Werner ; then resumes, 

This man must 
Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed, 
His father, rising from his grave again, 
Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary : 
An error would spoil all. 

Iden. Your lordship seems 

Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 

Stral. 'Tis past fatigue which gives my weigh'd- 
down spirit 
An outward show of thought. I will to rest. 



384 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Iden. The prince's chamber is prepared, with all 
The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendor. 

{Aside.) Somewhat tatter'd 
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torchlight ; 
And that's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment ; 
So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like one 
Now, as he one day will for ever lie. 

Stral. (rising and turning to Gaeor.) Goodnight, 
good people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
Will find me apter to requite your service. 
In the meantime I crave your company 
A moment in my chamber. 

Gab. I attend you. 

Stral. (after a few steps, pauses and calls Wer- 
ner.) Friend ! 
Wer. Sir ! 

Iden. Sir ! Lord — oh Lord ! Why don't you say 
His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray, 
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding : 
He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
To such a presence. 
Stral. (to Ibenstein.) Peace, intendant. 
Iden. Oh ! 

I am dumb. 

Stral. (to Werner.) Have you been long here ? 
Wer. Long ? 
Stral. I sought 

An answer, not an echo. 

Wer. You may seek 

Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

Stral. Indeed ! Ne'er the less, 

You might reply with courtesy to what 
Is ask'd in kindness. 

Wer. When I know it such, 

I will requite — that is reply — in unison. 
Stral. The intendant said, you had been detain'd 
by sickness — 
If I could aid you — journeying the same way ? 
We7\ (Quickly.) I am not journeying the same 

way. 
Stral. How know ye 

That, ere you know my route ? 

Wer. Because there is 

But one way that the rich and poor must tread 
Together. You diverged from that dread path 
Some hours ago, and I some days : henceforth 
Our roads must lie -asunder, though they tend 
A 11 to one home. 

Stral. Your language is above 

Your station. 

Wer. (bitterly.) Is it ? 

Stral. Or, at least, beyond 

Your garb. 

Wer. 'Tis well that it is not beneath it, 
As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
Bm, in a word, what would you with me ? 
Stral. (startled.) I } 

Wer. Yes— you ! You know me not, and question 
me, 
And wonder that I answer not — not knowing 
My inquisitor. Explain what you would have, 
And then I'll satisfy yourself, or me. 

Stral. I knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 
Wer. Many have such ; — Have you none ? 
Stral. None which can 

Interest a mere stranger. 



Wer. Then forgive 

The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
He wishes to remain so to the man 
Who can have nought in common with him. 

Stral. Sir, 

I will not balk your humor, though untoward: 
I only meant you service — but good night ! 
Intendant, show the way ! (to Gabor.) Sir, you will 
with me ? 
[Exeunt Stralenheim and Attendants ; Iben- 
STEin and Gabor. 

Wer. (solus.) 'Tis he ! I am taken in the toils. 
Before 
I quitted Hamburg, Giulio, his late steward, 
Inform'd me that he had obtain'd an order 
From Brandenburgh's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore) when 
I came upon the frontier ; the free city 
Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
Its walls — fool that I was to quit them ! But 
I deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure, 
Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
What's to be done ? He knows me not by person; 
Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension, 
Have recognised him, after twenty years, 
We met so rsrely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about him ! Now I can 
Divine the frankness of the Hungarian who 
No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralenheim's, 
To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers, 
Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
!\11 the appliances which purchase modes 
Of overpowering peril with men's lives, — 
How can I hope ? An hour ago methought 
My state beyond despair ; and now, 'tis such, 
The past seems paradise. Another day, 
\nd I'm detected, — on the very eve 
Of honors, rights, and my inheritance, 
When a few drops of gold might save me still 
In favoring an escape. 

Enter Ibenstein and Fritz, in conversation. 

Fritz. Immediately. 

Iden. I tell you 'tis impossible. 

Fritz. It must 

Be tried, however; and if one express 
Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant. 

Iden. I will do what I can. ' 

Fritz. And recollect 

To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
Tenfold. 

Iden. The baron is retired to rest ? 

Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
He may not be disturb'd until eleven, 
When he will take himself to bed. 

Iden. Before 

An hour is past I'll do my best to serve him. 

Fritz. Remember ! [Exit Fritz 

Iden. The devil take these great men ! they 

Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towards 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling : 
But no, " it must," and there's an end. How now ? 



WERNER. 



385 



Are you there, Mynheer Werner ? 

Wer. You have left 

Your noble guest right quickly. 

Ideti. Yes— he's dozing, 

And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
Here is a packet for the commandant 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
But I must not lose time : Good-night ! 

[Exit Idenstein 

Wer. " To Frankfort ! " 

So, so, it thickens ! Ay, " the commandant." 
This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
He writes for a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 

This 

[Werner looks around, and snatches up a knife 
lying on a table in a recess. 

Now I am master of myself at least. 
Hark, — footsteps ! How do I know that Stralenheim 
Will wait for even the show of that authority 
Which is to overshadow usurpation ? 
That he suspects me's certain. I'm alone ; 
He with a numerous train. I weak ; he strong 
In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
I nameless, or involving, in my name 
Destruction, till I reach my own domain ; 
He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
Than they could do elsewhere. Hark ! nearer still ! 
I'll to the secret passage, which communicates 

With the No ! all is silent — 'twas my fancy ! — 

Still as the breathless interval between 

The flash and thunder : — I must hush my soul 

Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire, 

To see if still be unexplored the passage 

I wot of : it will serve me as a den 

Of secresy for some hours at the worst. 

[Werner draws a panel, and exit, closing it 
after him. 

Enter Gabor and Josephine. 

Gab. Where is your husband ? 

Jos. Here, I thought : I left him 

Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
To accompany the intendant. 

Gab. Baron Stralenheim 

Put many questions to the intendant on 
The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
I have my doubts if he means well. 

Jos. Alas ! 

What can there be in common with the proud 
And wealthy baron and the unknown Werner ? 

Gab. That you know best. 

Jos. Or, if it were so, how 

Come you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
Rather than that of him whose life you saved ? 
# Gab. I help'd to save him, as in peril ; but 
I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up when 
I find them practising against the weak : — 
This is my only motive. 

Jos. It would be 

Not easy to persuade my consort of 
Your good intentions. 
49 



Gab. Is he so suspicious ? 

Jos. He was not once ; but time and troubles have 
Made him what you beheld. 

Gab. I' m sorry for it. 

Suspicion is a heavy armor, and 
Witn its own weight impedes more than protects. 
Good night ! I trust to meet with him at daybreak. 

[Exit Gabor. 

Re-enter Indenstein and some peasants. Josephine 
retires up the Hall. 

First Peasant. But if I'm drown'd ? 

Iden. Why, you will be well paid for't, 
And have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
I doubt not. 

Second Peasant. But our wives and families ? 

Iden. Cannot be worse of than they are, and may 
Be better. 

Third Peasant. I have neither, and will venture. 

Iden. That's right. A gallant carle and fit to be 
A soldier. I'll promote you to the ranks 
In the prince's body-guard — if you succeed ; 
And you shall have besides in sparkling coin 
Two thalers. 

Third Peasant. No more ! 

Iden. Out upon your avarice ! 

Can that low vice alloy so much ambition ? 
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler ? 
When had you half the sum ? 

Third Peasant. Never — but ne'er 

The less I must have three. 

Iden. Have you forgot 

Whose vassal you were born, knave ? 

Third Peasant. No — tiie prince's, 

And not the stranger's. 

Iden. Sirrah ! in the prince's 

Absence, I am sovereign : and the baron is 
My intimate connexion: — " Cousin Idenstein 
(Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen villains." 
And so, you villains ! troop — march — march, I say : 
And if a single dog's-ear of this packet 
Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it ! 
For every page of paper shall a hide 
Of yours be stretch'd as parchment on a drum, 
Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
Refractory vassals, who can not effect 
Impossibilities — away, ye earth-worms ! 

, [Exit, driving them out. 

Jos. (coming forward.) I fain would shun these 
scenes, too oft repeated, 
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 
1 cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 
The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
The insolence of wealth in poverty 
O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 
In servitude, o'er something still more servile ; 
And vice in misery affecting still 
A tatter'd splendor. What a state of being ! 
In Tuscany my own dear sunny land, 
Our nobles were but citizens and merchants, 
Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such 
As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 
Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 
Was in itself a meal, and every vine 
Rain'd, as it were, the beverage which makes glad 



386 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The heart ot man ; and the ne'er unfelt sun 

(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 

His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 

Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 

Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 

But, here ! the despots of the north appear 

To imitate the ice-wind of their clime, 

Searching the shivering vassal through his rags, 

To wring his soul — as the bleak elements 

His form. And 'tis to be among these sovereigns 

My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth — 

That twenty years of usage, such as no 

Father born in a humble state could nerve 

His soul to persecute a son withal, 

Hath changed no atom of his early nature ; 

But I, born nobly also, from my father's 

Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father ! 

May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 

Look down on us and our so long desired 

Ulric ! I love my son, as thou didst me ! 

What's that ? Thou, Werner ! can it be ? and thus ? 

Enter Werner hastily, with the knife in his hand, 

by the secret panel, which he closes hurriedly 

after him. 

Wer. (not at first recognising her.) Discover'd ! 

then I'll stab (recognising her.) 

Ah ! Josephine, 
Why art thou not at rest ? 

Jos. What rest ? My God ! 

What doth this mean ? 

Wer. (showing a rouleau.) Here's gold — gold, 
Josephine, 
Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 

Jos. And how obtain'd ? — that knife ! 

We?: 'Tis bloodless — yet. 

Away — we must to our chamber. 

Jos. But whence comest thou ? 

Wer. Ask not ! but let us think where we shall 
go— 
This — this will make us way — (showing the gold — ) 
I'll fit them now. 

Jos. I dare not think thee guilty of dishonor. 

Wer. Dishonor! 

Jos. I have said it. 

Wer. Let us hence ; 

'Tis the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 

Jos. And not the worst, I hope. 

Wer. Hope ! I make sure. 

But let us to our chamber. 

Jos. Yet one question — 

What hast thou done ? 

Wer. (fiercely.) Left one thing undone, which 
Had made all well : let me not think of it ! 
Away ! 

Jos. Alas, that I should doubt of thee ! [Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the same Palace. 

Enter Idenstein and Others. 

Jden. Fine doings ! goodly doings ! honest doings ! 
& baron pillaged in a prince's palace ! 



Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of. 

Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats despoil'd 
The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 

Iden. Oh ! that I e'er should live to see this day ! 
The honor of our city's gone for ever. 

Fritz. Well, but now to discover the delinquent ; 
The baron is determined not to lose 
This sum without a search. 

Iden. And so am I. 

Fritz. But whom do you suspect ? 

Iden. Suspect ! all people 

Without — within — above — below — Heaven help me ! 

Fritz. Is there no other entrance to the chamber ? 

Iden. None whatsoever. 

Fritz. Are you sure of that ? 

Iden. Certain. I have lived and served here since 
my birth, 
And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
Or seen it. 

Fritz. Then it must be some one who 
Had access to the antechamber. 

Iden. Doubtless. 

Fritz. The man call'd Werner 's poor ! 

Iden. Poor as a miser, 

But lodged so far off, in the other wing, 
By which there's no communication with 
The baron's chamber, that it can't be he. 
Besides, I bade him " good night " in the hall, 
Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
To his own apartment, about the same time 
When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
Appears to have been committed. 

Fritz. There's another, 

The stranger 

Iden. The Hungarian ? 

Fritz. He who help'd 

To fish the baron from the Oder. 

Iden. Not 

Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
One of the suite ? 

Fritz. How ? We, Sir ! 

Iden. No — not you, 

But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
The velvet chair — in his cmbroider'd night-gown ; 
His toilet spread before him, and upon it 
A cabinet with letters, papers, and 
Several rouleaux of gold : of which one only 
Has disappear'd : — the door unbolted, with 
No difficult access to any. 

Fritz. Good sir, 

Be not so quick ; the honor of the corps 
Which forms the baron's household's unimpeach'd 
From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 
Of peculation ; such as in accompts, 
Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery, 
Where all men take their prey ; as also in 
Postage of letters, gathering of rents, 
Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
The honest trades who furnish noble masters : t 

But for your petty, picking, downright thievery, 
We scorn it as we do board-wages. Then 
Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all ; 
Also the cabinet, if portable. 

Iden. There is some sense in that 

Fritz. No, sir, be sure 

'Twas none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 



WERNER. 



387 



Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 
The only question is— Who else could have 
Access, save the Hungarian and yourself ? 

Iden. You don't mean me ? 

Fritz. No, sir ; I honor more 

Your talents 

Iden. And my principles, I hope. 

Fritz. Of course. But to the point : What's to 
be done ? 

Iden. Nothing — but there's a good deal to be said. 
We'll offer a reward ; move heaven and earth, 
And the police, (though there's none nearer than 
Frankfort ;) post notices in manuscript, 
(For we've no printer;) and set by my clerk 
To read them, (for few can, save he and I.) 
We'll send out villians to strip beggars, and, 
Search empty pockets; also, to arrest 
All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 
Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit ; 
And for the baron's gold — if 'tis not found, 
At least we shall have the full satisfaction 
Of melting twice its substance in the raising W 
The ghost of this rouleau. Here's alchymy 
For your lord's losses ! 

Fritz. He hath found a better. 

Iden. Where ? 

Fritz. It is a most immense inheritance. 

The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman, 
Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
Is on his way to take possession. 

Iden. Was there 

No heir ? 

Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the world. 
A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore, 
If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
The baron would find means to silence him, 
Were he to reappear ; he's politic, 
And has much influence with a certain court. 

Iden. He's fortunate. 

Fritz. 'Tis true, there is a grandson, 

Whom the late count reclaim'd from his son's hands, 
And educated as his heir ; but then 
His birth is doubtful. 

Iden. How so ? 

Fritz. His sire made 

A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage, 
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter : 
Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
A house as Siegendorf 's. The granclsire ill 
Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be brought 
To see the parents, though he took the son. 

Iden. If he's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
Puzzle vour baron to unravel. 

Fritz. Why, 

For mettle, he has quite enough : they say, 
He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
The former, and deep as the latter ; but 
The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
Some months ago. 

Iden. The devil he did ! 

Fritz. Why, yes: 

It must have been at his suggestion, at 
An hour so critical as was the eve 
Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it. 



Iden. Was there no cause assign'd ? 

Fritz. Plenty, no doubt, 

And none perhaps the true one. Some averrd 
It was to seek his parents ; some because 
The old man held his spirit in so strictly, 
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him ;) 
A third believed he wish'd to serve in' war, 
But peace being made soon after his departure, 
He might have since return'd were that the motive; 
A fourth set charitably have surmised, 
As there was something strange and mystic in him, 
That in the wild exuberance of his nature 
He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste Lusatia, 
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
A kind of general condottiero system 
Of bandit warfare ; each troop with its chief, 
And all against mankind. 

Iden. That cannot be. 

A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 
To risk his life and honors with disbanded 
Soldiers and desperadoes ! 

Fritz. Heaven best knows ! 

But there are human natures so allied 
Unto the savage love of enterprise, 
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
I've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
Were fed on milk and honey. After all, 
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
Were but the same thing upon a grand scale ; 
And now that they are gone, and peace proclaim'd, 
They who would follow the same pastime must 
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
AVas his chief aid in yesterday's escape, 
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
Until this morning. 

Enter Stralenheim and Ulric. 

Stral. Since you have refused 
All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them, 
Making me feel the worthlessness of words, 
And blush at my own barren gratitude, 
They seem so niggardly compared with what 
Your courteoiis courage did in my behalf 

Ulr. I pray you press the theme no further. 

Stral. But 

Can I not serve you ? You are young, and of 
That mould which throws out heroes ; fair in favor; 
Brave, I know, by my living now to say so ; 
And doubtlessly, with such a form and heart, 
Would look into the fiery eyes of war, 
As ardently for glory as you dared 
An obscure death to save an unknown stranger 
In an as perilous, but opposite element. 
You are made for the service : I have served ; 
Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends, 
Who shall be yours. 'Tis true this pause of peace 
Favors such views at present scantily ; 
But 'twill not last, men's spirits are too stirring ; 
And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 
Is but a petty war, as the times show us 
In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 
War will reclaim his own ; and, in the meantime, 
You might obtain a post, which would ensure 
A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 



388 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To rise. I speak of Brandenburg, wherein 
I stand well with the elector ; in Bohemia, 
Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
Upon its frontier. 

Ulr. You perceive my garb 

Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
Your offer, 'tis with the same feeling which 
Induced it. 

Strut. Why, this is mere usury ! 

I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
The acquittance of the interest of the debt, 
To heap more obligations on me, till 
I bow beneath them. 

Ulr. You shall say so when 

I claim the payment. 

Stral. Well, sir, since you will not — 

You arc nobly born ? 

Ulr. I have heard my kinsmen say so. 

Stral. Your actions show it. Might I ask your 
name ? 

Ulr. Ulric. 

Stral. Your house's ? 

Ulr. When I'm worthy of it, 

I'll answer you. 

Stral. (aside.) Most probably an Austrian, 
Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
His lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers, 
Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 

[Aloud to Fiiitz and Idenstein. 
So, sirs ! how have ye sped in your researches ? 

Idcn. Indifferent well, your excellency. 

Stral. Then 

I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 

Idcn. Humph ! — not exactly. 

Stral. Or at least suspected ! 

Iden. Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected. 

Stral. Who may he be ? 

Iden. Why, don't you know, my lord ? 

Stral. How should I ? I was fast asleep. 

Iden. And so 

Was I, and (hat's the cause I know no more 
Than does your excellency. 

Stral. Dolt ! 

Idcn. Why, if 

Your lordship, being robb'd, don't recognize 
The rogue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 
The thief among so many ? In the crowd, 
May it please your excellency, your thief looks 
Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
"lis only at the bar and in the dungeon 
That wise men know your felon by his features ; 
But I'll engage, that if seen there but once, 
Whether he be found criminal or no, 
His face shall be so. 

Stral. (to Fritz.) Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 

Fritz. Faith ! 

My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 

Stral. Besides the loss, (which, I must own, 
affects me 
Just now materially,) I needs would find 
The villain out of public motives ; for 
So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon 
Leave bare your borough, Sir Intendant ! 

Iden. True, 



If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 

Ulr. What is all this ? 

Stral. You join'd us but this morning 

And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 

Ulr. Some rumor of it reach'd me as I pass'd 
The outer chambers of the palace, but 
I know no further. 

Stral. It is a strange business ; 

The intendant can inform 1 you of the facts. 

Idcn. Most willingly. You see 

Stral. (impatiently.) Defer your tale. 

Till certain of the hearer's patience. 

Iden. That 
Can only be approved by proofs. You see 

Stral. (again interrupting him, and addressing 
Uliuc.) In short, I was asleep upon a chair, 
My cabinet before me, with some gold 
Upon it, (more than I much like to lose, 
Though in part only :) some ingenious person. 
Contrived to glide through all my own attendants, 
Besides those of the palace, and bore away 
A ln%dred golden ducats, which to find 
I would be fain, and there's an end. Perhaps 
You (as I still am rather faint) would add 
To yesterday's great obligation, this, 
Though slighter, yet not slight, to aid these men 
(Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it ? 

Ulr. Most willingly, and without loss of time — 
(To Idenstein.) Come hither, mynheer! 

Iden. But so much haste bodes 
Right little speed, and 

I '/;•. Standing motionless 

None ; so let's march : we'll talk as we go on. 

Iden. But 

Ulr. Show the spot, and then I'll answer you. 

Fritz. I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 

Stral. Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 

Fritz. Hence ! 

Ulr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 

[Exit with Idenstein and Fritz. 

Stral. (solus.) A stalwart, active, soldier-looking 
stripling, 
Handsome as Hercules ere his first labor, 
And with a brow of thought beyond his years 
When in repose, till his eye kindles up 
In answering yours. I wish I could engage him : 
I have need of some such spirits near me now, 
For this inheritance is *vorth a struggle. 
And though I am not the man to yield without one, 
Neither are they who now rise up between me 
And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one ; 
But he hath play'd the truant in some hour 
Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 
Champion his claims. That's well. The father, 

whom 
For years I've track' d, as does the bloodhound, novel 
In sight, but constantly in scent, had put mc 
To fault: but here I have him, and that's better. 
It must be he ! All circumstance proclaims it ; 
And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
Of my inquiries, still confirm it — Yes ! 
The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too, 
The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 
Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect ; 
Besides the antipathy with which we met, 
As snakes and lions shrink back from each other 
By secret instinct that both must be foes 
Deadly, without being natural prey to either ; 



WERNER. 



389 



A.11— all— confirm it to my mind. However, 

We'll grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours, 

The order comes from Frankfort, if these waters 

Rise not the rfigher, (and the weather favors 

Their quick abatement,) and I'll have him safe 

Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 

His real estate and name ; and there's no harm done, 

Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 

(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also : 

He's poor, and that's suspicious — he's unknown, 

And that's defenceless. — True, we have no proofs 

Of guilt, but what hath he of innocence ? 

Were he a man indifferent to my prospects, 

In other bearings, I should rather lay 

The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 

Hath something which I like not ; and alone 

Of all around, except the intendant, and 

The prince's household and my own, had ingress 

Familiar to the chamber. 

Enter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare you ? 

Gab. As those who fare well every where, when 
they 
Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how — 
And you, my lord ? 

Stral. Better in rest than purse : 

Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 

Gab. I heard 

Of your late loss ; but 'tis a trifle to 
One of your order. 

Stral. You would hardly think 1 so, 

Were the loss yours. 

Gab. I never had so much 

(At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
Your couriers are turn'd back s — I have outstript 

them, 
In my return. 

Stral. You !— Why ? 

Gab. I went at daybreak, 

To watch for the abatement of the river, 
As being anxious to resume my journey. 
Your messengers were all check'd like myself; 
And, seeing +he case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasure. 

Stral. Would the dogs were in it ! 

Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage ? 
I order'd this at all risks. 

Gab. Could you order 

The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
The Red Sea, (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swoln stream,) and be obcy'd, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

Stral. I must see to it : 

The knaves ! the slaves ! — but they shall smart for 
this. [Exit Straleniieim. 

Gab. (solus. ) There goes my noble, feudal, self- 
will'd baron ! 
Epitome of what brave chivalry 
The preux chevaliers of the good old times 
Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
His lands, (if he hath any,) and, still dearer, 
His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 
As would have fill'd a bladder, while he lay 
Gurgling and foaming halfway through the window 
Of his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance : 
And now he storms at half a dozen wretches 
Because they love their lives too ! Yet, he's right 



'Tis strange they should, when such as he may put 

them 

To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou world ! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest ! [Exit GABOR. 

SCENE II. 
The Apartment of Werner, in the Palace. 

Enter Josephine and Ulric. 

Jos. Stand back, and let me look on thee again I 
My Ulric ! — my beloved ! — can it be — 
After twelve years ? 

Ulr. My dearest mother ! 

Jos. Yes ! 

My dream is realized — how beautiful ! — 
How more than all I sigh'd for ! Heaven receive 
A mother's thanks ! — a mother's tears of joy ! 
This is indeed thy work ! — At such an hour, too, 
He comes not only as a son, but savior. 

Ulr. If such a joy await me, it must double 
What I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
A part of the long debt of duty, not 
Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive me! 
This long delay was not my fault. 

Jos. I know it, 

But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
If I e'er felt it, 'tis so dazzled from 
My memory, by this oblivious transport! — 
My son ! 

Enter Werner. 

Wer. What have we here, more strangers ? 

Jos. No I 

Look upon him ! What do you sec ? 

Wer. A stripling, 

For the first time 

Ulr. (kneeling. j For twelve long years, my father 

Wer. Oh, God ! 

Jos. He faints ! 

Wer. No — I am better now — 

Ulric ! {Embraces him.) 

Ulr. My father, Sicgendorf ! 

Wer. (start in;/.) Hush! boy — 

The walls may hear that name ! 

Ulr. What then ? 

Wer. Why, then,— 

But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Werner. Come! 
Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st all 
I should have been, and was not. Josephine ! 
Sure 'tis no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
But had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 
This for my son ! 

Ulr. _ And yet you knew me not ! 

Wer. Alas ! I have had that upon my soul 
Which makes me look on all men with an eye 
That only knows the evil at first glance. 

Ulr. My memory served me far more fondly ; I 
Have not forgotten aught ; and ofttimes in 
The proud and princely halls of — (I'll not name them, 
As you say that 'tis perilous) — but i' the pomp 
Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 
To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset, 
And wept to sec another day go down 
O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between us. 
They shall not part us more. 

Wer. I know not that. 

Are you aware my father is no more ? 



390 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ulr. Oh heavens ! I left him in a green old age, 
And looking like the oak, worn but still steady 
Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
Fell fast around him. 'Twas scarce three months 
since. 

Wer. Why did you leave him ? 

Jos. {embracing Ulric.) Can you ask that 
question ? 
Is he not here? 

Wer. True ; he hath sought his parents, 

And found them ; but, oh ! how, and in what state ! 

Ulr. All shall be better'd. What we have to do 
Is to proceed, and to assert our rights, 
Or rather yours ; for I waive all, unless 
Your father has disposed in such a sort 
Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost, 
So that I must prefer my claim for form : 
But I trust better, and that all is yours. 

Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim ? 

Ulr. I saved 

His life but yesterday : he's here. 

Wer. You saved 

The serpent who will sting us all ! 

Ulr. You speak 

Riddles : what is this Stralenheim to lis ? 

Wer. Every thing. One who claims our father's 
lands : 
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 

Ulr. I never heard his name till now. The count 
Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who, 
If his own line should fail, might be remotely 
Involved in the succession ; but his titles 
Were never named before me — and what then ? 
His right must yield to ours. 

Wer. Ay, if at Prague : 

But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 
Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 
By favor. 

Ulr. Doth he personally know you ? 

Wer. No ; but he guesses shrewdly at my person, 
As he betray'd last night ; and I, perhaps, 
But owe my temporary liberty 
To his uncertainty. 

Ulr. I think you wrong him, 

(Excuse me for the phrase ;) but Stralenheim 
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so, 
He owes me something both for past and present. 
I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me. 
He hath been plunder'd too, since he came hither : 
Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 
Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him : 
I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
Which brought me here was chiefly that : but I 
Have found, in searching for another's dross, 
My own whole treasure — you, my parents ! 

Wer. {agitatedly.). Who 

Taught you to mouth that name of " villain ? " 

Ulr. What 

More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 

Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an unknown 
being 
With an infernal stigma ? 

Ulr. My own feelings 

Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 

Wer. Who taught you, long-sought and ill-found 
boy ! that 
It would be safe for my own son to insult me ? 

Ulr. Iramedavillain. What is there in common 



With such a being and my father ; 

Wer. Every thing ; 

That ruffian is thy father ! 

Jos. Oh, my so* ! 
Believe him not — and'yet ! {her voice falters.) 

Ulr. {starts, looks earnestly at Werner, and then 
says slowly) And you avow it ? 

Wer. Ulric, before you dare despise your father, 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap, 
Is it for you to measure passion's force, 
Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long, 
It cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait ! — 
Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till 
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin, 
Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
Despair your bedfellow — then rise, but not 
From sleep, and judge ! should that day e'er arrive— 
Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd 
Himself around all that is dear and noble 
Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 
With but his folds between your steps and happiness, 
When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 
Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 
Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; 
The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
Even to your deadliest foe ; and he as 'twere 
Inviting death, by looking like it while 
His death alone can save you : — Thank your God ! 
If then, like me, content with petty plunder, 
You turn aside 1 did so. 

Ulr. But 

Wer. {abruptly .) Hear me ! 

I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but learn ■ 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least impulse — 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
He was within my power — my knife was raised — 
Withdrawn — and I'm in his : — are you not so ? 
Who tells you that he knows you not f Who says 
He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon ? 

[lie 2x1 uses. 

Ulr. Proceed — proceed ! 

Wer. Me he hath ever known 

And hunted through each change of time — name- 
fortune — 
And why not yon? Are you more versed in men ? 
He wound snares round me ; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth I would have spurn'd 
Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now, 
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
More patient ? Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear. 

Ulr. {looks first at him, and then at Josephine.) 
My mother ! 

Wer. Ay ! I thought so : you have now 

Only one parent. I have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand alone. 

Ulr. But stay ! 

[Werner rushes out of the chamber 



WERNER. 



391 



Jos. (to Ulric.) Follow him not until this storm 
of passion 
Abates. Think'st thou, that were it well for him, 
I had not follow'd ? 

JJlr. I obey you, mother, 

Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
Be one of disobedience. 

Jos. Oh ! he is good ! 

Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
To me, who have borne so much with him and for him, 
That this is but the surface of his soul, 
And that the depth is rich in better things. 

Ulr. These then are but my father's principles ? 
My mother thinks not with him ? 

Jos. Nor doth he 

Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. 

Ulr. Explain to me 

More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or at least 
To extricate you from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to accomplish this — but would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 

Jos. Ay ! 

Hadst thou but done so ! 

Enter Gabor a?id Idenstein, with Attendants. 

Gab. (to Ulric.) I have sought you, comrade. 
So this is my reward ! 

Ulr. What do you mean ? 

Gab. 'Sdeath! have I lived to these years, and 
for this ! 
(To Idenstein.) But for your age and folly, I 
would 

Men. Help ! 

Hands off ! Touch anintendant! 

Gab. Do not think 

I'll honor you so much as to save your throat 
From the Ravenstone * by choking you myself. 

Iden. I thank you for the respite ; but there are 
Those who have greater need of it than me. 

Ulr. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 

Gab. At once, then, 

The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
His kind suspicions — me ! whom he ne'er saw 
Till yester evening. 

Iden. Wouldst have me suspect 

My own acquaintance ? You have to learn 
That I keep better company. 

Gab. You shall 

Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men, 
The worms ! you hound of malice ! 

[Gabor seizes on him. 

Ulr. (interfering.) m Nay, no violence : 

He's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor ! 

Gab. (letting go Idenstein.) True: 

I am a fool to lose myself because 
Fools deem me knave : it is their homage. 

Ulr. (to Idenstein.) How 

Fare you ? 

Iden. Help ! 

Ulr. I have help'd you. 

Iden. Kill him ! then 

I'll say so. 

Gab. I am calm — live on ! 



• The Ravenstone, " Ravenstein," is the stone gibbet of Germany, and ! 
calle'l from Die ravens perching on it. 



Iden. That's more 

Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
In Germany. The baron shall decide ! 

Gab. Does he abet you in your accusation ? 

Iden. Does he not ? 

Gab. Then next time let him go sink 

Ere I go hang for snatching him from drowning. 
But here he comes ! 

Enter Stralenheim. 

Gab. (goes up to him.) My noble lord, I'm here ! 

Stral. Well, sir ! 

Gab. Have you aught with me ? 

Stral. What should I 

Have with you ? 

Gab. You know best, if yesterday's 

Flood has not wash'd away your memory ; 
But that's a trifle. I stand here accused, 
In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
Or chamber : — is the charge your own or his ? 

Stral. I accuse no man. 

Gab. Then you acquit me, baron : 

Stral. I know not whom to accuse, or to acquit, 
Or scarcely to suspect. 

Gab. But you at least 

Should know whom not to suspect. I am insulted— 
Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy — teach them their duty ! 
To look for thieves at home were part of it, 
If duly taught ; but, in one word, if I 
Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
I am your equal. 

Stral. You ! 

Gab. Ay, sir ; and, for 

Aught that you know, superior ; but proceed — 
I do not ask for hints, and surmises, 
And circumstance, and proofs ; I know enough 
Of what I have done for you, and what you owe me 
To have at least waited your payment rather 
Than paid myself, had I been eager of 
Your gold. I also know that were I even 
The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 
So recently would not permit you to 
Pursue me to the death, except through shame, 
Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 
But this is nothing ; I demand of you 
Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
From your own lips a disavowal of 
All sanction of their insolence : thus much 
You owe to the unknown, who asks no more, 
And never thought to have ask'd so much. 

Stral. This tone 

May be of innocence. 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! who dare doubt it, 

Except such villains as ne'er had it ? 

Stral. You 

Are hot, sir. 

Gab. Must I turn an icicle 

Before the breath of menials, and their master ? 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ; I found him in 
Your company. 

Gab. We found you in the Oder 
Would we had left you there ! 
Stral. I give you thanks, sir. 

Gab. I've earn'd them; but might have earn'd 
more from others, 
Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. 



392 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ? 
* Gab. No more than you do, 

If he avouches not my honor. 

XJlr. I 

Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connexion led me, honor. 

Stral. Then 

I'm satisfied. 

Gab. {ironically.) Right easily, methinks. 
What is the spell in his asseveration 
More than in mine ? 

Stral. I merely said that I 

Was satisfied — not that you were absolved. 

Gab. Again ! Am I accused or no ? 

Stral. Go to, 

You wax too insolent. If circumstance / 

And general suspicion be against you, 
Is the fault mine ? Is't not enough that I 
Decline all question of your guilt or innocence ? 

Gab. My lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage, 
A vile equivocation ; you well know 
Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 
Your looks a voice — your frowns a sentence ; you 
Are practising your power on me — because 
You have it ; but beware ! you know not whom 
You strive to tread on. 

Stral. Threat'st thou ? 

Gab. Not so much 

As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
And I retort it with an open warning. 

Stral. As you have said, 'tis true I owe you some- 
thing, 
For which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 

Gab. Not with your gold. 

Stral. With bootless insolence. 

[To /lis Attendants and Idenstein. 
You need not further to molest this man, 
But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow ! 

[Exit Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants. 

Gab. (following.) I'll after him and 

Ulr. (stopping him.) Not a step. 

Gab. Who shall 

Oppose me ? 

XJlr. Your own reason, with a moment's 

Thought. 

Gab. Must I bear this ? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! we all must bear 

The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
I've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
Things which had made this silkworm cast his skin — 
And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and words ? 

Gab. Must I bear to be deem'd a thief? If 'twere 
A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
There's something daring in it ; — but to steal 
The moneys of a slumbering man ! — 

Ulr. It seems, then, 

You are not guilty ? 

Gab. Do I hear aright ? 

You too ! 

Ulr. I merely ask'd a simple question. 

Gab. If the judge ask'd me, I would answer 
"No"— 
To you I answer thus. (He draws.) 

Ulr. (drawing.) With all my heart ! 

Jos. Without there ! Ho ! help ! help !— Oh, God ! 
here's murder ! 

[Em; Josephine, shriekiiig. 



Gabor and Ulric fight. Gabor is disarmed just 
as Stralenheim, Josephine, Idenstein, &c. 
re-enter. 

Jos. Oh ! glorious heaven ! He's safe ! 

Stral. (to Josephine.) Who 's safe? 

Jos. My 

Ulr. {interrupting her xoith a stem look, and turn- 
ing afterwards to Stralenheim.) Both ! 
Here's no great harm done. 

Stral. What hath caused all this ? 

Ulr. You, baron, I believe ; but as the effect 
Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor ! 
There is your sword ; and when you bare it next 
Let it not be against your friends. 

[Ulhic pronounces the last words slowly and em- 
phatically in a low voice to Gabor. 

Gab. I thank you 

Less for my life than for your counsel. 

Stral. These 

Brawls must end here. 

Gab. (taking his sword.) They shall. You have 
wrong'd me, Ulric, 
More with your unkind thoughts than sword ; I 

would ' 
The last were in my bosom rather than 
The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 
Absurd insinuations — ignorance 
And dull suspicion are a part of his 
Entail will last him longer than his lands. — 
But I may fit him yet : — you have vanquish'd me. 
I was the fool of passion to conceive 
That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 
Already proved by greater perils than 
Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by, 
However — but in friendship. [Exit Gabor. 

Stral. I will brook 

No more ! This outrage following up his insults, 
Perhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succor. 
Ulric, you are not hurt ? — 

Ulr. Not even by a scratch. 

Stral. (to Idenstein.) Intendant take your 
measures to secure 
Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
The instant that the waters have abated. 

Idpn. Secure him ! he hath got his sword again— 
And seems to know the use on't ; 'tis his trade, 
Belike ; — I'm a civilian. 

Stral. Fool ! are not 

Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 
Enough to seize a dozen such ? Hence ! after him ! 

Ulr. Baron, I do beseech you ! 

Stral. * I must be 

Obey'd. No words ! 

Iden. Well, if it must be so — 

March, vassals ! I'm your leader, and will bring 
The rear up : a wise general never should 
Expose his precious life — on which all rests. 
I like that article of war. 

[Exit Idenstein and Attendants 

Stral. Come hither, 

Ulric : what does that woman here ? Oh ! now 
I recognize her, 'tis the stranger's wife 
Whom they name " Werner." 

Ulr. 'Tis his name. 

Stral. Indeod ! 



WERNER. 



393 



Is not your husband visible, fair dame ? — 

Jos. Who seeks him ? 

Stral. No one — for the present : but 

I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr. I will retire with you. 

Jos. Not so ; 

You are the latest stranger, and command 
All places here. 
(Aside to Ulric as she goes out.) Ulric ! have a 

care — 
Remember what depends on a rash word ! 

Ulr. (to Josephine.) Fear not ! — 

[Exit JOSEPHINE. 

Stral. Ulric, I think that I may trust you : 
You saved my life — and acts like these beget 
Unbounded confidence. 

Ulr. Say on. 

Stral. • Mysterious 

And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 

Ulr. Who ? Gabor, the Hungarian ? 

Stral. ■ No — this "Werner" — 

With the false name and habit. 

Ulr. How can this be ? 

He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
Sickness sits cavern' d in his hollow eye : 
The man is helpless. 

Stral. He is — 'tis no matter ; — 

But if he be the man I deem (and that 
He is so, all around us here — and much 
That is not here — confirm my apprehension) 
He must be made secure ere twelve hours further. 

Ulr. And what have I to do with this ? 

Stral. I have sent 

To Frankfort, to the governor,' my friend, 
(I have the authority to do so by 
An order of the house of Brandenburg,) 
For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 

Ulr. It is abating. 

Stral. That is well. 

Ulr. But how 

Am I concern'd ? 

Stral. As one who did so much 

For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
That which is of more import to me than 
The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on him I 
The man avoids me, knows that I now know him. — 
Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar 

when 
He makes against you in the hunter's gap — 
Like him he must be spear'd. 

Ulr. Why so ? 

Stral. He stands 

Between me and a brave inheritance ! 
Oh, could you see it ! But you shall. 

Ulr. I hope so. 

Stral. It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
Have skimm'd it lightly ; so that now, besides 
Its own exuberance, it bears double value 
Confronted with whole realms afar and near 
Made deserts. 

Ulr. You describe it faithfully. 

Stral. Ay — could you see it, you would say so — 
but, 

50 



As I have said, you shall. 

Ulr. I accept the omen. 

Stral. Then claim a recompense from it and me. 
Such as both may make worthy your acceptance 
And services to me and mine for ever. 

Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch — 
This way-worn stranger — stands between you and 
This Paradise ? — (As Adam did between 
The devil and his) — [Aside.'] 

Stral. He doth. 

Ulr. Hath he no right ? 

Stral. Right ! none. A disinherited prodigal, 
Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage 
In all his acts — But chiefly by his marriage, 
And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 

Ulr. He has a wife, then ? 

Stral. You'd be sorry to 

Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
He calls his wife. 

Ulr. Is she not so ? 

Stral. No more 

Than he's your father — an Italian girl, 
The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
On love and poverty with this same Werner. 

Ulr. They are childless, then ? 

Stral. There is or was a bastard, 

Whom the old man — 'he grandsire (as old age 
Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom 
As it went chilly downward to the grave : 
But the imp stands not in my path — he has fled, 
No one knows whither ; and if he had not, 
His claims alone were too contemptible 
To stand. Why do you smile ? 

Ulr. At your vain fears : 

A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
Of doubtful birth — can startle a grandee ! 

Stral. All's to be fear'd, where all is to be gain'd. 

Ulr. True ; and aught done to save or to obtain it. 

Stral. You have harp'd the very string next to my 
heart. 
I may depend upon you ? 

Ulr. 'Twere too late 

To doubt it. 

Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 
Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful) — he is a ■wretch, as likely 
To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
Except that circumstance is less against him ; 
He being far off, and in a chamber 
Without approach to mine : and, to say truth, 
I think too well of blood allied to mine, 
To deem he would descend to such an act : 
Besides he was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once — though too rash. 

Ulr. And they, my lord, we know 

By our experience never plunder till 
They knock the brains out first — which makes them 

heirs, 
Not thieves. The dead, who feel nought, can lose 

nothing, 
Nor e'er be robb'd : their spoils are a bequest — 
No more. 

Stral. Go to ! you are a wag. But say . 
I may be sure you'll keep an eye on this man, 
And let me know his slightest movement towards 
Concealment or escape ? 

Ulr. You may be sure 

You yourself could not watch him more than I 



394 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Will be his sentinel. 

Stral. By this you make me 

Yours, and for ever. 

Ulr. Such is my intention. [Exeunt, 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the same Palace, from whence the secret 
Passage leads. 

Enter Werner and Gabor. 

Gab. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so please you 
To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
If not, I'll try my fortune elsewhere. 

Wer. How 

Can I, so wretched, give to misery 
A shelter — wanting such myself as much 
As e'er the hunted deer a covert 

Gab. Or 

The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
You rather look like one would turn at bay, 
And rip the hunter's entrails. 

Wer. Ah ? 

Gab. I care not 

If it be so, being much disposed to do 
The same myself. But will you shelter me ? 
I am oppress'd like you — and poor like you — 
Disgraced 

Wer. f abruptly.) Who told you that I was dis- 
graced ! 

Gab. No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
I said / was so — and would add, with truth, 
As undeservedly as you. 

Wer. Again ! 

As/? 

Gab. Or any other honest man. 
What the devil would you have ? You don't believe 

me 
Guilty of this base theft r 

Wer. No, no — I cannot. 

Gab. Why that's my heart of honor: yon young 
gallant — 
Your miserly intendant and dense noble — 
All — all suspected me ; and why ? because 
I am the worst-clothed and least named among them ; 
Although, were Momus' lattice in our breasts, 
My soul might brook to open it more widely 
Than theirs : but thus it is — you poor and helpless — 
Both still more than myself. 

Wer. How know you that ? 

Gab. You're right : I ask for shelter at the hand 
Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 
The wholesome bitterness of life, know well, 
By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
Of the New World the Spaniard boasts about 
Could never tempt the man who knows its worth, 
Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance, 
Save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 
Because I feel it) as may leave no nightmare 
Upon his heart o' nights. 

Wer. What do you mean ? 



Gab. Just what I say ; I thought my speech was 
plain : 
You are no thief — nor I — and, as true men, 
Should aid each other. 

Wer. It is a damn'd world, sir. 

Gab. So is the nearest of the two next, as 
The priests say, (and no doubt they should knotf 

best.) 
Therefore I'l. stick by this — as being loth 
To suffer martyrdom, at least with such 
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
It is but a night's lodging which I crave ; 
To-morrow I will try the waters, as 
The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 

Wer. Abated ? is there hope of that ? 

Gab. There was 

At noontide. 

Wer. Then we may be safe. 

Gab. Are you 

In peril ? 

Wer. Poverty is ever so. 

Gab. That I know by long practice. Will you not 
Promise to make mine less ? 

Wer. Your poverty ? 

Gab. No — you don't look a leech for that disorder; 
I meant my peril only : you've a roof, 
And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 

Wer. Rightly : for how should such a wretch as I 
Have gold ? 

Gab. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't, 

Although I almost wish you had the baron's. 

Wer. Dare you insinuate ? 

Gab. What ? 

Wer. Are you aware 

To whom you speak ? 

Gab. No ; and I am not used 

Greatly to care. {A noise is heard without.) But 
hark ! they come ! 

Wer. Who come ? 

Gab. The intendant and his man-hounds after me : 
I'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go ? 
But show me any place. I do assure you, 
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless : 
Think if it were your own case ! 

Wer. (Aside.) Oh, just God ! 

Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 

Gab. I see you're moved ; and it shows well in 
you : 
I may live to requite it. 

Wer. Are you not 

A spy of Stralenheim's ? 

Gab. Not I! and if 

I were what, is there to espy in you ? 
Although I recollect his frequent question 
About you and your spouse might lead to some 
Suspicion ; but you best know — what — and why, 
I am his deadliest foe. 

Wer. You ? 

Gab. After such 

A treatment for the service which in part 
I render'd him, I am his enemy : 
If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 

Wer. I will. 

Gab. But how ? 

Wer. (shoxcing the panel.) There is a secret 
spring : 
Remember, I discover'd it by chance, 
And used it but for safety. 



WERNER. 



39£ 



Gab. Open it, 

And I will use it for the same. 

Wer. I found it, 

As I have said : it leads through winding walls, 
(So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness,) 
And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
I know not whither ; you must not advance : 
Give me your word. 

Gab. It is unnecessary ; 

How should I make my way in darkness through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 

Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it may 
lead ? 
/know not — (mark you !) — but who knows it might 

not 
Lead even into the chambers of your foe ? 
So strangely were contrived these galleries 
By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 
When man built less against the elements 
Than his next neighbor. You must not advance 
Beyond the two first windings ; if you do, 
(Albeit I never pass'dthem,) I'll not answer 
For what you may be led to. 

Gab. But I will. 

A thousand thanks ! 

Wer. You'll find the spring more obvfcms 

On the other side ; and, when you would return, 
It yields to the least touch. 

Gab. I'll in — farewell! 

[Gaboe. goes in by the secret panel. 

Wer. (solus. J What have I done ? Alas ! what had 
I done 
Before to make this fearful ? Let it be 
Still some atonement that I save the man, 
Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
They come ! to seek elsewhere what is before them ! 

Enter Idenstein and Others. 

Iden. Is he not here ? He must have vanish'd then 
Through the dim gothic glass by pious aid 
Of pictured saints upon the red and yellow 
Casements, through which the sunset streams like 

sunrise 
On long pearl-color'd beards and crimson crosses, 
And gilded croisers, and cross'd arms, and cowls, 
And helms, and twisted armor, and long swords, 
All the fantastic furniture of windows 
Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose 
Likeness and fame alike rest on some panes 
Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
As frail as any other life or glory. 
He's gone, however. 

Wer. Whom do you seek ? 

Iden. A villain. 

Wer. Why need you come so far, then ? 

Iden. In the search 

Of him who robb'd the baron. 

Wer. Are you sure 

You have divined the man ? 

Iden. As sure as you 

Stand there : but where's he gone ? 

Wer. Who ? 

Iden. He we sought. 

Wer. You see he is not here. 

Iden. And yet we traced him 

Up to this hall. Are you accomplices ? 
Or deal you in the black art ? 

Wer. I deal plainly, 



To many men the blackest. 

Iden. It may be 

I have a question or two for yourself 
Hereafter ; but we must continue now 
Our search for t'other. 

Wer. You had best begin 

Your inquisition now : I may not be 
So patient always. 

Iden. I should like to know, 

In good sooth, if you really are the man 
That Stralenheim's in quest of. 

Wer. Insolent ! 

Said you not that he was not here ? 

Iden. Yes, one; 

But there's another whom he tracks more keenly, 
And soon, it may be, with authority 
Both paramount to his and mine. But, come ! 
Bustle, my boys ! we are at fault. 

[Exit Idenstein and Attendants. 

Wer. In what 

A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 
And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
The leaving undone one far greater. Down, 
Thou busy devil rising, in my heart ! 
Thou art too late ! I'll nought to do with blood. 

Enter Ulkic. 

Ulr. I sought you, father. 

Wer. Is't not dangerous ? 

Ulr. No ; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
Or any of the ties between us : more — 
He sends me here a spy upon your actions, 
Deeming me wholly his. * 

Wer. I cannot think it : 

'Tis but a snare he winds about us both, 
To swoop the sire and son at once. 

Ulr. I cannot 

Pause at each petty fear, and stumble at 
The do&ts that rise like briars in our path, 
But must break through them, as an unarm'd carle 
Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf 

rustling 
In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread. 
Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so: 
We'll overfly or rend them. 

Wer. Show me how f 

Ulr. Can you not guess ? 

Wer. I cannot. 

Ulr. That is strange. 

Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night f 

Wer. I understand you not. 

Ulr. Then we shall never. 

More understand each other. But to change 
The topic 

Wer. You mean to pursue it, as 

'Tis of our safety. 

Ulr. Right ; I stand corrected. 

I see the subject now more clearly, and 
Our general situation in its bearings. 
The waters are abating ; a few hours 
Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from Frankfort, 
When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse, 
And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 
Of this same baron to make way for him. 

Wer. And now your remedy ! I thought to escare 
By means of this accursed gold ; but now 
I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
For motto, not the mintago of the state; 



396 



I'.YKON'S WORKS. 



Ami, foi iii" sovereign's bond, my own begirt 
Willi in in", lakes, which curl around my temples, 
And ory to all beholders, Lo! a villain I 

Ulr. "\" < > 1 1 in us! mil use it, at least, now; linl lake 

This mi". | He gives Wbrh bb a jewel. 

Wer. A gem I 1 1 was my father's ! 

tlh: And 

Ah suoh Is nun your own, With this you must 
Bribe the Intondanl for his old oalfii be 
Ami horses to pursue your route a1 sunrise, 
Together with 1113 mother, 

Wer. Ami leave you, 

So lately found, in peril boo f 

t'lr. Pear nothing ' 

The only fear were [f we fled together. 
For thai would make our ties beyond ;| " doubt, 
Che waters only lie in floods be1 ween 
rin ■ burgh and Frank fori , so far's in our favor. 
The route on to Bohemia, though encurahex'd, 
l b mil imps able ; and when you g in 
A few hours' Btart, the difficulties will be 
in to youi pursuers. ( Ince beyond 
The i'i onl ler, and you're safe. 

Wer. My noble boy ! 

Ulr. Hush! hushl no transports; we'll indulgi 
in them 
1 M i '.1 .il,- Siegendorf I Di iplay ao gold 1 
Show [denstein the gem, ( 1 know the man, 
Ami have look'd through hiiu :) il will answi c thus 
A double purpose. Btralenheim losl gold — 
Ato jewel: therefore il could not be his ; 
A ml then the man w ho was po ■ c il of this 
■Can hardly be Buspected of abstracting 
The baron's coin, when he could thus convert 

This ring to 1 'e than Btralenheim 1ms lost 

liy lij.s last night's slumber. Be no1 over timid 
in your addi'ess, nor yet too arrogant, 
And [denstein will serve you. 

Wer. I will follow * 

Jn ;iil thing i \ our direct ion. 

Ulr. I would have 

Spared you the trouble; bul had I appear'd 
To take an interest in you, and Btill more 
By dabbling with a jewel in your favor, 
All had been known al onoe. 

Wer. My guardian angel ! 

This overpays the past, Bul how will thou 
Fare in our absence ? 

Ulr. 81 ralenheim knows aol bing 

Of mo as aughl of kindred with yourself. 
1 will bul wail ,1 day oi two with him 
To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father. 

Hi r. To pari no more ! 

Ulr. 1 i.inni aol thai ; bul at 

The leasl we'll meel again once more. 

Wer, My boy 1 

My friendl mj onlj child, and sole preserver I 
i )h, iln mil hate me ! 

Ulr. Hate my father! 

Wer. Ay, 

My father hated me. Why nol my son? 

Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 

" "'• Scorpions 

Are in thy words | Thou Know me ? in (bis guise, 
Thou cansl not know me, I am no! myself; 
Yel (hate me aol ) I will be soon. 

Ulr. I'll wait I 

In the meantime be sure thai all b son 
Can do tor parents shall be done for mine. 



IIV/\ I :a-o il, and I fool it; yet I feci 

Fui 1 her — that you despise me, 

Ulr, Wherefore should I ? 

Wer, Must l repeat my humiliation'? 
Ulr. No! 

I have fathom'd il and you. IS11I. let us talk 
Of this no more. Or if il mUSl be ever, 

Not nOW, Your error has n-ilouliled all 

The present difficulties of our house, 

\ 1 1 1 mi war w Mil thai of Btralenheim : 
All we have now to think of is to baffle 

I I 1 M. I have shown i'iic way. 
Wer, 'The only one, 

A nil I embrace il, as I did my son, 

Who show'd himself and father's safety in 
( ine day. 

Ulr, You shall be safe ; let that suffice. 
Would Stralenheim's appearance in liohemia 
Disturb your right, or mine, if onoe wo wcro 

Admitted tO our lands ? 

Wer, Assuredly, 

Situate as we are now, although the first 

Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest, 

Especially 1 he nea 1 in blood, 

Ulr. Blood! 'tis 

A wind of many meanings; in the veins 
AinlViui of them, ii is b different thing — 

And so il. should lie, when Hie same in blood 

(As it is oall'd ) ore aliens to each other, 
Like Theban brethren: when a part is bad, 
A few spilt ounces purify 1 he resl . 
11 1 r. I do not b pprehond you. 

I If. That may h( 

And should, perhaps — and yet bul gel ve ready; 

You and my mother must away to night, 

Here comes the inlendant : sou in I In in with the gem ; 
'Twill sink into his venial soul like lead 
Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud, 
And 0026 tOO, from the bottom, as the lead doth 

Willi its greased understratum; hut no less 

Will serve lo warn 0111 vessels thrOUgh these shoals. 

The freight is rich, bo heave the line in time ! 

farewell ! 1 sraree have time, but yet your hand, 

My father I 

Wer, I .it me embrace thee ! 

Ulr, We may bo 

< Hi.ii sod : SUbdue J our nature to the hour ! 

K eep oif from me as from j our foe ! 

Wer, Aerui led 

Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers 
The be il and iweetesl feeling of our hearts ; 
At such an hour too ! 

Ulr, Yes, OUTS! — it will ease you; 

I [ere is the intendant. 

Enter I denstbin. 

Master [denstein, 

ITow fare you in \our purpose? Have you eau-lil 

The rogue ? 
Tden. No, faith! 

Ulr, Well, then- are plenty moro ; 

You may have heller link another ehase. 
Where is the baron ? 

Tden. Gone back to bis chamber: 

And now I think on'!, asking after you 
With nobly-horn impatience. 

Ulr. Your /'.real men 

Must he answer'd on the instant, ns thebound 
Of the stung steed replies unto the spur : 



WEB 



v.'.n 



Tis well they have horses, too ; for if they bad not, 
J fear that men must draw th<:ir chariot*, as 
I i - i •• tris. 

Idea, Who tnahi ! 

D7r. An old Bohemian — an imperiap£ipsy. 
'/(/en. A gipsy ox Bohemian, 'ti s the lame, 
Pox they pan by both name*. And wan he one ? 

Ulr. I've heard ho ; but I must take lean I 1 
tendant, 
Your servant! — Werner, (toWwMZTk 4ightly t ) if 

that be your nam':, 
Yours. [Exit UlXlO 

lii, a. a well ipoken, pretty faced young man I 
And prettily behaved ! he knowa hie itation, 

i , sir: how he gave to each bit due 
Precedence ! 

Wer. I perc( ived it, and applaud 

Hie just discernment and your own. 

Tden That's well — 

Xhat' . eery well. You al 10 know your place, too ; 
And yet, I don't know that I know your place. 

Wer. (showing the ring.) Would this a il tyoui 
knovi ■'■ 

Tden. Eow !— What !— Eh ! 

A jewi 1 ' 

Wer. "1 1 1 your own on one condition. 

Jden. Mine! — .Name it ! 

Wer. That, hereaffc i you permit me 

At. thrice its value to redeem it. 
A family ring. 

Tden. A family! — yourel — a : 

I'm breathless ! 

Wer. You must also furnish me 

An hour ere daybreak with all means to quit 

This place. 

I'll a. Bui . itreal? Lei me look on it- 
Diamond, by all that' i glorious! 

Wer. Come I'll tru t yon . 

You have guea I'd, no doubt, that I was horn above 
My pr< i ng. 

Tden l i n't say I did. 

Though thi i looks like it: this i. the true breeding 
itle blood ' 

Wer. I have important reasons 

bing to continue privily 
My journey I 

Tden. So then you are tlie man 
Whom Stralenheim's in qm ■ 

Wer. I am not; 

But being taken for him might conduct 
To much embarra im< nt to me jn I now, 
And to the baron's self bereafter-^tis 
'l o pare both that I would avoid all bustle. 

/'/'■// B) ;,'.'i the man or 00, 'tis not. my I, 

d the half 
From thi i proud, niggardly noble, who would raise 
. rntry for some missing bits of coin, 

And never offer a precise reward — 
J;>jt. this ! — another look ! 

\\'i i . On it freely ; 

At day-dawn it is yours. 

Tden Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 

Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
Thou touch .tone of Philosophy herself! 

Thou bright eye of the Mind ! thou load | tar of 

il! the true magnetic Pole to which 

All hearts point duly north, like trembling needles I 

Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! which, sitting 
High on the monarch's diadem, attraetest 



More woi ihip than the m . 

Beneath thi crown which makes his headache, like 

Million bleed to lend it. In 

Shalt then b( mine ? I am, methinks, already 

A little king, a lm I i ! — 

A wise ■ ,: ,.,, ,|, .,,] 

Without the forfeit of hi . ion! Bui 

Werner, or what el is .- 

Wer. Call me Werner still; 

You may y t, kno loftier title. 

Tden I do b< I i ■ ■■ In tha I thon art th< spirit 
Of whom I long hav< dream'd In a low garb. — 
But com'-, I'll serve thi e , thon free 

As air, de ipite the watei ; let v bene* 
I'll how thei i am honest — (oh, thou jewel!) 

■ it. be furni h'd, W< mei eh means 

'it, that If 1 
Should overtake thee. —Let mi 
I have i fo '.j brothei In the mart 
Of Hamburg kill'd in precic 
Carats may it. weigh P — Come, '• ,u wing 

thee [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

Chambei , 
Stbali •■iii.i-i and E bitz. • 

/ / it : All's i' adj , my good hud ' 
si mi. i am not tlei py, 

And y t, I mu t fo bed | I fain would say 
'I I. re ', but o avy on my 

Too dull foi wak( fulne , too quick for slumber, 

- 
Which will not let I 

lo ii ,,d in faij] and | i.'l 

Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man 

And man, an evila ting mist; — I will 

Onto i- 

Frit May you i 11 ! 

. Stral. I !' < I, and fear, l 
Fritz And wherefore fear ? 

i i'ii I ;■ no - -.t why, and therefore do fear morn 

an undi icribable bul 

All folly. Were the locks (as I de 

: ., to-day, of thi i chambt 
Adventure n dfuL 

Fritz inly, 

ag to your ord< r, and beneath 
] on of myself am 

Qt life. I think tb< 

Stral. You Hi'/'/ ' ej what 

Have you to tai >/'"" memory, which should be 

Quick, proud, and happy to retain th< 

Of him who saved ; litany 

■'>'• — 
Get hence ' " You think, 

still 
Howling and dripping on the bank, whilst I 
Lay dying, and thi 

The roaring torrent, and re tored me to 

Thank him — and de ipi e you. " You think!" and 

scarce 
Can recolle* I 

More word i on you. Call me bethxu 
Fritz, Good 

I trust to-mo; ;• 

■\ strength and U mpi r. 

[ The scene closes. 



398 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SCENE III. 



The secret Passage. 
G\ib. (solus. J Four — 

Five — six hours have I counted, like the guard 
Of outposts on the never-merry clock : 
That hollow tongue of time, which, even when 
It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
With every clang. 'Tis a perpetual knell, 
Though for a marriage-feast it rings : each sroke 
Peals for a hope the less ; the funeral note 
Of Love deep-buried without resurrection 
In the grave of Possession ; while the knoll 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
To triple Time in the son's ear. 
> I'm cold — 

I'm dark ; — I've blown my fingers — number'd o'er 
And o'er my steps — and knock'd my head against 
Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 
And bats in general insurrection, till 
Their cursed pattering feet and whirring wings 
Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
A light ! It is at a distance, (if I can 
Measure in darkness distance:) but it blinks 
As through a crevice or a keyhole, in 
The iihibited direction : I must on, • 
Nevertheless from curiosity. 
A distant lamp-light is an incident 
In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 
To nothing that may tempt me ! Else — Heaven aid 

me 
To obtain or to escape it ! Shining still ! 
Were it the star of Lucifer himself, 
Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 
Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well. 
That corner's turn'd — so — ah ! no ; — right ! it draws 
Nearer. Here is a darksome angle — so 
That's weather'd. — Let me pause. — Suppose it leads 
Into some greater danger than that which 
I have escaped — no matter, 'tis a new one ; 
And novel perils, like fresh mistresses, 
Wear more magnetic aspects : — I will on, 
And be it where it may — I have my dagger, 
Which may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, 
Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus ! 
My stationary Will-o'the-wisp ; — so ! so : 
He hears my invocation, and fails not. 

[The scene closes. 

SCENE IV. 

A Garden. 

Enter Werner. 

Wer. I could not sleep, and now the hour's at 
hand ; 
All's ready. Idenstein has kept his word : 
And station'd in the outskirts of the town, 
Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
Look on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
But not dishonor'd : but I leave them with 
A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
My heart ! — a never-dying canker-worm, 
Which all the coming splendor of the lands, 
And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
Can scarcely lull a moment. I must find 



Some means of restitution, which would ease 
My soul in part ; but how without discovery ? — 
It must be done, however ; and I'll pause 
Upon the rnathod the first hour of safety. 
The madness of my misery led to this 
Base infamy ; repentance must retrieve it : 
I will have nought of Stralenhnim's upon 
My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
Lands, freedom, life, — and yet he sleeps ! as soundly, 
Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows, 

Such as when Hark ! what noise is that ? Again ! 

The branches shake ; and some leose stones have 

fallen 
From yonder terrace. 

[Ulric leaps down from the terrace. 
Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
Thrice welcome now ! this filial 

Ulr. Stop! Before 

We approach, tell me 

Wer. Why look you so ? 

Ulr. Do I 

Behold my father, or 

Wer. ' What ? 

Ulr. An assassin ? 

Wer. Insane or insolent ! 

Ulr. Reply, sir, as 

You prize your life, or mine ! 

Wer. To what must I 

Answer ? 

Ulr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
Of Stralenheim ? 

Wer. I never was as yet 

The murderer of any man. What mean you ? 

Ulr. Did not you this night (as the night before) 
Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 

Again revisit Stralcnheim's chamber ? and 

[Ulric pauses. 

Wer. Proceed. 

Ulr. Died he not by your hand ? 

' Wer. Great God ! 

Ulr. You are innocent, then ! my father's inno- 
cent ! 
Embrace me ! Yes, — your tone — your look — yes, 

yes — 
Yet say so. 

Wer. If I e'er, in heart or mind, 
Conceived deliberately such a thought, 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment through 
The irritation of my oppressed spirit — 
May heaven be shut for ever from my hopes 
As from mine eyes \ 

Ulr. But Stralenheim is dead 

Wer. "Tis horrible ! 'tis hideous, as 'tis hateful l 
But what have I to do with this ? 

Ulr. No bolt 

Is forced , no violence can be detected, 
Save on his body. Part of his own household 
Have been alarm'd ; but as the intendant is 
Absent, I took upon myself the care 
Of mustering the police. His chamber has, 
Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
If nature 

Wer. Oh, my boy ! what unknown woes 

Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
Above our house ! 

Ulr. My father ! I acquit you ! 

But will the world do so' ? will even the judge, 



WERNER. 



399 



If But you must away this instant. 

Wer. No 1 

I'll face it. Who shall dare suspect me ? 

Ulr. _ , Yet 

You had no guests — no visitors — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 

Wer. Ah ! 

The Hungarian ! 

Ulr. He is gone ! he disappear'd 

Ere sunset. 

Wer. No ; I hid him in that very 

Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 

Ulr. There I'll find him. 

[Ulric is going. 

Wer. It is too late : he had left the palace ere 
I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 
Which masks it : I but thought he had snatch'd the 

silent 
And favorable moment to escape 
The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
Dogging him yester-even. 

Ulr. You reclosed 

The panel ? 

Wer. Yes ; and not without reproach 
(And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
Of a discovery. 

Ulr. You are sure you closed it ? 

Wer. Certain. 

Ulr. That's well ; but had been better, if 

You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for 

[He pauses. 

Wer. Thieves ! 

Thou wouldst say : I must bear it and deserve it ; 
But not 

Ulr. No, father , do not speak of this : 

This is no hour to think of petty crimes, 
But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
Why would you shelter this man ? 

Wer. Could I shun it ? 

A man pursued by my chief foe ; disgraced 
For my own crime ; a victim to my safety, 
Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
Have in such circumstances thrust him forth. 

Ulr. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
It is too late to ponder thus : — you must 
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
Trace the murderer, if 'tis possible. 

Wer. But this my sudden flight will give the 
Moloch 
Suspicion : two new victims in the lieu 
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
Who seems the culprit, and 

Ulr. Who seems? Who else 

Can be so ? 

Wer. Not J, though just now you doubted — 
You, my son ! — doubted 

Ulr. And do you doubt of him 

The fugitive ? 

Wer. Boy ! since ifell into 

The abyss of crime, (though not of such crime,) I, 
Having seen the innocent oppress'd for me 
May doubt even the guilty's guilt. Your heart 
Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse 
Appearances ; and views a criminal 



In Innocence's shadow, it may be, 
Because 'tis dusky 

Ulr. And if I do so, 
What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
But to oppress ? You must not stand the hazard. 
Away ! — I'll make all easy. Idenstein 
Will for his own sake and his jewel's, hold 
His peace — he also is a partner in 
Your flight — moreover 

Wer. Fly ! and leave my name 

Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd as poorest, 
To bear the brand of bloodshed ? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! leave 

Except our father's sovereignty and castle, 
For which you have so long panted and in vain ! 
What name? You have no name, since that you 

bear 
Is feign'd. 

Wer. Most true ; but still I would not have it 
Engraved in crimson in men's memories, 

Though in this most obscure abodes of men 

Besides, the search 

. Ulr. I will provide against 

Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here 

As heir of Siegendorf: If Idenstein 

Suspects, 'tis but suspicion, and he is 

A fool : his folly shall have such enjoyment, 

Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 

To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 

Laws reach'd this village) are all in abeyance 

With the late general war of thirty years, 

Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust, 

To which the march of armies trampled them. 

Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 

Here, save as such — without lands, influence, 

Save what hath perish'd with him. Few prolong 

A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 

O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 

Is roused : such is not here the case ; He died 

Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave, 

Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon, 

Is all he'll have, or wants. If / discover 

The assassin, 'twill be well — if not, believe me 

None else ; though all the full-fed train of menials 

May howl above his ashes (as they did 

Around him in his danger on the Oder) 

Will no more stir a finger now than then. 

Hence ! hence ! I must not hear your answer. — Look ! 

The stars are almost faded, and the gray 

Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 

You shall not answer — pardon me that I 

Am peremptory ; 'tis your son that speaks, 

Your long-lost late-found son. — Let's call my 

mother ; 
Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
To me : I'll answer for the event as far 
As regards you, and that is the chief point, 
As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
We'll meet in Castle Siegendorf— once more 
Our banners shall be glorious ! Think of that 
Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me, 
Whose youth may better battle with them.— Hence ! 
And may your age be happy !— I will kiss 
My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with 
you! 

Wer. This counsel's safe — but is it honorable ? 

Ulr. To save a father is a child's chief honor. 

[Exeunt. 



400 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf near 
Prague. 

Enter Eric and Henrick, retainers of the Count. 
Eric. So better times are come at last ; to these 
Old walls new masters and high wassail — both 
A long desideratum. 

Hen. Yes, for masters, 

It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
Though made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
His feudal hospitality as high 
As e'er another prince of the empire. 

Eric. Why, 

For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
Even of the narrowest. 

Hen. The old count loved not 

The roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 
Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he's 
bounteous, 
And we all love him. 

Hen. His reign is as yet 

Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon, 
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal : 
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
And moods of mind. 

Eric. Pray heaven' he "keep the present ! 

Then his brave son, Count Ulric — there's a knight! 
Pity the wars are o'er ! 
Hen. Why so ? 

Eric. Look on him ! 

And answer Ahat yourself. 

Hen. He's very youthful, 

And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 
Eric. That's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 
Hen. But 

Perhaps a true one. 

Eric. Pity, as I said, 

The wars are over: in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride, 
Which awes, but yet offends not ? in the field, 
Who like him with his spear in hand, when, gnash- 
ing 
His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket ? 
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
A sword like him ? Whose plume nods knightlier ? 
Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war 
Be long in coming he is of that kind 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 
Eric. What do you mean ? 

Hen. You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our native fellow vassals born 
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 

As (Pauses.) 

Eric. What ? 

Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves living, 
Like other parents, she spoils her worst children. 
Eric. Nonsense ! they are all brave iron-visaged 
fellows, 
Such as old Tilly loved. 



Hen. And who loved Tilly ? 
Ask that of Magdebourg — or for that matter 
Wallenstein either ; they are gone to 

Eric. Rest ; 

But what beyond 'tis not ours to pronounce. 

Hen. I wish they had left us something of their 
rest ; 
The country (nominally now at peace) 
Is overrun with — God knows who : they fly 
By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more, 
Than the most open warfare. 

Eric. But Count Ulric— 

What has all this to dp with him ? 

Hen. With him ! 

He might prevent it. As you say he's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders ? 

Eric. You'd better ask himself ? 

Hen. I would as soon 

Ask of the lion why he laps not milk. 

Eric. And here he comes ! 

Hen. The devil ! you'll hold your tongue ? 

M Eric. Why do you turn so pale ? 
^ Hen. 'Tis nothing — but 

Be silent. 

Eric. I will upon what you have said. 

Hen. I assure you I meant nothing, — a mere sport 
Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwise; 
He is to espouse the gentle baroness 
Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress, 
And she no doubt will soften whatsoe'er 
Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
Have given all natures, and most unto those 
Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
The knees of Homicide ; sprinkled, as it were, 
With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace 
On all that I have said ! 

Enter Ulric and Rodolph. 

Good morrow, count. 

Ulr. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 
All ready for the chase ? 

Eric. The dogs are order'd 

Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising. 
Shall I call forth your excellency's suite ? 
What courser will you please to mount ? 

Ulr. The dun, 

Walstein. 

Eric. I fear he scarcely has recovcr'd 
The toils of Monday : 'twas a noble chase ; 
You spear'd four with your own hand. 

Ulr. True, good Eric ; 

I had forgotten — let it be the gray, then, 
Old Ziska,: he has not been out this fortnight. 

Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 
Of your immediate retainers shall 
Escort you ? 

Ulr. I leave that to Weilburgh, our 

Master of the horse. [Exit Eric. 

Rodolph ! 

Rod. My lord ! 

Ulr. The news 

Is awkward from the — (Rodolph points to Hen- 
rick.) 

How now, Henrick ? why 
Loiter you here ? 

Hen. For your commands, my lord. 

Ulr. Go to my father, and present my duty, 



WERNER. 



401 



And learn if he would aught with me before 

I mount. • [Exit Henrick. 

Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
'Tis rumor'd that the column sent against them 
Is to be strengthen'd. I must join them soon. 

Bod. Best wait for further and more sure advices. 

Ulr. I mean it — and indeed it could not well 
Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
To all my plans. 

Bod. It will be difficult 

To excuse your absence to the count your father. 

Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 
In high Silesia will permit and cover 
My journey. In the mean time, when we are 
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 
Whom Wolffe leads — keep the forests on your route : 
You know it well ? 

Bod. As well as on that night 

When we 

Ulr. We will not speak of that until 

We can repeat the same with like success : 
And when you have join'd, give Rosenberg this letter. 

[Gives a lettef. 
Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 
To our force with ) r ou and Wolffe, as herald of 
My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
At this time, as my father loves to keep 
Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries, 
Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 

Bod. I thought you loved the lady Ida ? 

Ulr. Why, 

I do so — but it follows not from that 
I would bind in my youth and glorious years, 
So brief and burning with a lady's zone, 
Although 'twere that of Venus ; — but I love her, 
As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 

Bod. And constantly ? 

Ulr. I think so ; for I love 

Nought else. — But I have not the time to pause 
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! good 
Rodolph ! 

Bod. On my return, however, I shall find 
The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf ? 

[7/-. Perhaps — my father wishes it ; and sooth 
'Tis no bad policy : this union with 
The last bud of the rival branch at once 
Unites the future and destroys the past. 

Bod. Adieu. 

Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together 

Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off, 
And do as I have said. 

Bod. I will. But to 

Return — 'twas a most kind act in the count 
Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
For this fair orphan of the baron, and 
To hail her as his daughter. 

Ulr. Wondrous kind ! 

Especially as little kindness till 
Then grew between them. 

< Bod. The late baron died 

Of a fever did he not ? 

Ulr. How should I know ? 

Bod. I have heard it whisper'd there was some- 
thing strange 
About his death — and even the place of it 
Is scarcely known. 

51 



Ulr. Some obscure village on 

The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 

Bod. He 

Has left no testament — no farewell words ? 

Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary, 
So cannot say. 

Bod. Ah ! here's the lady Ida. 

Enter Ida Stralenheim. 

Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin ! 

Id&' Not tco early, 

Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
Why do you call me "cousin ? " 

Ulr. (smiling.) Are we not so i 

Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name ; methinks 
It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 

Ulr. (starting.) Blood! 

Ida. Why does yours start from your cheeks ? 

Ulr. Ay ! doth it ? 

Ida. It doth — but no ! it rushes like a torrent 
Even to your brow again. 

Ulr. (recovering himself.) And if it fled, 
It only was because your presence sent it 
Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet cousin ! 

Ida. " Cousin " again. 

Ulr. Nay, then I'll call you sister. 

Ida. I like that name still worse. — Would we had 
ne'er 
Been aught of kindred ! 

Ulr. (gloomily.) Would we never had. 

Ida. Oh heavens ! and can you wish that? 

Ulr. Dearest Ida . 

Did I not echo your own wish ? 

Ida. Yes, Ulric, 

But then I wish'd it not with such a glance, 
And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
Sister or cousin, what you will, so that 
I still to you am something. 

Ulr. You shall be 

All— all 

Ida. And you to me are so already ; 

But I can wait. 

Ulr. Dear Ida ! 

Ida. Call me Ida, 

Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
Indeed I have none lse left, since my poor father — 

[She pauses. 

Ulr. You have mine — you have me. 

Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 

My father could but view our happiness, 
Which wants but this ! 

Ulr. Indeed ! 

Ida. You would have loved him. 

He you ; for the brave ever love each other : 
His manners were a little cold, his spirit 
Proud, (as is birth's prerogative;) but under 

This grave exterior Would you had known eack 

other ! 
Had such as you been near him on his journey 
He had not died without a friend to sooth 
His last and lonely moments. 

Ulr. Who says that? 

Ida. What? 

Ulr. That he died alone. 

Ida. The general rumoff 

And disappearance of his servants, who 
Have ne'er return' d : that fever was most deadly 
Which swept them all away. 



402 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ulr If they were near him, 

He could not die neglected or alone. 

Ida. Alas ! what is a menial to a death-bed, 
When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
It loves ? — They say he died of a fever. 

Ulr~ Say! 

It was so. 

Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise. 

Ulr. All dreams are false. 

Ida. And yet I see him as 

I see you. 

Ulr. Where? 

Ida. In sleep — I see him lie 

Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
Beside him. 

Ulr. But you do not see his face ? 

Ida. (looking at him.) No ! Oh, my God ! do 
you ? 

Ulr, * Why do you ask ? 

Ida. Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 

Ulr. (agitatedly.) Ida, this is mere childishness ; 
your weakness 
Infects me, to my shame ; but as all feelings 
Of yours are common to me, it affects me. 
Prithee, sweet child, change 

Ida. Child, indeed ! I have 

Full fifteen summers ! {A bugle sounds. 

Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 

Ida. (peevishly to Uooohvu.) Why need you tell 
him that ? Can he not hear it 
Without your echo ? 

Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness ! 

Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 
By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
Count Ulric from the chase to-day. 

Rod. You will not, 

Lady, need aid of mine. 

Ulr. I must not now 

Forego it. 

Ida. But you shall ! 

Ulr. Shall ! 

Ida. Yes, or be 

No true knight. — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 
In this, for this one day : the day looks heavy, 
And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 

Ulr. You jest. 

Ida. Indeed I do not: — ask of Rodolph. 

Rod. Truly, 

My lord, within this quarter of an hour 
You have changed more than e'er I saw you change 
In years. 

Ulr. 'Tis nothing ; but if 'twere, the air 
Would soon restore me. I'm fhc true chameleon, 
And live but on the atmosphere : your feasts 
In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
My spirit — I'm a forester and a breather 
Of the sweet mountain-tops, where I love all 
The eagle loves. 

Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 

Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies home. 

Ida. And will you not stay, then ? You shall not 
go! 
Come ! I will sing to you. 

Ulr. Ida, you scarcely 

Will make a soldier's wife. 

Ida. I do not wish 

To be sn ; for I trust these wars are over, 
And you will live in peace on your domains. 



Enter Werner as Count Siegendorf. 

Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 
With such brief greeting. — You have heard our 

bugle ; 
The vassals wait. 

Sieg. So let them. — You forget 

To-morrow is the appointed festival 
In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to follow 
The chase with such an ardor as will scarce 
Permit you to return to-day, or if 
Return'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 

Ulr. You, count, 

Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
A lover of these pageantries. 

Sieg. No, Ulric ■ 

It were not well that you alone of all 
Our young nobility 

Ida. And far the noblest 

In aspect and demeanor. 

Sieg. (to Ida.) True, dear child, 

Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel, — 
But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 
So lately reinstated in our honors : 
Believe me, 'twould be mark'd in any house, 
But most in ours, that one should be found want- 
ing 
At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
Which gave us back our own, in the same moment 
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
On us for thanksgiving : first, for our country ; 
And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 

Ulr. (aside.) Devout, too ! well, sir, I obey at 

once. (Then aloud to a Servant.) 

Ludwig, dismiss the train without ! [Exit Ludwio. 

Ida. And so 

You yield at once to him what I for hours 
Might supplicate in vain. 

Sieg. (smiling.) You are not jealous 

Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 
Would sanction disobedience against all 
Except thyself? But fear not : thou shalt rule him 
Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 

Ida. But I should like to govern now. 

Sieg. You shall, 

Your harp, which by the way awaits you with 
The countess in her chamber. She complains 
That you are a sad truant to your music : 
She attends you. 

Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsman : 

Ulric, you'll come and hear me ? 

Ulr. By and by. 

Ida. Be sure I'll sound it better than your bugles ; 
Then pray you be as punctual to its notes : 
I'll play you King Gustavus' march. 

Ulr. And why not 

Old Tilly's? 

Ida. Not that monster's ! I should think 

My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with 

music, 
Could aught of his sound on it : — but come quickly ; 
Your mother will be eager to receive you. 

[Exit Ida. 

Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 

Ulr. My time's your vassal. — 
(aside to Rodolph.) Rodolph, hence! and do 
As I directed ; and by his best speed 
And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 



WERNER. 



403 



Rod. Count Siegendorf, command you aught? lam 
bound 
Upon a journey past the frontier. 

Sieg. (starts.) Ah ! — 

Where ? on what frontier ? 

Rod. The Silesian, on 

My way — (aside to Ulric) — Where shall I say ? 

Ulr. (aside to Rodolph.) To Hamburgh. 

(Aside to himself.) That 
Word will I think put a firm padlock on 
His further inquisition. 

Rod. Count, to Hamburgh. 

Sieg. (agitated.) Hamburgh ! No, I have nought 
to do there, nor 
Am aught connected with that city. Then 
God speed you ! 

Rod. Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf! 

[Exit Rodolph. 

Sieg. Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is 
One of those strange companions whom I fain 
Would reason with you on. 

Ulr. My lord, he is 

Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
In Saxony. 

Sieg. I talk not of his birth, 

But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 

Ulr. So they will do of most men. Even the 
monarch 
Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 
The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 
Great and ungrateful. 

Sieg. If I must be plain, 

The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodoph : 
They say he is leagued with the "black bands" 

who still 
Ravage the frontier. 

Ulr. And will you believe 

The world ? 

Sieg. In this case — yes. 

Ulr. In any case 

I thought you knew it better than to take 
An accusation for a sentence. 

Sieg. Son ! 

I understand you : you refer to but 

My destiny has so involved about me 
Her spider web, that I can only flutter 
Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 
Ulric ; you have seen to what the passions led me : 
Twenty long years of misery and famine 
Quench'd them not — twenty thousand more, per- 
chance, 
Hereafter (or even here in moments which 
Might date for years, did Anguish make the dial) 
May not obliterate or expiate 
The madness and dishonor of an instant. 
Ulric, be warn'd by a father ! — I was not 
By mine, and you behold me ! 

Ulr. I behold 

The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
Lord of a prince's appanage, and honor'd 
By those he rules and those he ranks with. 

Sieg. Ah ! 

Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ! 
All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me — 
But if my son's is cold ! 

Ulr. Who dare say that ? 

Sieg. None else but I, who see it— -feel it — keener 
Than would your adversary, who dared say so, 



Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 
The wound. 

Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 

To outward fondling ; how should it be so, 
After twelve years' divorcement from my parents ? 

Sieg. And did not I too pass those twelve torn 
years 
In a like absence ? But 'tis vain to urge you — 
Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 
Let's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
That these young violent nobles of high name, 
But dark deeds, (ay, the darkest, if all Rumor 
Reports be true,) with whom thou consortest, 
Will lead thee 

Ulr. (impatiently.) I'll be led by no man. 

Sieg. Nor 

Be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida — more 
As thou appear'st to love her. 

Ulr. I have said 

I will obey your orders, were they to 
Unite with Hecate — can a son say more ? 

Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It is not 
The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 
Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 
Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness, 
(For Glory's pillow is but restless, if 
Love lay not down his cheek there :) some strong 

bias, 
Some master fiend is in thy service to 
Misrule the mortal who believes him slave, 
And makes his every thought subservient ; else 
Thou'dst say at once — " I love young Ida, and 
Will wed her ; " or, " I love her not, and all 
The powers of earth shall never make me." — So 
Would I have answer'd. 

Ulr. Sir, you wed for love. 

Sieg. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
In many miseries. 

Ulr. Which miseries 

Had never been but for this love-match. 

Sieg. Still 

Against your age and nature ! Who at twenty 
E'er answer'd thus till now ? 

Ulr. Did you not warn me 

Against your own example ? 

Sieg. Boyish sophist ! 

In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida ? 

Ulr. What matters it, if I am ready to 
Obey you in espousing her ? 

Sieg. As far 
As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
She's young — all beautiful — adores you — is 
Endow'd with qualities to give happiness, 
Such as rounds common life into a dream 
Of something which your poets cannot paint, 
And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
For which Philosophy might barter wisdom ; 
And giving so much happiness, deserves 
A little in return. I would not have her 
Break her heart for a man who has none to break : 
Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale, 
According to the Orient tale. She is 

Ulr. The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your foe : 
I'll wed her, ne'ertheless ; though, to say truth, 



404 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Just now I am not violently transported 
In favor of such unions. 

Sieg. But she loves you. 

Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would think 
twice. 

Sieg. Alas ! Love never did so. 

Ulr. Then 'tis time 

He should begin, and take the bandage from 
His eyes, and look before he leaps : till now 
He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 

Sieg. But you consent ? 

Ulr. I did and do. 

Sieg. Then fix the day. 

Ulr. 'Tis usual, 

And certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 

Sieg. I will engage for her. 

Ulr. So will not / 

For any woman ; and as what I fix, 
I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
Her answer, I'll give mine. 

Sieg. But 'tis your office 

To woo. 

Ulr. Count, 'tis a marriage of your making, 
So be it of your wooing ; but to please you 
I will now pay my duty to my mother, 
With whom, you know the lady Ida is. — 
What would you have ? You have forbid my stirring 
For manly sports beyond the castle walls, 
And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer, 
To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles, 
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles, 
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
The eyes of feminine, as though they were 
The stars receding early to our wish 
Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle — 
What can a son or man do more ? [Exit Ulric. 

Sieg. (solus.) Too much! 

Too much of duty and too little love ! 
He pays me in the coin he owes me not: 
For such has been my wayward fate, I could not 
Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
To see my child again, and now I have found him ! 
But how ! — obedient, but with coldness ; duteous 
In my sight, but with carelessness ; mysterious, 
Abstracted — distant — much given to long absence, 
And where — none know — in league with the most 

riotous 
Of our young nobles; though, to do him justice, 
He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures 
Yet there's some tie between them which I cannot 
Unravel. They look up to him — consult him — 
Throng round him as a leader : but with me 
He hath no confidence ! Ah ! can I hope it 
After — what ! doth my father's curse descend 
Even to my child ? Or is the Hungarian near 
To shed more blood ? or — oh ! if it should be ! 
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls 
To wither him and his — who, though they slew not, 
Unlatch'd the door of death for thee ? 'Twas not 
Our fault, nor is our sin : thou wert our foe, 
And yet I spared thee when my own destruction 
Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening ! 
And only took — Accursed gold ! thou liest 
Like poison in my hands ; I dare not use thee, 
Nor part from thee ; thou earnest in such a guise, 
Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee, 



Thou villainous gold ! and thy dead master's doom 
Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
Who will be mine. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. The abbot, if it please 

Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
Upon you. [Exit Attendant 

Enter the Prior Albert. 

Prior. Peace be with these walls, and all 
Within them ! 

Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father ! 
And may thy prayer be heard ! — all men have need 
Of such, and I 

Prior. Have the first claim to all 

The prayers of our community, Our convent, 
Erected by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their children. 

Sieg. Yes, good father ; 

Continue daily orisons for us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood, 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

Prior. To the endless home of unbelievers, 
Where there is everlasting wail and wo, 
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
Eternal, and the worm which dieth not ! 

Sieg. True, father ; and to avert those pangs from 
me, 
Who, though of our most faultless holy church, 
Yet died without its last and dearest offices, 
Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
I have to offer humbly this donation 
In masses for his spirit. 

[Siegendokf offers the gold which hehadtaken 
from Stralenheim. 

Prior. Count, if I 

Receive it, 'tis because I know too w r ell 
Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
The largess shall be only dealt in alms, 
And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours, 
Which has of old endow'd it ; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said ? 

Sieg. (faltering.) For — for — the dead. 

Prior. His name ? 

Sieg. 'Tis from a soul, and not a name, 

I would avert perdition. 

Prior. I meant not 

To pry into your secret. We will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. 

Sieg. Secret ! I have none ; but, father, he who's 
gone 
Might have one ; or, in short, he did bequeath — 
No, not bequeath — But I bestow this sum 
For pious purposes. 

Prior. A proper deed 

In the behalf of our departed friends. 

Sieg. But he who's gone was not my friend, but 
foe, 
The deadliest and the staunchest. 

Prior. Better still ! 

To employ our means to obtain heaven for the soulf 
Of our dead enemies is worthy those 
Who can forgive them living. 



WERNER. 



405 



Sieg. But I did not 

Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last, 
As he did me. I do not love him now, 

But 

Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure religion ; 
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell — 
An evangelical compassion — with 
Your own gold too ! 
Sieff. Father, 'tis not my gold. 

Prior. "Whose then ? You said it was no legacy. 
Sieff. No matter whose — of this be sure, that he 
Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars : 
'Tis yours, or theirs. 

Prior. Is there no blood upon it ? 

Sieff. No : but there's worse than blood — eternal 
shame ! 

Prior. Did he who own'd it die in his bed? 

Sieff. Alas ! 

He did. 

Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge, 
*If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 

Sier/. His death was fathomlessly deep in blood 

Prior. You said he died in his bed, not battle. 

Sieff. He 

Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabb'd i' the 

dark. 
And now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 
By a cut-throat ! — Ay ! — you may look upon me ! 
I am not the man. I'll meet your eye on that point 
As I can one day God's. 

Prior. Nor did he die, 

By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 

Sieff. No ! by the God who sees and strikes ! 

Prior. Nor know you 

Who slew him ? 

Sieff. I could only guess at one, 

And he to me a stranger, unconnected, 
As unemploy'd. Except by one day's knowledge 
I never saw the man who was suspected. 

Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 

Sieff. (eagerly.) Oh ! am I ? — say ! 

Prior. You have said so, and know best. 

Sieff. Father ! I have spoken 

The truth, and nought but truth, if not the whole : 
Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it, 
Though, by the Power who abhorreth human blood 
I did not ! — nay once spared it, when I might 
And could — ay, perhaps, should (if our self-safety 
Be e'er excusable in such defences 
Against the attack of over-potent foes :) 
But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 
For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
I know not why, a like remorse is on me, 
As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me, 
Father ! I have pray'd myself in vain. 

Prior. I will. 

Be comforted ! You are innocent, and should 
Be calm as innocence. 

Sieff. But calmness is not 

Always the attribute of innocence. 
I feel it is not. 

Prior. But it will be so, 

When the mind gathers by its truth within it. 
Remember the great festival to-morrow, 
In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles, 
As well as your brave son ; and smooth your aspect ; 
Nor in the general orison of thanks 



For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not rise 
A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

A large and magnificent Gothic Hall in the Castle of 
Siegendorf, decorated with Trophies, Banners, and 
Arms of that family. 

E?iter A-Rxum-M and TsIeistkr, Attendants of Count 
Siegendorf. 

Am. Be quick ! the count will soon return : the 
ladies 
Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
The messengers in search of him he seeks for ? 

Meis. I have, in all directions, over Prague, 
As far as the man's dress and figure could 
By your description track him. The devil take 
These revels and processions ! All the pleasure 
(If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
I'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 

Am. Go to ! my lady countess comes. 

Meis. I'd rather 

Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
Than follow in the train of a great men 
In these dull pageantries. 

Att. Begone ! and rail 

Within. [Exeunt. 

Enter the Countess Josephine Siegendorf and 
Ida Stralenheim. 

Jos. Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over ! 

Ida. How can you say so ! never have I dreamt 
Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs, ■ 
The banners, and the nobles, and the knights, 
The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces, 
The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
Streaming through the stain'd windows, even the 

tombs, 
Which look'd so calm, and the celestial hymns, 
Which seem'd as if they rather came from heaven 
Than mounted there. The bursting organ's peal 
Rolling on high like harmonious thunder ; 
The white robes and the lifted eyes ; the world 
At peace ! and all at peace with one another ! 
Oh, my sweet mother ! [Embracing Josephine, 

Jos. My beloved child ! 

For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 

Ida. Oh ! 

I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 

Jos. It does, my love ; and never may it throb 
With aught more bitter. 

Ida. Never shall it do so ! 

How should it ? What should make us grieve ? I 

hate 
To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad, 
Who love each other so entirely ? You, 
The count, and Ulric, and your daughter Ida. 

Jos. Poor child ! 

Ida. Do you pity me ? 

Jos. No ; but I envy 



406 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
More general than another. 

Ida. I'll not hear 

A word against a world which still contains 
You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
Aught like him ? How he tower'd among them all ! 
How all eyes follow'd him ! The flowers fell faster — 
Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 
Than before all the rest : and where he trod 
I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
"Will wither. 

Jos. You will spoil him, little flatterer, 

If he should hear you. 

Ida. But he never will. 

I dare not say so much to him — I fear him 

Jos. Why so ? he loves you well. 

Ida. But I can never 

Shape my thoughts of him into words to him. 
Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 

Jos. How so ? 

Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
Yet he says nothing. 

Jos. It is nothing : all men, 

Especially in these dark troublous times, 
Have much to think of. 

Ida. But I cannot think 

Of aught save him. 

Jos. Yet there are other men, 

In the world's eye, as goodly. There's, for instance, 
The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once withdrew 
His eyes from yours to-day. 

Ida. I did not see him, 

But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
When all knelt, and I wept : and yet methought, 
Through my fast tears, though they were thick and 

warm, 
I saw him smiling on me. 

Jos. I could not 

See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were raised 
Together with the people's. 

Ida. I thought too 

Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 

Jos. Come, 

Let us retire ; they will be here anon 
Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 
Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 

Ida. And, above all, these stiff and heavy jewels, 
Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
Dear mother, I am with you. [Exeunt. 

Enter Count Siegendorf, in full dress, from the 
solemnity, an<i Ludwig. 

Sieg. Is he not found ? 

Lud. Strict search is making every where ; and if 
The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 

Sieg. Where's Ulric ? 

Lud. He rode round the other way 

With some young nobles ; but he left them soon ; 
And, if I err not, not a minute since 
I heard his excellency, with his train, 
Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 

Enter Ulric, s^ilendidly dressed. 
Sieg Cto Ludwig.) See they cease not 

Their quest of him I have described. (Exit Ludwig.) 

Oh, Ulric ! 
How have I long'd for thee ! 



Your wish is granted 



Ulr. 
Behold me ! 

Sieg. I have seen the murderer. 

Ulr. Whom ? Where ? 

Sieg. The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim 

Ulr. You dream. 

Sieg. I live ! and as I live, I saw him — 

Heard him ! he dared to utter even my name. 

Ulr. What name ? 

Sieg. Werner ! 'tioas mine. 

• Ulr. It must be so ; 

No more : forget it. 

Sieg. Never ! never ! all 

My destinies were woven in that name : 
It will not be engraved upon my tomb, 
But it may lead me there. 

Ulr. To the point— the Hungarian : 

Sieg. Listen ! — The church was throng'd ; the 
hymn was raised ; 
" Te Damn " peal'd from nations, rather than 
From choirs, in one great cry of " God be praised " 
For one day's peace, after ti.rice ten dread years 
Each bloodier than the former : I arose, 
With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 
Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, I 
Saw, like a flash of lightning, (for I saw 
A moment and no more,) what struck me sightless 
To all else — the Hungarian's face ! I grew 
Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 
Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 
Was over, and wc march'd back in procession. 

Ulr. Continue. 

Sieg. When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge 

The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
Barks mann'd with revellers in their best garbs 
Which shot along the glancing tide below, 
The decorated street, the long array, 
The clashing music, and the thundering 
Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 
A long and loud farewell to its great doings, 
The standards o'er pic, and the tramplings round, 
The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all could not 
Chase this man from my mind, although my senses 
No longer held him palpable. 

Ulr. You saw him 

No more, then ? 

Sieg. I look'd as a dying soldier 

Looks at a draught of water, for this man ; 
But still I saw him not ; but in his stead — 

Ulr. What in his stead ? 

Sieg. My eye for ever fell 

Upon your dancing crest ; the loftiest, 
As on the loftiest and the loveliest head 
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes, 
Which overflow'd the glittering streets of Prague. 

Ulr. What's this to the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Much ; for I 

Had almost then forgot him in my son ; * 

When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 
Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
Than the late cannon's volume, this word — " Wcf' 
ner!" » 

Ulr. Uttered by 

Sieg. Him! I turn'd — and saw — and fell. 

Ulr. And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 



WERNER. 



407 



Sieg. The officious care 

Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause ; 
You, too, were too remote in the procession 
(The old nobles being divided from their children) 
To aid me. 
■> Ulr. But I'll aid you now. 

Sieg. In what ? 

Ulr. In searching for this man, or When he's 

found, 
What shall we do with him ? 

Sieg. I know not that. 

Ulr. Then wherefore seek ? 

Sieg. Because I cannot rest 

Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
And ours, seem intertwisted ! nor can be 
Unravell'd. till 

Enter an Attendant. 

Att. A stranger to wait on 

Your excellency. 

Sieg. Who ? 

Att. He gave no name. 

Sieg. Admit him, ne'ertheless. 

[The Attendant introduces Gaeor, and after- 
wards exit. 

Ah! 

Gab. 'Tis, then, Werner ! 

Sieg. (haughtily.) The same you knew, sir, by 
that name ; and you ! 

Gab. (looking round.) I recognize you both : 
father and son, 
It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 
Have lately been in search of me ; I am here. 

Sieg. I have sought you, and have found you ; 
you are charged 
(Your own heart may inform you why) with such 
A crime as — [lie pauses. 

Gab. Give it utterance, and then 

I'll meet the consequences. 

Sieg. You shall do so — 

Unless 

Gab. First, who accuses me ? 

Sieg. All things, 

If not all men : the universal rumor — 
My own presence on the spot — the place — the time, 
And every speck of circumstance unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

Gab. And on me only ; 

Pause ere you answer : is. no other name, 
Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 

Sieg. Trifling villain ! 

Who play'st with thine own guilt ! Of all that 

breathe 
Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody 

slander, 
But I will talk no further with a wretch, 
Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

Gab. 'Tis false ! 

Sieg. Who says so ? 

J&ab. I. 

Sieg. And how disprove it ? 

Gab. By 

The presence of the murderer. 

Sieg. Name him ? 

Gab. He 

May have more names than one. Your lordship had so 



Once on a time. 

Sieg. If you mean me, I dare 

Your utmost. 

Gab. You may do so, and in safety ; 

I know the assassin. 

Sieg. Where is he ? 

Gab. (pointing to Ulric.) Beside you ! 

[Ulric rushes forward to attack Gabor; Sie« 
GENDORF interposes. 

Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 
These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 
[He turns to Ulric. 
Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
Will do. I avow it as a growth so monstrous, 
I could not deem it earth-born : but be calm ; 
It will refute itself. But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavors to compose himself 

Gab. Look at him, count, and then hear me. 

Sieg. (first to Gabor, and then looking at Ulric.) 

I hear thee. 
My God ! you look 

Ulr. How ? 

Sieg. As on that dread night 

When we met in the garden. 

Ulr. (composes himself ) It is nothing. 

Gab. Count, you are bound to hear me. I came 
hither 
Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down 
Amidst the people in the church, I dream'd not 
To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 
Of senators and princes ; but you have call'd me, 
And we have met. 

Sieg. Go on, sir. 

Gab. Ere I do so, 

Allow me to inquire who profited 
By Stralenheim's death ? Was't I — as poor as ever ; 
And poorer by suspicion on my name ! 
The baron lost in that last outrage neither 
Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought, — 
A life which stood between the claims of others 
To honors and estates scarce less than princely. 

Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less 
To me than to my son. 

Gab. I can't help that. 

But let the consequence alight on him 
Who feels himself the guilty one among us. 
I speak to you, Count Siegendorf, because 
I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But ere I can proceed — dare you protect me ? 
Dare you command me ? 

[Siegendorf first looks at the Hungarian, and 
then at Ulric, who has unbuckled his sabre 
and is drawing lines with it on the floor — still 
in its sheath. 

Ulr. (looks at his father and says,) Let the man 
go on ! 

Gab. I am unarm'd, count — bid your son lay down 
His sabre. 

Ulr. (offers it to him contemptuously.) Take it. 

Gab. No, sir, 'tis enough 

That we are both unarm'd — I would not choose 
To wear a steel which may be stain'd with more 
Blood than came there in battle. 

Ulr. (casts the sabre from him in contempt.) It — 
or some 
Such other weapon, in my hands — spared yours 
Once when disarm'd and at my mercy. 

Gab. True— 

I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 



408 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Your own especial purpose — to sustain 
An ignominy not my own. 

Ulr. Proceed. 

The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
But is it of my father to hear further ? 

[To SlEGENDORF. 

Sieff. (takes his son by the hand.) My son ! I know 
my own innocence, and doubt not 
Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
Let him continue. 

Gab. I will not detain you 

By speaking of myself much ; I began 
Life early — and am what the world has made me. 
At Frankfort on the Oder, where I pass'd 
A winter in obscurity, it was 
My chance at several places of resort 
(Which I frequented sometimes, but not often) 
To hear related a strange circumstance 
In February last. A martial force, 
Sent by the state, had after strong resistance 
Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
Marauders from the hostile camp. They proved, 
However, not to be so — but banditti, 
Whom either accident or enterprise 
Had carried from their usual haunt — the forests 
Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
Many among them were reported of 
High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers, 
And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction 
Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate 
I know no more. 

Sieff. And what is this to Ulric ? 

Gab. Among them there was said to be one man 
Of wonderful endowments : — birth and fortune, 
Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman, 
And courage as unrivall'd, were proclaimed 
His by the public rumor ; and his sway 
Not, only over his associates, but 
His judges, was attributed to witchcraft, 
Such was his influence : — I have no great faith 
In any magic save that of the mine — 
I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — But my soul 
Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
This prodigy, if only to behold him. 

Sieff. And did you so ? 

Gab. You'll hear. Chance favor'd me, 

A popular affray in the public square 
Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
Occasions where men's souls look out of them, 
And show them as they are — even in their faces : 
The moment my eye met his, I exclaim'd, 
" This is the man ! " though he was then, as since, 
With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and nearly : 
I noted down his form — his gesture — features, 
Stature, and bearing, and amidst them all, 
Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
And gladiator's heart. 

Ulr. (smiling.) < The tale sounds well. 

Gab. And may sound better. — He appear'd to me 
One of those beings to whom fortune bends 
As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
The fates of others oft depend ; besides, 
An indescribable sensation drew me 
Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
Was to be fix'd by him. — There I was wrong. 

Sieff. And may not be right now. 



Gab. I follow'd him, 

Solicited his notice — and obtained it — 
Though not his friendship : — it was his intention 
To leave the city privately — we left it 
Together — and together we arrived 
In the poor town where Werner was conceal'd, 

And Stralenheim was succor'd Now we are on 

The verge — dare you hear further ? 

Sieij. I must do so — 

Or I have heard too much. 

Gab. I saw in you 

A man above his station — and if not 
So high, as now I find you, in my then 
Conceptions, 'twas that I had rarely seen 
Men such as you appear'd in height of mind 
In the most high of worldly rank ; you were 
Poor, even to all save rags : I would have shared 
My purse, though slender, with you — you refused it. 

Sieff. Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 
That thus you urge it ? 

Gab. Still you owe me something, 

Though not for that ; and I owed you my safety, 
At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
That I had robb'd him. 

Sieff. 7 conceal'd you — I, 

Whom and whose house you arraign, reviving viper! 

Gab. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
You, count, have made yourself accuser — judge : 
Your hall's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 
Be just, and I'll be merciful ! 

Sieff. You merciful ! 

You ! Base calumniator ! 

Gab. I. 'Twill rest 

With me at last to be so. You conceal'd me — 
In secret passages known to yourself, 
You said, and to none else. At dead of night, 
Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer, 
Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light : 
I follow'd it, and reach'd a door — a secret 
Portal — which open'd to the chamber, where, 
With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
I look'd through and beheld a purple bed, 
And on it Stralenheim ! — 

Sieff. Asleep ! And yet 

You slew him ! — Wretch ! 

Gab. . He was already slain, 

And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
Blood became ice. 

Sieff. But he was all alone ! 

You saw none else ? You did not see the 

[lie pauses from agitation. 

Gab. ' No, 

Tie, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
The chamber. 

Sieff. ( to Ulric.) Then, my boy! thou art guiltless 
still— 
Thou bad'st me say I was so once — Oh ! now 
Do thou as much ! 

Gab. Be patient ! I can not 

Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember, — or 
If not, your son does, — that the locks were changed 
Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
Which led to this same night: how he had enter'd 
He best knows — but within an antechamber, 



WERNER. 



409 



The door of which was half ajar, I saw 
A man who wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
The bleeding body— but it moved no more. 

Sieg. Oh ! God of fathers ! 

Gab. I beheld his features 

As I see yours— but yours they were not, though 
Resembling them — behold them in Count Ulric's ! 
Distinct, as I beheld them, though the expression 
Is not now what it then was ; — but it was so 
When I first charged him with the crime — so lately. 

Sieg. This is so 

Gab. (interrupting him.) Nay — but hear me to the 
end ! 
Now you must do so. — I conceived myself 
Betray'd by you and him (for now I saw 
There was some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
Was vengeance : but though arm'd with a short 

poniard 
(Having left my sword without) I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. 
1 turn'd and fled — i' the dark : chance rather than 
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber where you slept ; if I 
Had found you waking, Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have 

prompted ; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 

Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief 
sleep, 
The stars had not gone down when I awoke. 
Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father — 
And now my dream is out ! 

Gab. 'Tis not my fault, 

If I have read it. — Well ! I fled and hid me — 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
And show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
You sought me and have found me — now you know 
My secret, and may weigh its worth. 

Sieg. (after a pause.) Indeed! 

Gab. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation ? 

Sieg. Neither — I was weighing 

The value of your secret. 

Gab. You shall know it 

At once : — When you were poor, and I, though poor, 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
As might have envied mine, I offer'd you 
My purse — you would not share it : — I'll be franker 
With you : you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
The imperial powers — you understand me ? 

Sieg. Yes — 

Gab. Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce 
true : 
'Tis no less true, however, that my fortunes 
Have made me both at present. You shall aid me ; 
I would have aided you — and also have 
Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have 
said. 

Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
Deliberation ? 

Gab. (casts his eyes on Ulric, who is leaning 
against a pillar.) If I should do so ? 
52 



Sieg. I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw into 
This tower. [Opens a turret door. 

Gab. {hesitatingly.) This is the second safe 
asylum 
You have offer'd me. 

Sieg. And was not the first so ? 

Gab. I know not that even now — But will approve 
The second. And I have still a further shield. — 
I did not enter Prague alone ; and should I 
Be put to rest with Stralenheim, they are 
Some tongues without will wag in my behalf ; 
Be brief in your decision ! 

Sieg. I will be so. — 

My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within these walls, but it extends no further. 

Gab. I'll take it for so much. 

Sieg. (points to Ulric's sabre still upon the 
ground.) 

Take also that — 
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully. 

Gab. (takes up the sabre.) I will ; and so provide 
To sell my life — not cheaply. 

[Gabor^ws into the turret, which Siegendorf 
closes. 

Sieg. (advances to Ulric.) Now, Count Ulric ! 
For son I dare not call thee — What say'st thou ? 

TJlr. His tale is true. 

Sieg. True, monster ? 

Ulr. Most true, father ! 

And you did well to listen to it : what 
We know, we can provide against. He must 
Be silenced. 

Sieg. Ay, with half of my domains ; 

And with the other half, could he and thou 
Unsay this villainy. 

TJlr. It is no time 

For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
His story's true ; and he too must be silenced. 

Sieg. How so ? 

Ulr. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 

As never to have hit on this before ? 
When we met in the garden, what except 
Discovery in the act could make me know 
His death ? Or had the prince's household been 
Then summon'd, would the cry for the police 
Been left to such a stranger ? Or should I 
Have loiter'd on the way ? Or could you, Werner, 
The object of the baron's hate and fears, 
Have fled, unless by many an hour before 
Suspicion woke ? I sought and fathom'd you, 
Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 
Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
Confiding have I found you. that I doubted 
At times your weakness. 

Sieg. Parricide ! no less 

Than common stabber ! What deed of my life, 
Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit 
For your accomplice ? 

Ulr. Father, do not raise 

The devil you cannot lay between us. This 
Is time for union and fcr action, not 
For family disputes. While you were tortured, 
Could / be calm ? Think you that I have heard 
This fellow's tale without some feeling ? — you 
Have taught me feeling for you and myself; 
For whom or what else did you ever teach it ? 

Sieg. Oh ! my dead father's curse ! 'tis working 
now. 



410 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ulr. Let it work on ! the grave will keep it 
down ! 
Ashes are feeble foes : it is more easy 
To baffle such, than countermine a mole, 
Which winds its blind but living path beneath 

you. 
Yet hear me still ! — if you condemn me, yet 
Remember ivho hath taught me once too often 
To listen to him ! Who proclaimed to me 
That there were crimes made venial by the occa- 
sion ? 
That passion was our nature ? that the goods 
Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 
Wlw show'd me his humanity secured 
By his nerves only ? Who deprived me of 
All power to vindicate myself and race 
In open day ? By his disgrace which stamp'd 
(It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
Himself — a felon's brand ! The man who is 
At once both warm and weak invites by deeds 
He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 
That I should act what you could think? We have 

done 
With right and wrong ; and now must only 

ponder 
Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, 
Whose life I saved from impulse, as, unknown, 
I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew 
Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 
Was a rock in our way which I cut through, 
As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 
And our true destination — but not idly. 
As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me 
His life : when due, I but resumed the debt. 
He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein 
I have plunged our enemy. You, kindled first 
The torch — you show'd the path ; now trace me 

that 
Of safety — or let me ! 
Sieg. I have done with life ! 

Ulr. Let us have done with that which cankers 
life- 
Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
No more to learn or hide : I know no fear, 
And have within these very walls men whom 
(Although you know them not) dare venture all 

things. 
You stand high with the state : what passes here 
Will not excite her too great curiosity : 
Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
Stir not, and speak not : — leave the rest to me : 
We must have no third babblers thrust between us. 

[Exit Ulric. 
Sieg. (solus.) Am I awake ? are these my father's 
halls ? 
And you— my son ? My son ! mine ! who have ever 
Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and yet 
Am plunged into the deepest hell of both ! 
I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
The Hungarian's ! — Ulric — he hath partisans, 
It seems : I might have guess' d as much. Oh 

fool! 
Wolves prowl-in company. He hath the key 
(As I too) of the opposite door which leads • 
Into the turret. Now then ! or once more 
To be the father of fresh crimes, no less 
Than of the criminal ! Ho ! Gabor ! Gabor ! 

[Exit into the turret, closing the door after him. 



SCENE II. 



The Interior of the Turret. 

Gabor and Siegendorf. 

Gab. Who calls ? 

Sieg. I — Siegendorf ! Take these, and fly ! 

Lose not a moment ! 

[Tears off a diamond star and other jewels , and 
thrusts them into Gabor's hand. 

Gab. AVhat am I to do 

With these ? 

Sieg. Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard, 

And prosper ; but delay not, or you are lost ! 

Gab. You pledged your honor for my safety ! 

Sieg. And 

Must thus redeem it. Fly ! I am not master, 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers — nay, even of these very walls, 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly : 
Or you will be slain by 

Gab. Is it even so ? 

Farewell, then ! Recollect, however, count, 
You sought this fatal interview ? 

Sieg. I did : 

Let it not be more fatal still ! — Begone I 

Gab. By the same path I enter'd ? 

Sieg. Yes ; that's safe still." 

But loiter not in Prague ; — you do not know 
With whom you have to deal. 

Gab. I know too well — 

And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
Farewell ! [Exit Gabor 

Sieg. (solus and listening.) He hath clear'd the 
staircase. Ah ! I hear 
The door sound loud behind him ! He is safe ! 

Safe ! — Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am faint 

[He leans dotcn upon a stone seat, near the wall 
of the tower, in a drooping posture. 

Enter Ulric, with others armed, and icith weajions 
draicn. 

Ulr. Despatch ! — he's there ! 

Ludwig. The count, my lord ! 

Ulr. (recognizing Siegendorf.) You here, sir ! 

Sieg. Yes : if you want another victim, strike ! 

Ulr. (seeing him stript of his jewels.) Where is the 
ruffian who hath plunder'd you ? 
Vassals, despatch in search of him ! You see 
'Twas as I said — the wretch hath stript my father 
Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom ! 
Away ! I'll follow you forthwith. 

[Exeunt all but Siegendorf and Ulric. 
What's this ? 
Where is the villain ? 

Sieg. There are two, sir : which 
Are you in quest of ? 

Ulr. Let us hear no more 

Of this : he must be found. You have not let him 
Escape ? 

Sieg. He's gone. 

Ulr. With your connivance ? 

Sieg. With 

My fullest, freest aid. 

Ulr. Then fare you well ! 

[Ulric is going. 

Sieg. Stop ! I command — entreat — implore ! Oh 
Ulric ! 
Will you then leave me ? 



WERNER. 



411 



Ulr. What ! remain to be 

Denounced — dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
By your inherent weakness, half-humanity, 
Selfish remorse, and temporising pity, 
That sacrifices your whole race to save 
A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count, 
Henceforth you have no son ! 

Sieff. I never had one ; 

And would you ne'er had borne the useless name ! 
Where will you go ? I would not send you forth 
Without protection. 

Ulr. Leave that unto me. 

I am not alone ; nor merely the vain heir 
Of your domains ; a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
Swords, hearts, and hands, are mine. 

Sieff. The foresters ! 

With whom the Hungarian found you first at 
Frankfort ? 

Ulr. Yes — men — who are worthy of the name ! Go 
tell 
Your senators that they look well to Prague ; 
Their feast of peace was early for the times ; 
There are more spirits abroad than have been lain 
With Wallenstein ! 

Enter Josephine and Ida. 
Jo* What is't we hear ? My Siegendorf ! 



Thank Heav'n, I see your safe ! 

Sieff. Safe ! 

Ida. Yes, dear father 

Sieff. No, no ; I have no children : never more 
Call me by that worst name of parent. 

Jos. What 

Means my good lord ? 

Sieff. That you have given birth 

To a demon ! 

Ida. (taking Ulric's hand.) Who shall dare say 
this of Ulric ? 

Sieff. Ida, beware ! there's blood upon that 
hand ! 

Ida. (stooping to kiss it.) I'd kiss it off, though it 
were mine ! 

Sieff. It is so ! 

Ulr. Away ! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric. 

Ida. Oh, great God ! 

And I have loved this man ! 

[Ida falls senseless — Josephine stands speech- 
less with horror. 

Sieff. The wretch hath f lain 

Them both ! — My Josephine ! we are now alone ! 
Would we had ever been so ! — All is over 
For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave ; 
Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
In mine ! — The race of Siegendorf is past ! 



HOURS OF IDLENESS; 

A. SERIES OE POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 



• " Virginibus puerisque Canto." 

HORACE, lib. 3, Ode 1. 
Mijr' ap its fia\ alvcs, lifjTS ti veixct. 

HOMER, ILIAD, x. 249. 
" He whistled as he went for waut of thought." 

DRYDEN. 



TO 

THE RIGHT HONORABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC. 

THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 

THE AUTHOR. 



Lord Byron first appeared as an author in 
November, 1806, when he printed a collection of 
poems for distribution among his friends. The first 
copy of this volume, which is a thin quarto, was 
presented to Mr. Beecher, who immediately per- 
ceived, on looking over its pages, that some of the 
contents were by no means of a description to reflect 
credit on their author ; and at his friendly sugges- 
tion the whole impression, with the exception of 
two, or, at the most, three copies, -was committed to 
the flames. After the destruction of this volume, 
Lord Byron directed the collection to be reprinted, 
with the omission of the objectionable poems. This 
edition, which was confined to a hundred copies, 
and, like its predecessor, designed for private circu- 
lation, was proceeded in so quickly, that at the end 
of about six weeks, January, 1807, it was ready for 
delivery. The volume was entiled "Poems on Va- 
rious Occasions," and was printed at Newark by~S. 
and J. Ridge ; the author's name was not given. 
The dedication was, "To those friends at whose 
request they were printed, for whose amusement or 
approbation they were solely intended, these trifles 
are respectfully dedicated by the author." Imme- 
diately following the dedication was this notice : — 
"The only apology necessary to be adduced in ex- 
tenuation of any errors in the following collection 



• This was the only motto given in the private volume j it was retained 
with the othei two in the first edition of Hours of Idleness, and omitted in 
the second. 



is, that the author has not yet completed his nine- 
teenth year. December 23, 1806." The approba- 
tion which this volume received from the friends to 
whom it was submitted induced Lord Byron to come 
more immediately before the public ; and in the lat- 
ter end of May, 1807, this collection, with considera- 
ble alterations, the omission of some poems, and the 
addition of others, was reprinted and published, un- 
der the title of "Hours of Idleness, a Series of 
Poems, original and translated, by George Gordon, 
Lord Byron, a Minor." This volume was alst» 
printed at Newark. In the four editions of this 
work, which rapidly succeded each other, many va- 
riations are found : several corrections were made ; 
several pieces were silently withdrawn, and replaced 
by others ; and after the first edition a dedication to 
Lord Carlisle was prefixed. In the present publica- 
tion, all those Poems from the "Private Volume," 
and the early editions of " Hours of Idleness," 
which were suppressed by the author, are reprinted, 
and all the variations of the different impressions 
are noticed. 



PREFACE.* 

In submitting to the public eye the following col 
lection, I have not only to combat the difficulties 



Printed in the first edition of Hours of Idleness; omitted in the second. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



413 



that writers of verse generally encounter, but may 
incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself 
on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at 
my age, more usefully employed. These produc- 
tions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young 
man who has lately completed his nineteenth year. 
As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, 
this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. Some 
few were written during the disadvantages of illness 
and depression of spirits ; under the former influ- 
ence, "Childish Recollections," in particular, 
were composed. This consideration, though it can- 
not excite the voice of Praise, may at least arrest 
the arm of Censure. A considerable portion of these 
poems has been privately printed, at the request 
and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible 
that the partial and frequently injudicious admira- 
tion of a social circle is not the criterion by which 
poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, "to do 
greatly," we must " dare greatly ;" and I have haz- 
arded my reputation and feelings in publishing this 
volume. " I have passed the Rubicon," and must 
stand or fall by the " cast of the die." In the latter 
event, I shall submit without a murmur; for, 
though not without solicitude for the fate of these 
effusions, my expectations are by no means san- 
guine. It is probable that I may have dared much 
and done little ; for, in the words of Cowper, "it is 
one thing to write what may please our friends, who, 
because they are such, are apt to be a little biased 
in our favor, and another to write what may please 
everybody; because they who have no connection, 
or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to 
find fault if they can." To the truth of this, how- 
ever, I do not wholly subscribe : on the contrary, I 
feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated 
with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, 
will be liberally allowed ; their numerous faults, on 
the other hand, cannot expect that favor which has 
been denied to others of maturer years, decided 
character, and far greater ability. I have not aimed 
at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any 
particular model for imitation : some translations 
are given of which many are paraphrastic. In the 
original pieces there may appear a casual coinci 
dence with authors whose works I have been accus 
tomed to read ; but I have not been guilty of inten- 
tional plagiarism. To produce any thing entirely 
new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Hercu- 
lean task, as every subject has already been treated 
to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my 
primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of 
indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour 
urged me "to this sin :" little can be expected from 
so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it 
must be, is all I shall derive from these productions ; 
and I shall never attempt to replace its fading 
"leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves 
where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accus- 
tomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless moun- 
taineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of 
late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so ele- 
vated a residence, as might enable me to enter the 
list with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both 
these advantages. But they derive considerable 
fame, and a few not less profit, from their produc- 
tions ; while I shall expiate my rashness as an inter- 
loper, certainly without the latter, and in all proba- 
bility with a very slight share of the former. I leave 



to others " Virum volitare per ora." I look to the 
few who will hear with patience " dulce estdesipere 
in loco." — To the former worthies I resign, without 
repining, the hope of immortality, and content my- 
self with the not very magnificent prospect of rank- 
ing " among the mob of gentlemen who write ;"— 
my readers must determine whether I dare say " with 
ease," or the honor of a posthumous page in " The 
Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors," a work to 
which the peerage is under infinite obligations, in- 
asmuch as many names of considerable length, 
sound, and antiquity, are thereby rescued from the 
obscurity which unluckily overshadows several vol- 
uminous productions of their illustrious bearers. 

AVith slight hopes and some fears, I publish this 
first and last attempt. To the dictates of young 
ambition may be ascribed many actions more crim- 
inal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age 
the contents may afford amusement : I trust they 
will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly im- 
probable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, 
that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on 
the public ; nor even in the very doubtful event of 
present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit 
a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion 
of Dr. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of 
mine,* " That when a man of rank appeared in the 
character of an author, his merit should hi hand- 
somely acknowledged," can have little weight with 
verbal, and still less with periodical censors ; but 
were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself 
of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitter- 
est censure of anonymous criticism than triumph in 
honors granted solely to a title. 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 

Why dost thou build the hall, son of the 
winged days ? tliou l00kest from thy tower 
to-day : yet a few years and the blast of 
the desert comes, it howls in thy empty 
court. — Ossian.f 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow 
winds whistle ; 
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay ; 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
Have choked up the rose which late bloomed in 
the way. 

Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle 
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast 
rattle, 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing 
numbers, • 
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd 
wreath ; 
Near Askalon's towers, John of HoristanJ slumbers, 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 



* The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public 
applause, to which, by their intrinsic worth, they were well entitled, 
f The motto was added in the first edition of Hours of Idleness. 
} Horistau Castle, in Derbyshire, an ancient seat of the Byron family. 



414 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ; 

For the safety of Edward and England they fell : 
My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 

How you fought, how you died, still her annals 
can tell. 

On Marston,* with Rupert,f 'gainst traitors con- 
tending, 
Four brothers enriched with their blood the bleak 
field ; 
For the rights of a monarch their country defending, 
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 

Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, de- 
parting 

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 

New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish ; 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your 
own. 

1803. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE, 
AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE 
HILL.+ 

Oh ! mihi pr.Tteritos referat si Jupiter annos. 

Virgil, jEneid, lib. 8, 560. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past; 

Where science first dawned on the powers of reflec- 
tion, 
And friendships were form'd too romantic to last ; 

Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resesemblance 
Of comrades in friendship and mischief allied ; 

How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied ! 

Again I revisit the hills where we sported, 
The streams where we swam, and the fields where 
we fought ; 
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, -we re- 
sorted, 
To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ; 



• The battle of Mareton Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were 
defeated. 

■f Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He afterwards 
commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles IT. 

J This poem was printed in the private volume, and in the first edition of 
Hours of Idleness, where the motto from Virgil was added. It was after- 
wards omitted. 



Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I 
■wander'd, 
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 

I once more view the room with spectators sur- 
rounded, 
Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown ; 
While to swell my young pride such applauses re- 
sounded, 
I fancied that Mossop* himself was outshone: 

Or, as Lear, I poured forth the deep imprecation, 
By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived ; 

Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you ! 

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast : f 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you ; 

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 

To Idaj full oft may remembrance restore me, 
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

But if, through the course of the years which 
await me, 
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall 
elate me, 
"Oh! such were the days which my infancy 
knew." 

1806. 



TO D.§ 

Is thee I fondly hoped to clasp 

A friend, whom death alone could sever ; 

Till envy, with malignant grasp, 
Dctach'd thee from my breast for ever. 

True she has forced thee from my breast, 
Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 

There, there thine image still must rest, 
Until that heart shall cease to beat. 

And, when the grave restores her dead, 
When life again to dust is given, 

On thy dear breast I'll lay my head-*'- 

Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 
February, 1803. 



* Mossop, a cotemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of Zanga, 
i Young's tragedy of the Revenge. 

f " Your memory beams through this agonized breast.** 

Private volume. 

% iS i thought this poor brain, fevered even to madness, 
Of tears, as of reason, for ever was drain'd ; 
But the drops which now flow down this bosom of sadness, 
Convince me the springs have some moisture retain'd. 

. " Sweet scenes of my childhood ! your blest recollection 
Has wrung from these eyelids, to weeping long dead, 
In torrents the tears of my warmest affection, 
The last and the fondest 1 ever shall shed." 

Private volume, 
§ Printed in the private volume only. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



415 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.* 

Actt;p Tpiv p.w eXa/jLtre; cvi ^woicriv ctpos. 

Laer&us. 

On, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear,f 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honor'd bier ! 
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
Whilst thou '.vast struggling in the pangs of death ! 
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force, 
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 
Thy comrade's honor, and thy friend's delight. 
% If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie 
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! \ 

Though none like thee his dying hour will cheer, 
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : 
But who with me shall hold thy former place ? 
Thine image what new friendship can efface ? 
Ah none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow, 
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ; 
To all, save one, is consolation known, 
While solitary friendship sighs alone. 

1803. 



A FRAGMENT. 

When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 
Oh may my shade behold no sculptured urns 
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns ! 
§ No lengthened scroll, no pvaise-encumber'd stone, 
My epitaph shall be my name alone : 
If that with honor fail to crown my clay, 
Oh may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
That, only that, shall single out the spot ; 
|| By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 

1803. 



TO EDDLESTON.* 



Let Folly smile, to view the names 
Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 

Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
To love, than rank with vice combinedT 

And though unequal is thy fate, 
Since title deck'd my higher birth ! 

Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 

Thine is the pride of modest worth. 

Our souls at least congenial meet, 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 

Our intercouse is not less sweet, 

Since worth of rank supplies the place, 

November, 1802. 



• These lines were primed in the private volume, the title being " Epitapl; 
»n a beloved Friend." The motto was added in the first edition of Hours of 
dleness. 

t " Oh, Boy ! for ever loved, for ever dear." — Privale volume, 
J " Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born, 
No titles did thy humble name adorn ; 
To me far dearer was thy artless love 
Than all the joys wealth, fame, and friends could prove : 
For thee alone 1 lived, or wish'd to live ; 
Oh God I if impious, this rash word Ibrgive t 
Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom, 
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb ; 
Where, this frail torin composed in endless rest, 
FI1 make my last cold pillow on thy breast ; 
That breast where oft in life I've laid my head, 
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead ; 
This lile resign'd without one parting sigh, 
Together in one bed of earth we'll lie ! 
Together share the fnte to mortals given, 
Together mix our dust, and hope for heaven. 1 ' 
Such was the conclusion in the private volume. 
§ " No lenglhenM scroll of virtue and renown." 

Private volume, and Jirst edition of Hours of Idlcneas 
It " Ey that remember'd, or fore'er torgot."— Private volume. 



REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. 
PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS 
MISTRESS.f 

Why, Pigot, complain 

Of this damsel's disdain, 
Why thus in despair do you fret ? * 

For months you may try, 

Yet, believe me, a sigh 
Will never obtain a coquette. 

Would you teach her to love ? 

For a time seem to rove ; 
At first she may frown in a pet ; 

But leave her awhile, 

She shortly will smile, 
And then you may kiss your coquette. 

For such are the airs 

Of these fanciful fairs, 
They think all our homage a debt ; 

Yet a partial neglect 

Soon takes an effect, 
And humbles the proudest coquette. 

Dissemble your pain, 

And lengthen your chain, 
And seem her hauteur to regret ; 

If again you shall sigh, 

She no more will deny 
That yours is the rosy coquette. 

If still, from false pride, 

Your pangs she deride, 
This whimsical virgin forget ; 

Some other admire, 

Who will melt with your fire, 
And laugh at the little coquette. 

For me, I adore 

Some twenty or more, 
And love them most dearly ; but yet, 

Though my heart they enthral, 

I'd abandon them all, 
Did they act like your blooming coquette. 

• Only printed in the private volume. 
| Printed in the private volume only. 



416 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



No longer repine, 

Adopt this design, 
And break through her slight-woven net ; 

Away with despair, 

No longer forbear 
To fly from the captious coquette. 

Then quit her, my friend ! 

Your bosom defend, 
Ere quite with her snares you're beset : 

Lest your deep-wounded heart, 

When incensed by the smart, 
Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

October 21th, 1806. 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHON* 

Your pardon, my friend, 

If my rhymes did offend, 
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er ; 

From friendship I strove 

Your pangs to remove, 
But I swear I will do so no more. 

Since your beautiful maid 

Your flame has repaid, 
No more I your folly regret ; 

She's now most divine, 

And I bow at the shrine 
Of this quickly reformed coquette. 

Yet still, I must own, 

I should never have known 
From your verses, what else she deserved 

Your pain seem'd so great, 

I pitied your fate, 
As your fair was so devilish reserved. 

Since the balm breathing kiss 

Of this magical miss 
Can such wonderful transports produce ; 

Since the " world you forget, 

When your lips once have met," 
My counsel will get but abuse. 

You say, when " I rove, 

I know nothing of love ;" 
'Tis true, I am given to range : 

If I rightly remember, 

I've loved a good number, 
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 

I will not advance, 

By the rules of romance, 
To humor a whimsical fair ; 

Though a smile may delight, 

Yet a frown won't affright, 
Or drive me to dreadful despair. 

While my blood is thus warm 

I ne'er shall reform, 
To mix in the Platonists' school ; 

Of this I am sure, 

Was my passion so pure, 
Thy mistress would think me a fool. 



* These stanzas were only printed in the private volume. 



Aud if I should shun 

Every woman for one, 
Whose image must fill my whole breast- 

Whom I must prefer, 

And sigh but for her — 
What an insult 'twould be to the rest ! 

Now, Strephon, good-bye ; 

I cannot deny 
Your passion appears most absurd ; 

Such love as you plead 

Is pure love indeed, 
For it only consists in the word. 



THE TEAR. 

" O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex ammo : quater 
Felix 1 in imo qui scatentera 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." — Gray.' 

When Friendship or Love 

Our sympathies move, 
When truth in a glance should appear, 

The lips may beguile 

With a dimple or smile, 
But the test of affection's a Tear. 

Too oft is a smile 

But the hypocrite's wile, 
To mask detestation or fear ; 

Give me the soft sigh, 

Whilst the soul-telling eye 
Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear. 

Mild Charity's glow, 

To us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 

Compassion will melt 

Where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

The man doom'd to sail 
With the blast of the gale, 

Through billows Atlantic to steer, 
As he bends o'er the wave 
Which may soon be his grave, 

The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 

The soldier braves death 

For a fanciful wreath, 
In Glory's romantic career ; 

But he raises the foe 

When in battle laid low, 
And bathes every wound with a Tear. 

If with a high-bounding pride 

He return to his bride, 
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 

All his toils are repaid 

When, embracing the maid, 
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 

Sweet scene of my youth ! 
Seat of Friendship and Truth, 



This motto was inserted in the first edition of Hours of Idleness. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



417 



Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, 
Loth to leave thee, I mourned, 
For a last look I turn'd, 

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 

Though my vows I can pour 

To my Mary no more, 
My Mary to Love once so dear, 

In the shade of her bower 

I remember the hour 
She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

By another possest, 

May she live ever blest ! 
Her name still my heart must revere : 

With a sigh I resign 

What I once thought was mine, 
And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 

Ye friends of my heart, 

Ere from you I depart, 
Thishope to my breast is most near : 

If again we shall meet 

In this rural retreat, 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

AVhen my soul wings her flight 

To the regions of night, 
*And my corse shall recline on its bier, 

As ye pass by the tomb 

Where my ashes consume, 
Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marble bestow 

The splendor of wo 
Which the children of vanity rear : 

No fiction of fame 

Shall blazon my name ; 
All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 

October 26, 1806. 



LINES 



TO MISS PIGOT.f 

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 

Who to women deny the soul's future existence, 

Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect, 
And this doctrine would meet with a general re- 
sistance. 

Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, 
He ne'er would have women from paradise driven, 

Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence, 

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 

Yet still to increase your calamities more, 
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, 

He allots one poor husband to share amongst four ! 
With souls you'd dispense; but this last, who 
could bear it ? 

His religion to please neither party is made ; 

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil ; 
Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, 

"Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the 
devil." 



• " And my body shall sleep on its bier." — Private volumt. 
t Found only in the private volume. 

53 ' ' 



WRITTEN IN " LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND 
AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. BY J. J. ROUSSEAU. 
FOUNDED ON FACTS." * 

" Away, away, your flattering arts 
May now betray some simpler hearts ; 
And you will smile at their believing, 
And they shall weep at your deceiving." 

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO 

MISS . 

Dear simple girl, those flattering arts, 

From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts. 

Exist but in imagination — 

Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 

For he who views that witching grace, 

That perfect form, that lovely face, 

With eyes admiring, oh ! believe me, 

He never wishes to deceive thee : 

Once in thy polished mirror glance, 

Thou'lt there descry that elegance 

Which from our sex demands such praises, 

But envy in the other raises : 

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, 

Believe me, only does his duty : 

Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 

It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. 

July, 1804. 



THE CORNELIAN.f 

No specious splendor of this stone 
Endears it to my memory ever ; 

With lustre only once it shone, 
And blushes modest as the giver. 

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, 
Have for my weakness oft reproved me ; 

Yet still the simple gift I prize, — 
For I am sure the giver loved me. 

He offer'd it with downcast look, 
As fearful that I might refuse it ; 

I told him when the gift I took, 
My only fear should be to lose it. 

This pledge attentively I view'd, 
And sparkling as I held it near, 

Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 
And ever since I've loved a tear. 

Still, to adorn his humble youth, 

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield ; 
But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 

Must quit the garden for the field. 

'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, 
Which beauty shows and sheds perfume ; 

The flowers which yield the most of both 
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 



• Only printed in the private volume. 

t To young Eddleston. This poem is only (bond in the private voliun* 



418 

Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 
For once forgetting to be blind, 

His would have been an ample share, 
If well-proportion'd to his mind. 

But had the goddess clearly seen, 
His form had fix'd her fickle breast ; 

Her countless hoards would his have been, 
And none remain'd to give the rest. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,* 
COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY 
DEAR TO HIM.f 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, 
Not e'en a zephyr, wanders through the grove, 

Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb, 
And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 
That clay where once such animation bcam'd ; 

The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, 
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 

Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel, 
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! 

Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, 
Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 

But wherefore weep ? her matchless spirit soars 
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day ; 

And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 

And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign, 
And, madly, godlike providence accuse ? 

Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain, 
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ; 

Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 



TO EMMA.+ 

Since now the hour is come at last, 
When you must quit your anxious lover ; ' 

Since now our dream of bliss is past, 
One pang, my girl, and all is over. 

Alas ! that pang will be severe, 
Which bids us part to meet no more, 

Which tears me far from one so dear, 
Departing for a distant shore. 



• Miss Parker. 

t To these stanzas, which are from the private volume, the following note 
was attached: "The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for 
this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection ; but as it was written at 
an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of fourteen,) and 
his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in 
ts present state, to making either addition or alteration." 

• This poem is inserted from the private volume. 



Well: we have pass'd some happy hours, 
And joy will mingle with our tears ; 

When thinking on these ancient towers, 
The shelter of our infant years ; 

Where from the gothic casement's height, 
We view'd the lake, the park, the dale, 

And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 
We lingering look a last farewell. 

O'er fields through which we used to run, 
And spend the hours in childish play; 

O'er shades where when our race was done, 
Reposing on my breast you lay ; 

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, 
Forgot to scare the hov'ring flies, 

Yet envied every fly the kiss 

It dared to give your slumbering eyes ■ 

See still the little painted bark, 
In which I row'd you o'er the lake, 

See there, high waving o'er the park, 
The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 

These times are past — our joys are gone, 
You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 

These scenes I must retrace alone ; 
Without thee what will they avail ? 

Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
The anguish of a last embrace ? 

When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 

This is the deepest of our woes, 
For this these tears our cheeks bedew ; 

This is of love the final close, 
Oh God, the fondest, last adieu ! 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE. 

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF 
"THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE 
THEATRE, 

Since the refinement of this polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, 
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an aulhor writ; 
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, 
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; 
Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 
Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 
Others appear more conscious of defect: 
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold, 
In all the arts of scenic action old ; 
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear ; 
To-night you throng to witness the debut 
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try; 
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly : 
Failing in this our first attempt to soar, 
Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



419 



Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, 

Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise ; 

But all our dramatis persona? wait 

In fond suspense this crisis of our* fate. 

No venal views our progress can retard, 

Your generous plaudits are our sole reward ; 

For these, each Hero all his power displays, 

Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 

Surely the last will some protection find ; 

None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 

Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 

The sternest Censorf to the fair must yield. 

Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail, 

Should, after all, our best endeavors fail, 

Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, 

And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX. 

THE FOLLOAVING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU AI 
PEARED IN A MORNING PAPER. J 

" Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death, 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath : 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
We give the palm where Justice points its due." 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT 
THE FOLLOWING REPLY. § 

Oh, factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth, 
What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate, 
With generous feelings, of the good and great, 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame ? 
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 
Though ill success obscured his dying hour, 
Pity her dewy wings before him spread, 
For noble spirits '.' war not with the dead: " 
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, 
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state : 
When lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, 
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : 
He, too, is fall'n who Britain's loss supplied, 
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died ; 
Not one great people only raise his urn, 
All Europe's far extended regions mourn. 
" These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
To give the palm where Justice points its due ;" 
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, 
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 
Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, 
Whose dear remains in honor'd marble sleep : 
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, 
Nor e'en to Pitt the patiot's palm resign ; 
Which Envy wearing Candor's sacred mask, 
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 



TO M. S. G* 



* Our, In the private* volume, their. 
f Censor. In the private volume, critic. 
| " In the Morning' post." — Private volume. 

§ " For insertion in the Morning Chronicle," was here added in the 
private volume. 



Whene'er I view those lips of thine, 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 

Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas ! it were unhallowed bliss. 

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
How could I dwell upon its snows ? 

Yet is the daring wish represt, 
For that, — would banish its repose. 

A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
Can raise with hope, depress with fear ; 

Yet I conceal my love, and why ? 
I would not force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 

And shall I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 

No ! for thou never canst be mine, 
United by the. priest's decree; 

By any ties but those divine, 
Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 

Then let the secret fire consume, 
Let it consume, thou shalt not know ; 

With joy I court a certain doom, 
Rather than spread its guilty glow. 

I will not ease my tortured heart, 

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine, 

Rather than such a sting impart, 
Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

Yes ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 
More than I here shall dare to tell ; 

Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes, yield that breast to seek despair, 
And hope no more thy soft embrace, 

Which to obtain my soul would dare, 
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 

At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 
No matron shall thy shame reprove, 

Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
No martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO CAROLINE.f 

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes. 
Suffused in tears implore to stay; 

And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, 
Which said far more than words can say? 

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. 



* Only printed in the private volume, 
t Printed only in the private volume. 



420 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 
"When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 

The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
"Were lost in those which fell from thine. 

Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, 
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame, 

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
In sighs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 

Remembrance only can remain, — 

But that will make us weep the more. 

Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 

Ah ! if thou canst o'ercome regret, 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget ! 



TO CAROLINE.* 

When I hear you express an affection so warm, . 

Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, 

And your eye beams a ray which can never de- 
ceive. 

Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring, 
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear, 

That age will come on, when remembrance, de- 
ploring, 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear; 

That the time must arrive, when no longer retaining 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the 
breeze, 

When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 

'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my 
features, 
Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree 
Which God has proclaimed as the fate of his crea- 
tures, 
In the death which one day will deprive you of me. 

Mistake not, sweet skeptic, the cause of emotion, 
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 

He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'er- 

take us, 

And our breasts which alive with such sympathy 

glow, 

Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 

When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low : 

Oh ! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of 
pleasure, 
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly 
flow; 



Inserted from the private rolume. 



Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full 
measure, 
And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 

1805. 



TO CAROLINE* 

Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow ? 

Oh, when shall my soul wing her flight from this 
clay ? 
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no 
curses, 
I blast not the fiends who have hurled me from 
bliss; 
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 

Was my eye 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 
bright'ning, 
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream 
could assuage, 
On our foos should my glance launch in vengeance 
its lightning, 
With transport my tongue givS a loose to its rage. 

B it now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 
Would add to the souls of our tyrants de.ight, 

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resigna- 
tion, 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer ; 
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consola- 
tion, 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 

Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place 
me, 
Since in life, love and friendship for ever are fled ? 
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 

1805. 



STANZAS TO A LADY, 

"WITH THE POE3IS OF CAMOENS. 

This votive pledge of fond esteem, 

Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize ; 

It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
A theme we never can despise. 

Who blames it but the envious fool, 
The old and disappointed maid ? 

Or pupil of the prudish school, 
In single sorrow doom'd to fade ? 



This poem also U reprinted from the private volume. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



421 



Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, 
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 

To thee in vain I shall not plead 
In pity for the poet's woes. 

He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 

He was no faint fictitious flame 
Like his, may love be thy reifard, 

But not thy hapless fate the same. 



TO MARY. 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.* 

" 'A BapfiiTo; <k %op(5ai"j 
'Epwra povvov ^,\,£<." 

Anacreon. 

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance 
f Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove ; 

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of 
love. 

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow 
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove, 

From what blest inspirations your sonnets would 
flow, 
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love ! 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, 

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 
And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 

1 hate you, ye cold compositions of art, 
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots re- 
prove, 

I court the effusions that spring from the heart 
"Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. 

Your shepherds, your flocks, X those fantastical 
themes, 
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move : 
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams ; 
"What are visions like these to the first kiss of 
love? 

Oh ! cease to affirm that man since his birth, § 
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness 
strove ; 

Some portion of paradise still is on earth, 
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are 
past — 

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove — 
The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 

Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 



• These stanzas were printed in the private volume, and in the first edition 
»f Hours of ' ileness, but omitted in the second. * 
f " Those tissues of fancy Moriah* has wove." — Private volume. 
\ " Your shepherds, your pipes, &c. — Private volume. 
J " Oh ! cease to affirm that man, from his birth," &c— Private volume. 



" Moriah, the Goddess of Folly." 



On ! did those eyes, instead of fire, 
With bright but mild affection shine, 

Though they might kindle less desire, 
Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 

We must admire, but still despair ; 
That fatal glance forbids esteem. 

When nature stamped thy beauteous birth, 
So much perfection in thee shone, 

She fear'd that too divine for earth, 

The skies might claim thee for their own : 

Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 
Lest angels might dispute the prize 

She bade a secret lightning lurk 
Within those once celestial eyes. 

These might the boldest sylph appal, 
When gleaming with meridian blaze, 

Thy beauty must enrapture all, 

But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? 

'Tis said that Berenice's hair 

In stars adorns the vault of heaven : 

But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 

For did those eyes as planets roll, 

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: 

E'en suns, which systems now control, 

Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 

1806. 



TO WOMAN. 

Woman ! experience might have told me 

That all must love thee who behold thee ; 

Surely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest promises are nought ; 

But placed in all thy charms before me, 

All 1 forget but to adore thee. 

Oh, Memory thou choicest blessing 

When join'd with hope, when still possessing, 

But how much cursed by every lover 

When hope is fled and passion's over. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, 

How prompt are striplings to believe her ! 

How throbs the pulse when first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue, 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows ! 

How quick we credit every oath, 

And hear her plight the willing troth . 

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, 

When, lo ! she changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand, 

"Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."* 



The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb. 



/ 



422 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO M. S. G. 



When I dream that you love me, you'll surely for- 
give, 

Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
For in visions alone your affection can live, — 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, 

What rapture celestial is mine ! 

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, 

Mortality's emblem is given : 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 

If this be a foretaste of heaven. 

Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, 

Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may 
smile, 

Oh ! think not my penance deficient! 
When dreams of your presence my slumber beguile, 

To awake will be torture sufficient. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER* 

Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
And though we ne'er may meet again, 
Remembrance will thy form retain. 
I would not say, " I love," but still 
My senses struggle with my will : 
In vain to drive thee from my breast, 
My thoughts are more and more represt ; 
In vain I check the rising sighs, 
Another to the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke, 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 

And tells a tale it never feels : 

Deceit the guilty lips impart, 

And hush the mandates of the heart ; 

But soul's interpreter, the eyes, 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed, 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 

No spirit, from within reproved us, 

Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 

Though what they utter'd I repress, 

Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess ; 

For as on thee my memory ponders, 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at least, I'll say, 

Thy form appears through night, through 



Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams : 
The vision charms the hours away, 
And bids me curse Aurora's ray 
For breaking slumbers of delight 
Which make me wish for endless night. 
Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 
'Shall joy or wo my steps await, 
Tempted by love, by storms beset, 
Thine image I can ne'er forget. 

Alas ! again no more we meet, 
No more our former looks repeat ; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 
" May heaven so guard my lovely Quaker, 
That anguish never can o'ertake her ; 
That peace and virtue ne'r forsake her, 
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ; 
Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
To be by dearest ties, related, 
For her each hour new joys discover, 
And lose the husband in the lover ! 
May that fair bosom never know 
What 'tis to feel the restless wo 
Which stings the soul with vain regret, 
Of him who never can forget !" 



SONG* 

When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark 
heath, 

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven, of 
snow ! f 
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 

Or the mist of the tempest that gathered below, J 
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, 

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, 
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you ? 

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ? 
But still I perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : 
One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd ; 

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with 
you. 

I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, 
From mountain to mountain I bounded along ; 

I breasted § the billow of Dee's || rushing tide, 
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song : 



• These lines were published in the private volume, and the first edition i 
Hours of Idleness, but subsequently omitted by the author. 



• To Mary Duff. First published in the second edition of Hours o. 
Idleness. 

t Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire : " Gormal of snow," is an 
expression frequently to be (bund in Ossian. 

J This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed 
to the mountains ; it is by no means uncommon on attaining the top of Ben- 
e-vis Een-y-bourd, &c, lb perceive between the summit and the valley, clouds 
pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the 
spectator literally looks down upon the storm, perfectly secure from its effects. 

| Breasting the lofty surge.— ShaJcspe are. 

1 The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls inn 
the sea at New Aberdeen. 



V 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



423 



At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, 
No dreams save of Mary were spread to my view ; 

And warm to the skies my devotions arose, 

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; 

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no 
more : 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone, 

And delight but in days I have witness'd before : 
Ah ! splendor has raised, but embitter'd, my lot ; 

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew ; 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not 
forgot ; 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the 
sky, 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; * 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think on those eyes that endear'd the rude scene : 
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold, 

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think of the long-flowing ringlets of gold, 

The locks that were sacred to beauty and you. 

Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once 
more 

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : 
But while these soar above me unchanged as before, 

Will Mary be there to receive me ? ah, no ! 
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred! 

Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, 

Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with you ? 



TO 



Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other ; 

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are 
true; 
The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 

Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 

But friendship can vary her gentle dominion, 
The attachment of years in a moment expires ; 

Like love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, 
But glows not, like love, with unquenchable fires. 

Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, 
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow ; 

In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather, 
But 'Winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 

No more with affection shall memory blending 
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace : 

When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, 
And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 

However, dear S , for 1 still must esteem you — 

The few whom I love I can never upbraid — 

The chance which has lost may in future redeem you, 
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 



* Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from 
le ruins of Dee Castle. 
t This poem was first published in the Hours of Idleness. 



I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 
With me no corroding resentment shall live : 

My bosom is cahn'd by the simple reflection, 
That both may be wrong, and that both should 
forgive. 

You knew that my soul, that my heart-, my existence, 
If danger demanded, where wholly your own ; 

You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, 
Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 

You knew but away with the vain retrospection! 

The bond of affection no longer endures ; 
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, 

And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours 

For the present, we part — I will hope not for ever, 
For time and regret will restore you at last ; 

To forget our dissension we both should endeavor, 
I ask no atonement but days like the past. 



TO MARY, 

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. 

This faint resemblance of thy charms, 
Though strong as mortal art could give, 

My constant heart of fear disarms, 
Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 

Here I can trace the locks of gold 

Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 

The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould, 
The lips which made me Beauty's slave. 

Here I can trace — ah, no ! that eye 

Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 
Must all the painter's art defy, 

And bid him from the task retire. 

Here I behold its beauteous hue, 

But where's the beam so sweetly straying.* 
Which gave a lustre to its blue, 

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing .-' 

Sweet copy ! far more dear to me, 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
Than all the living forms could be, 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear, 
Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 

Unconscious that her image there 
Held every sense in fast control. 

Through hours, through years, through time 
'twill cheer ; 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; 
In life's last conflict 'twill appear, 

And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



* But where's the beam of soft desire 
Which gave a lustre to its blue, 
Love, only love could e'er inspire. 

Private mlumt. 



424 



BOON'S WORKS. 



TO LESBIA.* 



Lesbia ! since far from you I've ranged, 
Our souls with fond affection glow not ; 

You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
I'd tell why, — but yet I know not. 

Your polish'd brow no cares have crost ? 

And, Lesbia ! we are not much older, 
Since trembling first my heart I lost, 

Or told my love with hope grown bolder. 

Sixteen was then our utmost age, 
Two years have lingering past away, love ! 

And now new thoughts our minds engage 
At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 

'Tis I that am alone to blame, 
I, that am guilty of love's treason ; 

Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
Caprice must be my only reason. 

I do not, love ! suspect your truth, 
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not ; 

Warm was the passion of my youth, 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 

No, no, my flame was not pretended, 
For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; 

And though our dream at last has ended — 
My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 

Absence has made me prone to roving ; 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 
New beauties still are daily bright'ning, 

Your eye for conquest beams prepared, 
The forge of love's" resistless lightning. 

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, 
Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 

More constant they may prove indeed ; 
Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.f 

As the author was discharging hia pistols m a garden, two ladies passing 
near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them, to 
one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning. 

Doubtless, sweet girl, the hissing lead, 
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, 

And hurtling % o'er thy lovely head, 
Has filled that breast with fond alarms. 

Surely some envious demon's force, 
Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 

Impell'd the bullets' viewless course, 
Diverted from its first career. 



• Only printed in the private volume. 
f These stanzas are only found in the private volume. 
1 This word is used by Gray, in his poem of the Fatal Sisters : 
" Iron sleet of arrowy shower 
Hurtles through Uie darken'd air." 



Yes, in that nearly fatal hour 

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ; 
But Heaven, with interposing power, 

In pity turned the death aside. 

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 
Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 

Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear 
Extracted from its glistening cell. 

Say, what penance can atone 
For such an outrage done to thee ? 

Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, 
What punishment wilt thou decree ? 

Might I perform the judge's part, 

The sentence I should scarce deplore ; 

It only would restore a heart 
Which but belong'd to thee before. 

The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free ; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake. 

Thou shalt be all in all to me. 

But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject 

Such expiation of my guilt : 
Come then, some other mode elect ; 

Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 

Choose, then, relentless ! and I swear 
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent ; 

Yet hold — one little word forbear ! 
Let it be aught but banishment. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.* 

"Act o', act jie (pevyct.'' 

Anacreon. 

The roses of love glad the garden of life, 
Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent 
dew, 

Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
Or prunes them for ever in love's last adieu ! 

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart, 
In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 

The chance of an hour may command us to part. 
Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ' 

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen 
breast, 

Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may renew ; " 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt. 

Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of youth, 
Love twined round their childhood his flowers as 
they grew ; 

They flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's la*t adieu ! 



This poem was omitted in the second edition of Hours of Idleness. 



' 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



421 



Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way | 

Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 

Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey, 
Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind ; 

The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew ; 

Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins ; 
He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel ! 

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, 
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 

And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 

No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast ! 

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! 

In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
Astrea * declares that some penance is due ; 

From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! 

Who kneels to the god on his altar of light, 
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew : 

His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; 
His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 



DAM^TAS. 

In law an infant, f and in years a boy, 

In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd ; 

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 

Versed in hypocrisy while yet a child ; 

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school 

Damretas ran through all the maze of sin, 

And found the goal when others just begin : 

Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 

And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 

But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 

And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 



TO MARION. 

Marion ! why that pensive brow ? 
What disgust to life hast thou ? 
Change that discontented air : 
Frowns become not one so fair. 



• The Goddess of Justice. 

t In law every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty- 
one. 

54 



'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 

Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 

He in dimpling smiles appears, 

Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 

Or bends the languid eyelid down, 

But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 

Then resume thy former fire, 

Some will love, and all admire ; 

While that icy aspect chills us, 

Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 

AVouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 

Smile at least, or seem to smile. 

Eyes like thine were never meant 

To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; 

Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 

Still in truant beams they play. 

Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 

She blushes, curt'sies, frowns, — in short, she 

Dreads lest the subject should transport me ; 

And flying off in search of reason, 

Brings prudence back in proper season. 

All I shall therefore say (whate'er 

I think, is neither here, nor there) 

Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, 

Were form'd for better things than sneering : 

Of soothing compliments divested, 

Advice at least's disinterested ; 

Such is my artless song to thee, 

From all the flow of flattery free ; 

Counsel like mine is as a brother's, 

My heart is given to some others ; 

That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, 

It shares itself among a dozen. 

Marion, adieu ! oh ! pr'ythee slight not 

This warning, though it may delight not ; 

And, lest my precepts be displeasing 

To those who think remonstrance teasing, 

At once I'll tell thee our opinion 

Concerning woman's soft dominion : 

Howe'er we gaze with admiration 

On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 

Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 

Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 

Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 

These cannot fix our souls to love : 

It is not too severe a stricture 

To say they form a pretty picture : 

But wouldst thou see the secret chain, 

Which binds us to your humble train, 

To hail you queens of all creation, 

Know, in a word, 'tis Animation. 



OSCAR OF ALVA* 

A TALE.+ 

How sweetly shines, through azure skies, 
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore ; 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 
And hear the din of arms no more. 



* This poem was published for the first time in Hours of Idleness. 

t The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of " Jeronymo 
and Lorenzo," in the first volume of the " Armenian, or Chost-Seer." It 
also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of " Macbeth." 



426 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But often has yon rolling moon 
On Alva's casques of silver play'd ; 

And view'd at midnight's silent noon, 
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd : 

And on the crimson rocks beneath, 
Which scroll o'er ocean's sullen flow, 

Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, 
She saw the gasping warrior low ; 

While * many an eye which ne'er again 
Could mark t the rising orb of day, 

Turn'd feebly from the gory plain, 
Beheld in death her fading ray. 

Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
They blest her dear propitious light ; 

But now she glimmer'd from above, 
A sad, funereal torch of night. 

Faded is Alva's noble race, 
And gray her towers are seen afar ; 

No more her heroes urge the chase, 
Or roll the crimson tide of war. 

But who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 

And when that gale is fierce and high, 
A sound is heard in yonder hall ; 

It rises hoarsely through the sky, 
And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 

Bnt there no more his banners rise, 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, 
When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 

They feast upon the mountain deer, 
The pibroch raised its piercing note, 

To gladden more their Highland cheer, 
The strains in martial numbers float : 

And they who heard the war-notes wild, 
Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 

Should play before the hero's child, 
While he should lead the tartan train. 

Another year is quickly past, 
And Angus hails another son ; 

His natal day is like the last, 
Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their sire to bend the bow, 
On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 

The boys in childhood chased the roe, 
And left their hounds in speed behind. 



* While. First edition, when. 
t Mark. First edition, view. 



But ere their years of youth are o'er, 
They mingle in the ranks of war ; 

They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 
And send the whistling arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, 
Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; 

But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth ; 
Allan had early learn'd control, 

And smooth his words had been from youth. 

Both, both were brave ; the Saxon spear 
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel ; 

And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, 
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel; 

While Allan's soul belied his form, 
Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 

Keen as the lightning of the storm, 
On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 

From high Southannon's distant tower 
Arrived a young and noble dame ; 

With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; 

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 

Aud Angus on his Oscar smiled : 
It soothed the father's feudal pride 

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices float, , 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 

Assembled wave in Alva's hall, 
Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 

Attending on their chieftain's call. 

It is not ;tvar their aid demands, 
The pibroch plays the song of peace ; 

To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 

But where is Oscar ? sure 'tis late : 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 

While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 

At length young Allan join'd the bride: 
" Why comes not Oscar ? " Angus said; 

" Is not he here ? " the youth replied ; 
" With me he roved not o'er the glade. 

" Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
'Tis his to chase the bounding roe ; 

Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 
Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 

" Oh, no ! " the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 
" Nor chase, nor wave, my boy delay ; 

Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 
Would aught to her impede his way ? 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



421 



" Oil ! search, ye chiefs ! oh ! search around : 
Allan, with these through Alva fly ; 

Till Oscar, till my son is found, 
Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 

All is confusion — through the vale 
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 

It rises on the murm'ring gale, 
Till night expands her dusky wings ; 

It breaks the stillness of the night, 
But echoes through her shades in vain : 

It sounds through morning's misty light, 
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave : 

Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief 
His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 

" Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of Heav'n 
Restore the prop of sinking age ! 

Or if that hope no more is given, 
Yield his assassin to my rage. 

"Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; 

Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more, 
"With him his frantic sire may die ! 

" Yet he may live, — away, despair ! 

Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
T' araign my fate, my voice forbear ! 

God ! my impious prayer forgive ! 

' What, if he live for me no more, 

1 sink forgotten in the dust, 
The hope of Alva's age is o'er : 

Alas ! can pangs like these be just ? " 

Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 
Till Time, who soothes severest woe 

Had bade serenity return, 
And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 

For still some latent hope survived, 
That Oscar might once more appear ; 

His hope now droop'd and now revived, 
Till Time had told a tedious year. 

Days roll'd along, the orb of light 
Again had run his destined race ; 

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 
And sorrow left a fainter trace. 

For youthful Allan still remain'd, 

And now his father's only joy : 
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 

For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 

She thought that Oscar low was laid, 
And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 

If Oscar lived, some other maid 
Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 

And Angus said, if one year more 
In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 

His fondest scruples should be o'er, 
And he would name their nuptial day. 



Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last, 
Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 

The year of anxious trembling past, 
What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn ' 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices float, 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

Again the clan, in festive crowd, 

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall 

The songs of mirth reecho loud, 
And all their former joy recall. 

But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
Glooms in the midst of general mirth ? 

Before his eye's far fiercer glow 
The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 

Dark is the robe which wraps his form, 

And tall his plume of gory red ; 
His voice is like the rising storm, 

But light and trackless is his tread. 

'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff' d ; 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 
And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd 

And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 
And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 

" Old man ! " he cried, " this pledge is done . 

Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me ; 
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 

Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 

" While all around is mirth and joy, 

To bless thy Allan's happy lot, 
Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy ? 

Say, why should Oscar be forgot ? " 

" Alas ! " the hapless she replied, 
The big tear starting as he spoke, 

" When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
This aged heart was almost broke. 

" Thrice has the earth revolved her course. 
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight ; 

And Allan is my last resource, 

Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 

" 'Tis well," replied the stranger stern, 
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye ; 

" Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

" Perchance, if those whom he most loved, 
Would call, thy Oscar might return ; 

Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
For him thy Beltane * yet may burn. 

" Fill high the bowl the table round, 
We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 



• Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near Are* 
lighted for the occasion. 



428 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"With wine let every cup be crown'd ; 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

" With all my soul," old Angus said, 
And fill'd his goblet to the brim ; 

" Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
I ne'er shall find a son like him." 

" Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 

But why dbes Allan trembling stand ? 
Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 

The drops of death each other chase 
Adown in agonizing dew. 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

" And is it thus a brother hails 
A brother's fond remembrance here ? 

If thus affection's strength prevails, 
What might we not expect from fear ? " 

Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 

" Would Oscar now could'share our mirth ! " 

Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 
He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 

" 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice ! " 
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form ; 

" A murderer's voice ! " the roof replies, 
And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, 
The stranger's gone, — amidst the crew 

A form was seen in tartan green, 
And tall the shade terrific grew. 

His waist was bound with a broad belt round, 
His plume of sable stream'd on high ; 

But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, 
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 

And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 

On Angus bending low the knee ; 
And thrice he frown'd on a ehief on the ground, 

Whoru shivering crowds with horror see. 

The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, 
The thunders through the welkin ring, 

And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm 
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased : 

Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast,* 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 

" Away, away ! let the leech essay 
To pour the light on Allan's eyes ; " 

His sand is done, — his race is run ; 
Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 



Old Angus press'd the earth with his breast. First Edition. 



But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 

His locks are lifted by the gale ; 
And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 

And whence the dreadful stranger came, 
Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 

But no one doubts the form of flame, 
Eor Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 

Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 
Exulting demons wing'd his dart ; 

While Envy waved her burning brand, 
And pour'd her venom round his heart. 

Swift is the shaft of Allan's bow : 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ? 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 

And Mora's eye could Allan move, 
She bade his wounded pride rebel : 

Alas ! that eyes which beamed with love, 
Should urge the soul to deeds of hell ! 

Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb, 
Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 

It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 
Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave 

Which held his clan's great ashes stood ; 

And o'er his corse no banners wave, 
For they were stain'd with kindred blood. 

What minstrel gray, what hoary bard, 
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? 

The song is glory's chief reward, 
But who can strike a murderer's praise ? 

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, 
No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 

Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 
His harp in shuddering chords would break. 

No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, 
Shall sound his glories high in air ; 

A dying father's bitter curse, 
A brother's death groan echoes there. 



TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. 



In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems for this second 
edition, I found the following- lines, which I had totally forgotten, composed 

the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my departure from Hazron. 
They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high rank, who had been 
my frequent companion in some rambles through the neighboring cotiuury j 
however, he never saw the lines, and most probably never will. As, on a 
re-perusal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, 
have now published them, for die first time, after a slight revision. 



Dorset ! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade, 
Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend ; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



429 



Tiough the harsh, custom of our youthful band 
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ;* 
Thee on whose head a few short years will shower 
The gifts of riches and the pride of power ; 
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
Yet Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
To shun fair science, or evade control ; 
Though passive tutors, f fearful to dispraise 
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — 
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
That books were only meant for drudging fools, 
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules," 
Believe them not, — they point the path to shame, 
And seek to blast the honors of thy name. 
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng, 
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, 
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 
Ask thine own heart ; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear; 
For well I know that virtue lingers there. 

Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 
But now new scenes invite me far away ; 
Yes I have mark'd within that generous mind 
A soul| if well matured, to bless mankind. 
Ah ! though myself by nature haughty, wild, 
Whom indescretion hail'd her favorite child ; 
Though every error stamps me for her own, 
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, 
I love the virtues which I caunot claim. 

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, 

To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour : 

To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, 

With long-drawn names that grace no page beside ; 

Then share with titled crowds the common lot — 

In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 

While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, 

Except the dull, cold stone that hides thy head, 

The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 

That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, 

Where lords, unhonor'd, in the tomb may find 

One spot, to leave a worthless name behind : 

There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 

f That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, 

A race with old armorial lists o'erspread, 

In records destined never to be read. 

Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 

Exalted more among the good and wise, 

A glorious and a long career pursue, 

As first in rank, the first in talent too : 

Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun ; 

Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 



" At every public school the junior boya are completely subservient to the 
upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state of 
probation, very properly, no rank is exempt ; but after a certain period they 
command iu turn those who succeed. 

t Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most distant,* J 
merely mention generally what is too often the weakness of preceptorB. 

t' See the Eame line in Lara, stanza 11. 



Turn to the annals of a former day, 

Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. 

One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth, 

And call'd, proud boast ! the British drama forth. * 

Another view, not less renown'd for wit ; 

Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit ; 

Bold in the field, and favor'd by the Nine ; 

In every splendid part ordain'd to shine ; ' 

Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, 

The pride of princes, and the boast of song.f 

Such were thy fathers ; thus preserve their name : 

Nor. heir to titles only, but to fame. 

The hours draw nigh, a few brief days will close, 

To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 

Shades where Hope, Peace and Friendship all were 

mine : 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
And gild theh pinions as the moments flew ; 
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell; 
Alas ! they love not long who love so welL 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hail'd as exiles hail their native shore, 
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 

Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 

Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 

The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 

Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 

And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, 

Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere 

Since the same senate, nay the same debate 

May one day claim our suffrage for the state, 

We hence may meet, and pass each other by * 

With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 

A stranger to thyself, thy weal or wo, 

With thee no more again I hope to trace 

The recollection of our early race : 

No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, 

Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice. 

Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught ; 

To veil those feelings which perchance it ought, 

If these — but let me cease the lengthen'd strain — 

Oh ! if thes.e wishes are not breathed in vain, 

The guardian seraph who directs thy fate, 

Will leave thee glorious as he found thee great. 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN 
DYING. 

Animtila ! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes, comesque, corporis, 
Qua; nuncabibis in loca ? 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos, 



Thomas Sackville, Lord Backhnrst, created Earl of Dorset, by Jamea 
the First, waB one of the earliest and brightest ornaments to the poetry of hil 
country, and the first who produced a regular drama. — Anderson's British 
Poets. 

t Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, esteemed the most accomplised man 
of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II. and 
the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with great gallantry in the 6ea 
fight with the Dutch in 1665, on the day previous to which he cornpused his 
celebrated song. His character has been drawn in the highest colors by 
Drydcn, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. — Anderson's British Poets, 



430 



TRANSLATION. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 



Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne, 
"Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
No more with wonted humor gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

AD LESBIAM. 

EauAL to Jove that youth must be — 
Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
Who, free from jealousy's alarms, 
Securely views thy matchless charms. 
That cheek which ever dimpling glows, 
That mouth from whence such music flows, 
To him, alike, are always known, 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah ! Lesbia ! though 'tis death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee; 
But, at the sight, my senses fly: 
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres, 
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 
My limbs deny their slight support, 
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, 
With deadly languor droops my head, 
My ears with tingling echoes ring, 
And life itself is on the wing ; 
► My eyes refuse the cheering light, 
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 
And feels a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIR- 
GIL AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love, 

By Death's* unequal hand alike controll'd, 
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.f 

" Sulpiciaad Cerinthum." — Lib. Quart. 

Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease 
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please 
Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, 
That I might live for love and you again ; 
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate : 
By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



• The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was < 
•iderably older than Tibullus at his decease. 
f From the private volume. 



"LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERIS." 

Ye Cupids, droop each little head, 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread ; 
My Lesbia's favorite bird is dead, 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved: 
For he was gentle, and so true, 
Obedient to her call he flew, 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved : 

And softly fluttering here and there, 
He never sought to clear the air, 
But chirupp'd oft, and, free from care, 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having passed the gloomy bourne 
From whence he never can return, 
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 

Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave, 
From whom no earthly power can save 

For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; 
Thou art the cause of all her wo, 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 

TO ELLEN. 

Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire: 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an age on every kiss ; 
Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
Naught should my kiss from thine dissever, 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever; 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavor : 
Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never. 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE* 

ODE 3, LIB. 3 

The man of firm and noble soul 

No factious clamors can control ; 

No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent; 
Gales the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent, 
To curb the Adriatic main, 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 



Only printed in the private volume. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



431 



A.y, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
With all his terrors then unfurl'd, 

He would unmoved, unawed behold : 
The flames of an expiring world, 

Again in crashing chaos roll'd, 
In vast promiscuous ruin hurled, 
Might light his glorious funeral pile : 
Still dauntless, midst the wreck of earth he'd smile 



TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON* 

TO HIS LYRE. 

I wisn to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
To echo, from its rising swell, 
How heroes fought and nations fell, 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 
But still, to martial strains unknown, 
My lyre recurs to love alone. 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name : 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war, my harp is due : 
With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise again; 
Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds, 
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! 
Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 
To other deeds my soul is strung, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; 
My harp shall all its powers reveal, 
To tell the tale my heart must feel ; 
Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim, 
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 



ODE IILt 

'Twas now the hour when Night had driven 

Her car half round yon sable heaven ; 

Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 

His arctic charge around the pole ; 

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 

At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 

Descending from the realms of joy, 

Quick to my gate directs his course, 

And knocks with all his little force. 

My visions fled, alarm'd I rose, — 

" What stranger breaks my blest repose ? " 

" Alas ! " replies the wily child, 

In faltering accents sweetly mild, 

" A hapless infant here I roam, 

Far from my dear maternal home. 

Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast ! 

The nightly storm is pouring fast. 



• First published in Hours of Idleness. 
t First printed in Hours of Idleness. 



No prowling robber lingers here, 

A wandering baby who can fear ? " 

I heard his seeming artless tale, 

I heard his sighs upon the gale : 

My breast was never pity's foe, 

Rut felt for all the baby's wo. 

I drew the bar, and by the light 

Young Love, the infant, met my sight; 

His bow across his shoulders flung, 

And thence his fatal quiver hung, 

(Ah ! little did I think the dart 

Would rankle soon within my heart.) 

With care I tend my weary guest, 

His little fingers chill my breast ; 

His glossy curls, his azure wing, 

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring : 

His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 

And now reviving from the storm, 

Scarce had he felt his wonted gjow, 

Than swift he seized his slender bow : 

" I fain would know, my gentle host," 

He cried, "if this its strength has lost; 

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, 

The strings their former aid refuse." 

With poison tipt, his arrow flies, 

Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 

Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd : — 

" My bow can still impel the shaft: 

'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; 

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ? " 



FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. 

FROM THE PROMETHEUS YINCTTJS OF JESCHYLTJ8. 

Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 

Both gods and mortals homage pay, 
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 

Thy dread behest ne'er disobey. 
Oft shall the sacred victim fall 
In sea-girt ocean's mossy hall ; 
My voice shall raise no impious strain 
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 
*•* * * * # * * * 

How different now thy joyless fate, 

Since first Hesione thy bride, 
When placed aloft in godlike state, 
The blushing beauty by thy side, 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentlest 
frown'd. 

Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE JENEID, LIB. IX. 

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, 
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 
Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield, 
Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field : 



432 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



* From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, 

And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 

To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 

"With him Euryalus sustains the post ; 

No lovelier mien adoru'd the ranks of Troy, 

And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; 

Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 

As yet a novice in the martial strife, 

'Twas his, with beauty, valor's gifts to share — 

A soul heroic, as his form was fair : 

These burn with one pure flame of generous love ; 

In peace, in war, united still they move ; 

Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; 

And now combined they hold their nightly guard. 

" What god," exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire 

Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 

My laboring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 

Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 

The love of fame with this can ill accord, 

Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 

Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 

Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb ? 

Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, 

And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 

Then hear my thought :— In deep and sullen grief 

Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: 

Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine, 

(The deed, the danger and the fame be mine,) 

Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 

Methinks, an easy path perchance were found; 

Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 

And lead iEneas from Evander's halls." 

With equal ardor fired, and warlike joy, 

His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy : — 

"These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone ? 

Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ? 

Am I by thee despised, and left afar, 

As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 

Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 

Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 

Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 

I track'd J3neas through the walks of fate : 

Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 

And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 

Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, 

And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. 

Fame, fame is cheaply carn'd by fleeting breath : 

The price of honor is the sleep of death." 

Then Nisus, — " Calm thy bosom's fond alarms : 

Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 

More dear thy worth and valor than my own, 

I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! 

So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 

And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 

But should I fall, — and he who dares advance 

Through hostile regions, must abide by chance, — 



• Him Ida sent, a hunter now no more, 
To combat foes upon a foreign shore. 
Near him, the loveliest of the Trojan band, 
Did fair Euryalus, his comrade, stand : 
Few are the seasons of his youthful life, 
As yet a novice in the martial strife : 
The gods to him unwonted gifts impart, 
A female's beauty, with a hero's heart. 
These burn with one pure flame of generous love, 
In peace, in war, united still they move; 
Friendship and glory form their joint reward, 
And now combined, the massy gate they guard. 
S ich was the original version of this passage, as given in the private 
■ A tf>e, where no more than the above fragment was printed. 



If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low, 
Live thou — such beauties I would fain preserve — 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse ; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny, 
If in ( the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, 
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared; 
Who braced what woman never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 
" In vain you damp the ardor of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus ; "it scorns control ! 
Hence, let us haste ! " — their brother guards arosa 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
On one great point the council are agreed, 
An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high bequest. 
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the throne appear : 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command, 
The elder first address'd the hoary band. 

" With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began) 
" Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam, 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor hered that we a secret path have traced, 
Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
Whose shade securely our design will cloak ! 
If you, ye chiefs, and fortune, will allow, 
We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow. 
Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight, 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night : 
Then shall ^Eneas in his pride return, 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn ; 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead, 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; 
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray, 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
Moved by the speech, Alcthes here exclaim'd, 
" Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, 
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; 
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



433 



Then in his warm embrace the boys he prcss'd, 

And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast ; 

With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 

And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : 

" What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 

Can we bestow, which you may not despise ? 

Our deities the first best boon have given — 

Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 

What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth, 

Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. 

iEneas and Ascanius shall combine 

To yield applause, fax, far surpassing mine." 

lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! 

By those Penates* who my country love ! 

By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, 

My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! 

Restore my father to my grateful sight, 

And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 

Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own, 

Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ! 

My sire secured them on that fatal day, 

Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey : 

Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 

Two talents polished from the glittering mine : 

An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave, 

While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave ; 

But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 

When great iEneas wears Hesperia's crown, 

The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 

Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, 

Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 

I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 

Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive 

dames, 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 
And all the realms which now the Latins sway, 
The labors of to-night shall well repay. 
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
And near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 

To him Euryalus : — "No day shall shame 

The rising glories which from this I claim. 

Fortune may favor, or the skies may frown, 

But valor, spite of fate, obtains renown. 

Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 

One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart ; 

My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 

Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 

Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 

Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 

f Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 

A bright example of maternal love, 

Unknown the secret enterprise I brave, 

Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave ; 

From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 

No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; 

By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 

Her parting tears would shake my purpose now ; 

Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, 

In thee her much-loved child may live again ; 



* Household ijods. 

t "Alone she came." In the first edition, " Hither she came." 

65 



Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 

Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress ; 

So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 

To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 

Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, 

In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 

Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erfiow ; 

Such love was his, and such had been his wo, 

"All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied; 

" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 

To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 

Creusa's* style but wanting to the dame. 

Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 

But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 

Now, by my life ! — my sire's most sacred oath — 

To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 

All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 

If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 

Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 

A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 

Lycayon's utmost skill had graced the steel ; 

For friends to envy and for foes to feel ; 

A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 

Slain 'mid the forest, in the hunter's toil, 

Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, 

And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 

Arm'd thence they go, while all th' assembled train, 

To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 

More than a boy in wisdom and in grace, 

lulus holds amid the chiefs his place : 

His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers avail, 

Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ! 

The trench is pass'd, and, favor'd by the night, 
Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 
Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! 
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen ; 
And flowing flasks, and scntterd troops between. 
Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine ; 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
" Now," cries the first " for deeds of blood prepare, 
With me the conquest and the labor share : 
Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise, 
Watch thou, while many a dreamy chieftain dies ; 
I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 
And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting 

breast ; 
Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed ; 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed : 
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, 
His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 
But he, who, thus foretold the fate of all, 
Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
Next Remus' armor-bearer, hapless fell, 
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell. 
The charioteer along his courser's sides 
Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides ; 
And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead ; 
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 
From the swoll'n veins the blackening torrents pour, 
Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 
And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire : 



The mother of lulus, lost on the night when Troy was taken. 



434 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Half the long night in childish games was pass'd : 
Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last : 
Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey'd, 
And till Aurora's dawn his skill display'd. 

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls ; 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams ; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name : 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
Yet wakeful Rhsesus sees the threatening steel : 
His coward breast behind ajar he hides, 
And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
Full in his heart, the falchion searched his veins, 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow, 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm : 
" Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd ; 
Full foes enough to-night have breath'd their last : 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 

What silver arms, with various art emboss'd, 
What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd, 
They leave regardless ! yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, 
The gems which studd the monarch's golden belt ; 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend, 

Just at this hour a band of Latian horse 

To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course ; 

While the slow foot their tardy march delay, 

The knights, impatient, spur along the way: 

Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, 

To Turnus with their master's promise sped ; 

Now they approach the trench, and view the walls, 

When, on the left, a light reflection falls ; 

The plunder'd helmet through the waning night, 

Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 

Volscens with question loud the pair alarms : — 

" Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in arms ? 

From whence, to whom ?" — He meets with no reply : 

Trusting the covert of the night, they fly ; 

The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread, 

While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 

Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 

Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 

The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 

But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 

To where Latinus' steeds in safety graae, 



Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
" O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft, 
In what impending perils art thou left !" 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees, 
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
Again he turns, of footsteps hear the noise ; 
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys : 
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 
Him witli loud shouts the furious knights pursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare : 
Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ?" 
His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? 
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, 
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : 
" Goddess serene, transcending every star ! 
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove, 
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase, 
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
To free my friend and scatter far the proud." 
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
Through parted shades the hurtling weapons sung ; 
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
Transfixed his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay : 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze, 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
While pale they stare, through Tagus' temple riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes ; 
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies ; 
Burning with wrath, he viewed his soldiers fall. 
" Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all ! " 
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew. 
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies ; 
" Me, me — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest ! 
He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile eonfest ! 
All, all was mine — his early fate suspend ; 
He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove, 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower : 
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



435 



Volscens lie seeks amid the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost ; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe ; 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow 5 
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies, 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved — 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace ! 

Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, 

Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! 

Ages on ages shall your fate admire, 

No future day shall see your names expire, 

While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 

And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome ! 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES.* 

When fierce conflicting passions urge 

The breast where love is wont to glow, 
What mind can stem the stormy surge, 

Which rolls the tide of human wo ? 
The hope of praise, the dread of shame, 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
The wild desire, the guilty flame, 

Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But if affection gently thrills 

The soul. by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can soothe the aching breast : 
If thus thou comest in disguise,f 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 

But never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 

Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 

With others wage, internal war ; 
Repentance, source of future tears, 

From me be ever distant far ! 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love ! 
May all the hours be winged with joy, 

Which hover faithful hearts above ! 
Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine 

May I with some fond lover sigh, 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine — 

With me to live, with me to die ! 



• First printed in Hours of Idleness. 

t Comest in disguise. In the fir* edition, com'st in gentle disguise. 



My native soil ! beloved before, 

Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore 

A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! 
This very day, this very hour, 

May I resign this fleeting breath ! 
Nor quit my silent humble bower ; 

A doom to me far worse than death 

Have I not heard the exile's sigh, 

And seen the exile's silent tear, 
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly 

A pensive weary wanderer here ? 
Ah ! hapless dame ! * no sire bewails, 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 

Perish the fiend whose iron heart, * 

To fair affection's truth unknown, 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless, and alone : 
Who ne'er unlocks with silver keyf 

The milder treasures of his soul, — 
May such a friend be far from me, 

And ocean's storms between us roll ! 



THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION. J 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus his ample front sublime 'uprears : 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome ; 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, 
Though little versed in any art beside ; 
Who, scarcely skill'd in English line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What though he knows not how his fathers bled, 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead, 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France ; 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid ; 



• Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by him for the 
daughter of Creon, king of that city. The chorus from which this is taken 
here addresses Medea ; though a considerable liberty is taken with the origi- 
nal, by expanding the idea, as also in some other parts of the translation. 

t The original is « K.n$apav (ii/'ufaiTl /cAi/<Ja dipevuiv;" literally 
" disclosing the bright key of the mind." 

X No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned under tha 
name of Magnus. He is merely represented as performing an unavoidable 
function of his office. Indeed, such an attempt could only recoil upon 
myself; as that gentleman is now as much distinguished by his eloquence, 
and the dignified propriety with which he fills his situation, as he was in las 
younger days for wit and conviviality 

The above note was added in the first edition of the Hours of Idleness. 



436 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

• 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 

Class-honors, medals, fellowships, await ; 

Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, . 

If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 

But, lo ! no common orator can hope 

The envied silver cup within his scope. 

Not that our heads much eloquence require, 

Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's fire. 

A manner clear or warm is useless, since 

"We do not try by speaking to convince. 

Be other orators of pleasing proud : 

We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd : 

Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 

A proper mixture of the squeak and groan ; 

No borrowed grace of action must be seen ; 

The slightest motion would displease the Dean ; 

Whilst every staring graduate would prate 

Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
Not matter what, so it can not be heard. _ 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest ; 
Who speaks the fastest's sure to speak the best ; 
Who utters most within the shortest space, 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedgy bank supine they lie 
Unknown — unhonor'd live, unwept-for die : 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, 
They think all learning fix'd within their walls : 
In manners rude in foolish forms precise, 
All modern arts affecting to despise ; 
Yet prizing Bentley's,* Brunck's,* or PoRSON'sf 

note, 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
J Vain as their honors, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel, 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
Whether 'tis Pitt or FETTy rules the hour ; § 
To him with suppliant smiles they bend the head, 
|| While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 
They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures guard ; 
Such is their practice, such is their reward ! 
This much at least we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 

1806. 



* Celebrated critics. 

T The present Greek professor at Trinity College, Cambridge; a man 
whose powers of mind and writings may perhaps justify their preference. 

The concluding clause of the foregoing note was added in the first edition 
of Hours of Idleness. 

1 Vain as their honors, &c— The four ensuing lines were inserted in the 
second edition of Hours of Idleness. 

§ Since this was written, Lord H. Petty has lost his place, and subsequently 
<I had almost said consequently) the honor of representing the University. 
A fact eo glaring requires no comment. 

g While distant mitres, &c. In the private volume, Wliile mitres pre- 
bends to their eyes are spread. 



TO THE EARL OF .* 

*Tu semper amoris 
Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago." 

Valerius Flaccue. 

Friend of my youth ! when young we roved, 
Like striplings mutually beloved 

With friendship's purest glow, 
The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 

The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys I've known 

When distant far from you : 
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again, 

And sigh again adieu ! 

My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever : 
The measure of our youth is full, 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet — ah ! never ! 

As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams which from one fountain rise, 

Together join'd in vain ; 
How soon, diverging from their source, 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course, 

Till mingled in the main ! 

Our vital streams of weal or wo, 
Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, 

Nor mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear, 
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, 

And both shall quit the shore, 

Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 

Now flow in different channels : 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts, 

And shine in fashion's annals : 

'Tis mine to waste on love my time, 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme 

Without the aid of reason ; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet, 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 

Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard 

That he who sang before all, 
He who the lore of love expanded, 
By dire reviewers should be branded 

As void of wit and moral. f 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
Harmonious favorite of the Nine ! 



• These stanzas were first published in the second edition of Hours o 
Idleness. 

t These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a, severe 
critique, in a northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



437 



Repine not at thy lot : 
Thy soothing rays may still be read, 
When Persecution's arm is dead, 

And critics are forgot. 

* 
Still I must yield those worthies merit 
"Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, 

Bad rhymes, and those who write them ; 
And though myself may be the next 
By critic sarcasm to be vext, 

I really will not fight them.* 

Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner. 
He who offends at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very harden'd sinner. 

Now, , I must return to you ; 

And sure, apologies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession. 

In truth, dear , in fancy's flight, 

I soar along from left to right ; 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 'twould be your fate 
To add one star to royal state, — 

May regal smiles attend you ! 
And should a noble monarch reign, 
You will not seek his smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 
♦ 

Yet, since in danger courts abound, 
"Where specious rivals glitter round, 

From snares may saints preserve you ! 
And grant your love nor friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care 

But those who best deserve you. 

Not for a moment may you stray 
From truth's secure unerring way ! 

May no delights decoy ! 
O'er roses may your footsteps move ! 
Your smiles be ever smiles of love ! 

Your tears be tears of joy ! 

Oh ! if you wish that happiness 

Your coming days and years may bless, 

And virtues crown your brow, 
Be still, as you were wont to be, 
Spotless as you've been known to me, — 

Be still as you are now. 

And though some trifling share of praise, 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear ; 
"Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I'd wave at once a. poet's fame, 

To prove a prophet here. 



GRANTA. 



A MEDLEY. 



"Aoyvpcatc Xoyx"'o"' r t &X 0V *<" iravra Kparfjaatc, •'* 

Oh ! could Le Sage's f demon's gift 

Be rearfzed at my desire, 
This night my trembling form he'd lift 

To place it on St. Mary's spire. 

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic inmates full display ; 
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls, 

The price of venal votes to pay. 

Then would I view each rival wight, 

Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
"Who canvass there with all their might, 

Against the next elective day. 

Lo ! candidates and voters lie J * 

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number ! 

A race renown'd for piety, 
"Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber 



Lord H , indeed, may not demur ; 

Fellows are sage reflecting men : 
They know preferment can occur 

But very seldom, now and then. 

They know the chancellor has got 
Some pretty livings in disposal : 

Each hopes that one may be his lot, 
And therefore smiles on his proposal. 

Now from the soporific scene f 

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
To view unheeded and unseen 

The studious sons of Alma Mater. 

There, in apartments small and damp, 
The candidate for college prizes 

Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

He surely well deserves to gain them, 
"With all the honors of his college, 

"Who, striving hardly to obtain them, 
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : 

"Who sacrifices hours of rest 
To scan precisely metres Attic ; 

Or agitates his anxious breast 
In solving problems mathematic : 



• A bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mortal combat. If 
ihis example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipped in tho 
river Styx ; for what else can secure them from the numerous host of their 
enraged assailants ? 



• The motto was not given in the private volume. 

f The Diable Eoiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, places 

on Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection. 

I Lo ! candidates and voters He, &c. The fourth and fifth Manzas, which 
are given here as they were printed in the Hours of Idleness, ran as follows, 
in the private volume : — 

(( One on his power and place depends, 
The other on the Lord knows what ; 
Each to some eloquence pretends, 
Though neither will convince by that. 

" The first, indeed, may not demur." 

§ From the soporific scene. In the private volume, From comiption't 
shameless scene. 



438 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"Who reads false quantities in Sele,* 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 

Deprived of many a wholesome meal, 
In barbarous Latin f doom'd to wrangle : 

Renouncing every pleasing page 

From authors of historic use ; 
Preferring to the letter'd sage #k 

The square of the hypothenuse.J 

Still, harmless are these occupations, 
That hurt none but the hapless student, 

Compared with other recreations, 

Which bring together the imprudent : 

Whose daring revels shock the sight, 

When vice and infamy combine, 
"When drunkenness and dice invite, 

As every sense is steep'd in wine. 

Not so the methodistic crew, 

Who plans of reformation lay ; 
In humble attitude they sue, 

And for the sins of others pray : 

Forgetting that their pride of spirit, 

Their exultation in their trial, 
Detracts most largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

'Tis morn : from these I turn my sight : 
What scene is this which meets the eye ? 

A numerous crowd, array'd in white, § 
Across the green in numbers fly. 

Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; 

'Tis hush'd : — what sounds are these I hear ? 
The organ's soft, celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. 

To this is join'd the sacred song, 
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 

Though he who hears the music long, 
Will never wish to hear again. 

Our choir would scarcely be excused, 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 

All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking sinners. 

If David, when his toils were ended, 
Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended, — 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 

The luckless Israelites, when taken, 

By some inhuman tyrant's order, 
Were asked to sing, by joy forsaken, 

On Babylonian river's border. 



* Sele's publication on Greek metres displays considerable talent and inge- 
nuity, but, as night be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for 
accuracy. , 

In the private volume, "Sele's publication on Greek metres is not remark- 
able for its accuracy." 

t The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not very intel- 
ligible. 

In the private volume, " Every Cambridge man will assent to this. The 
Latin of the schools is almost unintelligible." 

% The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal 
lo the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled triangle. 

§ On a saint's day, the students wear surplices in chapel. 



Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 
Inspired by stratagem or fear, 

They might have set their hearts at ease, 
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 

But if I scribble longer * now, 

The deuce a soul will stay to read ; 

My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 
'Tis almost time to stop indeed. 

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires ! 

No more like Cle6fas I fly ; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires : 

The reader's tired, and so am I. 

1806. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES 

SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAIN 
ING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS 
RATHER TOO "WARMLY DRAWN. f 

" Rut if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
Should condemn me for printing a second edition ; 
If good Madurn Squintum my work should abuse, 
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse? " 

Anstey's New Badi Guide, p. 16D. 

Candour compels me, Becher ! to commend 

The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 

Your strong, yet just, reproof extorts applause 

From me, the heedless and imprudent J cause. 

For this wild § error which pervades my strain, 

I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 

The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart ; 

Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart ? 

Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control, 

The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 

When love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, 

Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 

Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 

Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase. 

The young, the old, have worn the chains of love : 

Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : 

Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power 

Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 

Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, 

The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 

Whose labor'd lines in chilling numbers flow, 

To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 

The artless Helicon I boast in youth ; — 

My lyre, the heart ; my muse, the simple truth. 

Far be't from me the " virgin's mind " to " taint : : ' 

Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 

The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, . 

Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 

Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 

Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 

She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine, 

Will ne'er be " tainted " by a strain of mine. 

But for the nymph whose premature desires 

Torment the bosom with unholy fires, 



• If /scribble longer. In the private volume, If I virile much longer. 
t These lines were printed in the private volume, and in the first edition 
of Hours of Idleness, but afterwards omitted. 
X Imprudent. In the private volume, unworthy. 
§ Wild. Private volume, sole. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



439 



No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 

She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. 

For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 

Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 

Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 

The light effusions of a heedless boy. 

I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 

Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud ; 

Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 

Theit sneers or censures I alike despise. 

November 26, 1806. 



LACHIN Y. GAIR.* 



Lachin y. Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch 71a Garr, towers 
proudly preeminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invereauld. One of 
our modern tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great 
Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and 
picturesque among our " Caledonian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky 
hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y. Gair I 
spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given 
birth to the following stanzas. 



Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements war ; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing 
fountains, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah ! where my yo.ung footsteps in infancy wander'd; 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; f 
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, 

As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade : 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

" Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ? " 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale. 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers ; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Lochna Garr. 

" Ill-starr'd,J though brave, did no visions fore- 
boding, 

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause? " 
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,§ 

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 



* First published in Hours of Idleness. 

f This word is erroneously pronounced plod ; the proper pronunciation 
(according to the Scotch) is known by the orthography. 

} I allude here to my maternal ancestors " the Gordons," many of whom 
fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of die 
Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, 
to the Stuarts. George, the second earl of Huntley, married the Princess 
AiHi.l. Hi Stuart, daughter of James the First of Scotland. By her he left 
four sons : the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honor to claim as one of 
my progenitors. 

§ Whether any perished in the .battle of Culloden, 1 am not certain ; but, 
as many fell in the Insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, 
11 pars pro toto." 



Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ;* 

The pibrochf resounds to the piper's loud number, 
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; 
Nature of verdure and fiow'rs has bereft you, 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved on the mountains afar. 
Oh, for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr 



TO ROMANCE.^ 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 

Auspicious queen -of childish joys, 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance, 

Thy votive trail) of girls and boys ; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youth ; 
No more I tread thy mystic round, 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll. 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue ; 
When virgins seem no longer vain, 

And even woman's smiles are true. 

And must we own thee but a name, 

And from thy hall of clouds descend ? 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, 

A Pylades § in every friend ? 
But leave at once thy realms of air 

To mingling bands of fairy elves ? 
Confess that woman's false as fair, 

And friends have feeling for — themselves f 

With shame I own I've felt thy sway ; 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
No more thy precepts I obey, 

No more on fancied pinions soar. 
Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye, 

And think that eye to truth was dear ; 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear. 

Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 
Far from thy motley court I fly, 

Where Affectation holds her seat, 
And sickly Sensibility ; 



• A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle of Braemar. 

I The bagpipe. 

J First published in the Hours of Idleness. 

§ It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, 
and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and 
Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, hive been banded 
down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments, wljjch in all proba 
bility never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, or the page of ar 
historian or modern novelist. 



<40 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Whose silly tears can never flow 
For any pangs excepting thine ; 

Who turns aside from real wo, 
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 

Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
And call thy sylvan female choir, 

To mourn a swain for ever gone, 
Who once could glow with equal fire, 

But bends not now before thy throne. 

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears 

On all occasions swiftly flow ; 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, 

With fancied flames and frenzy glow ; 
Say, will you mourn my absent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train ? 
An infant bard at least may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 

Adieu, fond race ! a long ndieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
E'en now the gulf appears in view, 

Where unlamented you must lie : 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather ; 
Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas ! must perish altogether. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.* 



11 It is the voice of years that are gone ! they roll before me with all their 
deeds.*' f — Ossian. 

Newstead! fast-falling, once resplendent dome ! 

Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry'-S J pride ! 
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide. 

Hail to thy pile ! more honor'd in thy fall 

Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; 

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 



No mail-clad serfs, § obedient to their lord, 
In grim array the crimson cross || demand ; 

Or gay assemble round the festive board, 
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band : 

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 

Retrace their progress through the lapse of time ; 

Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 



• As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the author had, 
originally, no intention of inserting the following : it is now added at the 
particular request of some friends. See page 413 of this edition. 

A The motto was not given in the private volume. 

J Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas a Eecket. 

§ This word is used by Walter Scott in liis poem, " The Wild Huntsman," 
synonymous with vassal. 

J The red cross was the badge of the crusader. 



But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief; 

His feudal realm in other regions lay : 
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, 

Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view ; 

Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found, 
Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, [prowl ; 

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont tc 
And superstition's crimes, of various dyes, 

Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, 

In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 

Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, 
Soon as the gloaming* spreads her waning shade,i 

The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
Or matin orisons to Mary % paid. 

Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
Religion's charter their protecting shield, 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

One holy Henry § reared the Gothic walls, 
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 

Another Henry the kind gift recalls, 
And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 

Vain is each threat or supplicating' prayer ; 

He drives them exiles from their blest abode, 
To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. 

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain, 
Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 

The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, 
High crested banners, wave thy walls within. 

Of changing sentinels the distant hum, 
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, 

The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 
Unite in concert with increased alarms. 

An abbey once, a regal fortress || now, 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers, 
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threat'ning brow, 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 

Ah vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege, 
Though oft repulsed by guile, o'ercomes the brave ; 

His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, 
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 



• As "gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more poetical, 
and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by 
Dr. Moore in his Letters to Burns, 1 have ventured to use it on account of its 
harmony. 

t Gloaming spreads her waning shade. In Uio private volume, Twilight 
winds a waning shade. 

J The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 

§ At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry Till, bestowed Newstead 
Abbey on Sir John Byron. 

11 Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charlei 1. 
and his parliament. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



44X 



Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain : 
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 

Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew 
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave ; 

But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 

Trembling, she snatch'd him* from th' unequal 
In other fields the torrent to repel ; [strife, 

For nobler eombats, here, reserved his life, 
To lead the band where godlike Falkland f fell. 

From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, 
While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 

Far different incense now ascends to heaven, 
Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 

O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 
Corruption's heap, the savage spoiler's trod. 

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 
Itansack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould : 

From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, 
Raked from repose in search for buried gold. 

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, 
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 

No more he strikes the quivering chords w^:h fire, 
Or sings the glories of the martial J wreath. 

At length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey, 
Retire ; the clamor of the fight is o'er ; 

Silence again resumes her awful sway, 

And sable Horror § guards the massy door. 

Hero Desolation holds her dreary court ; 

What satellites declare her dismal reign ! 
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, 

To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies ; 

The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 
And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans ; 

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his laboring breath ; 
Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones, 

Loathing II the offering of so dark a death. 



• Lord Byron and his brother : Sir William held high command in the 
royal army ; the former was general-in-chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the 
Tower, and governor to James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy 
James II. ; the latter had a principal share in many actions. — Vide Claren- 
don, Hume, &c. 

j Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of 
his age, was killed at the battle of Newberry, charging in the ranks of Lord 
Byron's regiment of cavalry. 

J Martial. The private volume reads laurell'd. 

§ Sable Horror. In the private volume, Horror stalking. 

B This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subse- 
quent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes 
between his partisans and the cavaliers : both interpreted the circumstance 
into divine interposition ; but whether as approbation or condemnation, we 
.eave to the casuist of that ago to decide. I have made such use of the occur- 
rence as suited the subject of my poem. 

56 



The regal ruler* now resumes the helm, 

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state ; 

Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, 
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate. 

The gloomy tenants, Newstead ! of thy cells, 

Howling, resign their violated nest ; 
Again the master on his tenure dwells, 

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptur'd zest. 

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale, 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 

And hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 
T^ie hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake; 

What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase 
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ; 

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 

Ah happy days ! too happy to endure ! 

Such sports our plain forefathers knew: 
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 

From these descending, sons to sires succeed ; 

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ; 
Another chief impels the foaming steed, 

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ; 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 

Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn trowers ; 

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep ; 
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 

These, these he views, and views them but to 
weep. 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret ; 

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. 
Pride, hope, and love, forbid him to forget, 

But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 

Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 
Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great ; 

Yet lingers' mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. 

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, 
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; t 

f Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, 
And bless thy future as thy former day. 



* Charles II. 

t Hours splendid, &c. In the private volume and the first edition « 
Hours of Idleness, the stanza ended with the following lines : 

" Fortune may smile upon a future line, 
And Heaven restore an ever cloudless day." 



442 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT 
PUBLIC SCHOOL.* 



Where are those honors, Ida! once your own, 
When Probusf fill'cl your magisterial throne ? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
Hail'd a barbarian in her Caesar's place, 
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fafe, 
And seat PomposusJ where your Probus sate. 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
He governs, sanction'dbut by self-applause. 
With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom : 
Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you but the name. 

July, 1805. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. § 

" 1 cannot but remember such things were, 
And were most dear to me." 

|| When slow Disease, with all her host of pains. 
Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins ; 



• These lines were only printed in the private volume. Lord Byron most 
eiucerely regretted having written this and the subsequent attack on Dr. 
Butler, contained in the poem called Childish Recollections. A reconciliation 
took place between them before Lord Byron's first departure fur Greece ; and 
Mr. Moore informs us that, " not content with this private atonement to Dr. 
Butler, it was Lord Byron's intention, had he published another edition of the 
Hours of Idleness, to substitute for the offensive verses against that gentleman, 
a frank avowal of the wrong he had been guilty of, in giving vent to them." 
— Life of Byron, vol. i. p. 188. 

f Probus, Dr. Drury. 

| Pomposus, Dr. Butler. 

§ This poem was published in the private volume ; and, with many addi- 
tions and corrections, in the first editions o! Hours of Idleness; but was after- 
wards suppressed. 

|| In the private volume the poem opened with the following lines : 

" Hence ! thou unvarying song of varied loves, 
Which youth commends, maturer age reproves J 
Which every rhyming bard repeats by rote, 
By thousands echo'd to the self-same note ! 
Tired of the dull, unceasing, copious strain, 
My soul is panting to be free again. 
Farewell I ye nymphs propitious to my verse, 
Some other Damon will your charms rehearse ; 
Some other paint his pangs, in hope of bliss, 
Or dwell in rapture on your nectar'd kiss. 
Those beauties, grateful to my anient sight, 
No more entrance my setoses in delight ; 
Those bosoms, form'd of animated snow, 
Alike are tasteless, are unfeeling now. 
These to some happier lover I resign — 
Tne memory of those joys alone is mine. 
Censure no more shall brand my humble name, 
The child of passion and the fool of fame. 
Weary of love, of life, devour'd with spleen, 
I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen. 
World 1 1 renounce thee ! all my hope's o'ercast ; 
* One sigh I give thee, but that sigh's the last. 

Friends, foes, and females now alike adieu 1 
Would 1 could add, remembrance of you too 1 
Yet, though the future dark and cheerless gleams, 
The curse of memory, hov'ring in my dreams, 
Depicts with glowing pencil all those years, 
Ere yet my cup, empoison'd, flows with tears ; 
Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway, 
The past confounding wiUi the present day. 

•' Alas ! in vain 1 check the maddening thought : 
It still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought : 
My soul to Fancy's," &c, Ik., &c, as at lint twenty-nine. 



W r hen Health, affirighted, spreads her rosy wing, 
And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of wo, 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
While Hope retires appall'd and clings to life. 
Yet less the pang when through the tedious hour 
Remembrance sheds around her genial power, 
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, 
When love was bliss, and Beauty formed our heaven; 
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, 
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
As when through clouds that pour the summei 

storm 
The orb of day unveils his distant; form, 
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, 
The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, 
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
The past confounding with the present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought : 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields : 
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, 
To which I long have bade a last adieu ! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams ; 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
Of early science, future fame the source ; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
These with a thousand visions now unite, 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.* 

Ida ! bless'd spot, where Science holds her reign, 

How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train ! 

Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 

Again I mingle with thy playful choir ; 

Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 

Unchanged by time or distance, sjem the same ; 

Through winding paths along the glade, I trace 

The social smile of every welcome face ; 

My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and wo, 

Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, 

Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship pass'd :— • 

I bless the former, and forgive the last. 

Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breast, 

To love a stranger, friendship made me bless'd : — 

Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 

When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; 

Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, 

And check each impulse with prudential rein ; 

When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 

In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 

No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 

No dear-bought knowledge purchased, by deceit ; 



* The next fifty-six lines, to 

" Here first remember'd be the joyous band," 
were added in the first edition of Hours of Idleness. 



v^ 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



443 



Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 

Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 

When now the boy is ripen'd into man, 

His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 

Instructs his son from candor's path to shrink, 

Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think ; 

Still to assent, and never to deny — 

A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 

And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 

Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? 

Although against that word his heart rebel, 

And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 

Away with themes like this : not mine the task 
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask ; 
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : 
Once, and but once, she aimed a deadly bloW, 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired, 
With this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave ; 
* Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
Pomposus' virtues are but known to few ; 
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, 
And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. 
If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall, 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again, 
Soon must her early song forever cease, 
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remember'd be the joyous band, 

Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command ; 

Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 

Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 

+Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, 

Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 

Who, thus transplanted from his father's school — 

Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule, 

Succeeded him, vvhom all unite to praise, 

The dear preceptor of my early days ; 

Probus,J the pride of science, and the boast, 

To Ida now, alas ! forever lost. 



• Or if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 

Por.iposus 1 virtues, &c. 
Mr. Moore informs us, that instead of this passage, Lord Byron meant to 
insert, 

" If once my muse a harsher portrait drew, 
Warm with her wrongs, and deem'd the likeness true, 
By cooler judgment taught, her fault she owns, — 
With uohle minds a fault, confess'd, atones." 

Life of Byron, vol. i. p. 188. 

t instead of the present couplet, the private volume has the following four 

Ines : — 

" Careless to soothe the pedant's furious frown, 
S uircely respecting his majestic gown ; 
By which, in vain, he gain'd a borrowed grace, 
Adding new terror to his sneering face." 

I This most able and excellent man retired from his situation in March, 
1803, after having resided thirty-five years at Harrow ; the last twenty as 
^ad-master ; an office he held with equal honor to himself, and advantage to 
the very extensive school over which he presided. Panegyric would here be 
superfluous : it would be useless to enumerate qualifications which were never 
doubted, A considerable contest took place between three rival candidates 
Dr his vacant chair : of this I can only say, 

Si mea, cum vestris raltussent vota, Pelasgi I 
Non foret ambiguus tand certaminis Hsres. 



With him, for years, we search'd the classic page, 
And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage ; 
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat 
From learning's labor is the blest retreat. 
* Pomposus fills his magisterial chair ; 
Pomposus governs, — but, my muse, forbear : 
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 
His name and precepts be alike forgot : t 
No more his mention shall my verse degrade, 
To him my tribute is already paid, j 

$ High, through those elms, with hoary branches 

crown'd, 
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round ; 
There Science, from her favor'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train, 
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
In scatter'd groups each favor'd haunt pursue ; 
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new; 
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, 
In rival bands between the wickets run, 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
But these with slower steps direct their way 
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid current's stray, 
While yonder few search out some green retreat, 
And arbors shade them from the summer heat ; 
Others again, a pert and lively crew, 
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, 
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
Tradition treasures for a future day : 
" 'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance 

fought, 
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought ; 
Here have we fled before superior might, 
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous flight." 
While thus our souls with early passions swell, 
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell ; 
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er, 
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 
But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 



• Pomposus fills his magisterial chair; 

Pomposus gocerns, &c. 
Had Lord Byron published another edition of Hours of Idleness, it was ha 
intention to give the following turn to this passage :— 
" Another fills his magisterial chair ; 
Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care ; 
Oh ! may like honors crown his future name,— - 
If such his virtues, such shall be his fame." 

Moore's Life of Byron, vol. i. p. 189. 

t His name, &c. Instead of tliis line, the private volume reads, 

" Soon shall his shallow precepts be forgot." 
J This alludes to a character printed in a former private edition for the 
perusal of some friends, which, with many other pieces, is withheld from the 
present volume.* To draw the attention of the public to insignificance, 
would be deservedly reprobated ; and another reason, though not of equal 
consequence, may be given in the following couplet : — 
" Satire or sense, alas ! can Sposus feel ? 
Who breaks a butterfly upon the wheel ? " 

POPE.— Prologue to the Satires. 

§ The ensuing hundred and twenty-two lines, to 

11 Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends," 
are not found in the private volume, but were introduced hi the first edition oi 
Hours of Idleness. 



• Those pieces are reprinted in the second edition. The character alluded 
to is contained in the preceding poem. 



444 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's name 
Secures its owner's academic fame ; 
Here, mingling view the names of sire and son — 
The one long graved, the other just begun ; 
These shall survive alike when son and sire 
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 
Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 
Denied in death a monumental stone, 
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 
And here my name, and many an early friend's, 
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place, 
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, 
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law, 
And now in turn possess the reins of power, 
To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; — 
Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day 
They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 
" And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide, 
And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, 
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; 
Here rrobus came, the rising fray to quell, 
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 
And here one night abroad they dared to roam, 
While bold Pomposus bravely stayed at home ; " — 
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, 
When names of these, like ours, alone survive : 
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race, though now we meet no more, 
One last long look on what we were before — 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
Vain wish ! if chance some well-remember'd face, 
Some old companion of my early race, 
Advanced to claim his friend, with honest joy, 
My eyes, my heart proclaim'd me still a boy ; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found ; 
The smiles of beauty — (for, alas ! I've known 
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne) — 
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear. 
Could hardly charm me when that friend was near : 
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along, 
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng ; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. 

Yet why should I alone with such delight 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name ? 
Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee — 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern death forbade my orphan youth to share 



The tender guidance of a father's care : 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
Made by a parent's early loss my own r 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek ? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; 
While still the visions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice ; 
I hear again, — but, ah ! no brother's voice. 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way ; 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, 
I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
What then remains ? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone ? 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 

* Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends, 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends : 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise, 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, 
If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame.f 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore ; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 
Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done, 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
Together we impell'd the flying ball ; , 
Together waited in our tutor's hall ; 
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
Or plunging from the green declining shore, 
Our pliant J limbs the buoyant billows bore ; 
In every element, unchanged, the same, 
All, all that brothers should be but the name. 

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 

Davus, the harbinger of childish joy ; 

For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, 

The laughing herald of the harmless pun : 

Yet with a breast of such materials made — 

Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 

Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 

In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 

Still I remember in the factious strife 

The rustic's musket aim'd against my life : 

High poised in air the massy weapon hung, 

A cry of terror burst from every tongue ; 

Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 

Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow , 



• Alonzo. In the private volume, Johannes. 

f The following four lines of the private volumes were omitted in thi 
Hours of Idleness : — 

" Could aught inspire me with poetic fire, 
For thee alone I'd strike the hallow'd lyre ; 
Eut to some abler hand the task I waive, 
Whose strains immortal may outlive the grave." 

X Pliant. Private volume, lusty. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



445 



Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, 
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand : 
* An act like this can simple thanks repay ? 
Or all the labors of a grateful lay ? 
Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, 
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 

Ltcus ! on me thy claims are justly great : 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song.f 
Well canst thou boast to lead in senates fit — 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
Lygus ! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What may we hope from genius thus refined ! 
When time at length matures thy growing years, 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, 
With honor's soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair EurYaltjs pass by unsung ? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung : 
What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart ; 
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
And palpitate responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
We once were friends, — I'll think we are so still. 
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in thee behold: 
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, 
Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; 
To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Haply in polish'd courts might be thy seat, 
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit ; 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, 
Would make that breast with indignation burn, 
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 



* An act like this, &c. In the private volume, the last four lines of this 
character were as follows : — ■ 

" Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize— 

A life unworthy such a sacrifice : 

Oh I when my breast forgets the generous deed, 

That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed." 
f In the private volume, we find the following lines concluding the charac- 
ter of Lycus ; and the remainder of the passage relating to him was origi- 
nally given as descriptive of a friend entitled Clarus, of whom no mention is 
made in the last published copy of the poem : — 
" For ever to possess a friend in thee, 

Was bliss unhoped, though not unsought by me. 

Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone, 

To ruder passions and to hale unknown ; 

Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form, 

Was gentle, but unfit to stem the storm ; 

That face, an index of celestial worth, 

Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth. 

Oft, when depressed wKh sad foreboding gloom, 

I sat reclined upon our favorite tomb, 

I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow 
•With kind compassion lor thy comrade's wo ; 

Or, when less mournful subjects form'd our themes, 

We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes, 

Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone, 

Whatever wish was mine must be thine own. 
" The next can boast to lead in senates fit — 

A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 

Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 

Clarus 1 thy father's fame will 600n be thine. 

When learning, &£,, &.C. 



Domestic happiness wilkstamp thy fate; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore ; 
* Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 

Now last, and nearest of the social band, 

See honest, open, generous Cleon stand ; 

With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, 

No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 

On the same day our studious race begun, 

On the same day our studious race was run ; ^ 

Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, 

Thus side by side we strove for many a year ; 

At last concluded our scholastic life, 

We neither conquer'd in the classic strife ; 

As speakers f each supports an equal name, 

And crowds allow to both a partial fame : 

To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, 

Though Cleon's candor would the palm divide, 

Yet candor's self compels me now to own . 

Justice awards it to my friend alone. % 

Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear . 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn 
To trace the hours which never can return ; 
§ Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 
As infant laurels round my head were twined ; 
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song, 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng, 
Or when my first harangue received applause, 
His sage instruction the primeval cause, 
What gratitude to him my soul posscst, 
While hope of dawning honors fill'd my breast: 
|| For all my humble fame, to him alone 



• " Where is the restless fool would wish for more? " — Private volume. 
| This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the 



utho 



■ edu 



\ The six concluding lines of this passage were given as follows in the 
private volume : — 

" As speakers,, each supports a rival name, 

Though neither seeks to damn the other's fame. 

Pomposus sits, unequal to decide : 

With youthful candor, we the palm divide ; 

Yet candor's self compels me now to own 

Justice awards it to my friend alone " 
§ " Yet in retrospection finds relief, 

And revels in the luxury of grief." — Private volume. 
| From this place to the end, the copy of the poem, as printed in the 
Hours of Idleness, differs entirely from that in the private volume, winch 
contains and concludes thus : — 

" When, yet a novice in the mimic art, 

I f ■ign'd the transports of a vengeful heart ; 

When as the Royal Slave 1 trod the stage, 

To vent in Zanga more than mortal rage ; 

The praise of Probus made me feel more proud 

Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd. 
" Ah I vain endeavor in this childish strain 

To soothe the woes of which 1 thus complain. 

What can avail the fruitless loss of time, 

To measure sorrow in a jingling rhyme 1 

No social solace from a friend is near, 

And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear. 

I seek not joy in woman's sparkling eye: 

The smiles of beauty cannot check the sigh. 

Adieu 1 thou world ! thy pleasure's still a dream, 

Thy virtue but a visionary theme ; 

The years of vice on years of folly roll, 

Till grinning death assigns the distant goal, 

Where all are hastening to the dread abode, 

To meet the judgment of a righteous God ; 

Mix'd in the concourse of the thought! ss throng, 

A mourner midst of mirth, I glide along I 

A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing, 

Curst by reflection's deep-corroding sting; 



446 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The praise is due, who made that fame my own. 

Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays, 

These young effusions of my early days, 

To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 

The song might perish, but the theme must live. 

Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 

His honor'd name requires no vain display : 

By every son of grateful Ida blest, 

It finds an echo m each youthful breast ; 

A fame beyond the glories of the proud, 

Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida, not yet exhausted is the theme, 

Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 

How many a friend deserves the grateful strain, 

What scenes of childhood still unsung remain, 

Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 

This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 

And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 

To me a silent and a sweet employ, 

While, future hope and fear alike unknown, 

I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 

Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, 

And chase the phantom of what once was mine. 

Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, • 

And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ; — 
That tear perhaps the fondest which will flow 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary few who glide along, 
The feeble veterans of some former throng, 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempest 

whirl'd, 
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth, 
Say if remembrance days like these endears 
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
Say can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of wo ? 
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, 
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys,) 
Recall one scene so much beloved to view 
As those where Youth her garland twined for you. 



But not that mental sting which stabs within, 
The dark avenger of unptinish'd sin ; 
The silent shaft which goitds the guilty wretch 
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch : 
Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies — 
His mind the rack from which lie ne'er can rise. 
For me, whate'er my folly or my fear, 
One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here: 
No dread internal haunts my hours of rest, 
No dreams of injured innocence infest : 
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft, 
Conscience, my last but welcome guest is left. 
Slander's irnpoison'd breath may blast my name ; 
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame : 
Deceit may chill the current of my blood, 
And freeze affection's warm impassion'd flood ; 
Presaging horror darken every sense \-~ 
Even here will conscience be my best defence. 
My bosom feels no ' worm which ne'er can die : ' 
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by. 
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile, 
My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile : 
No more with former bliss my heart is glad ; 
Hope yields to anguish, and my soul is sad : 
From fond regret no future joy can save ; 
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave." 



Ah, no ! amid the gloomy calm of age 

You turn with faltering hand life's varied page ; 

Peruse the record of your days on earth, 

Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 

Still lingering pause above each checker'd leaf, 

And blot with tears the sable lines of grief ; 

Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw; 

Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, 

Traced by the rosy finger of the morn, 

When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, 

And Love,* without his pinion smiled on youth. 



ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM,f 

WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OF "THE 
WANDERER IN SWITZERLAND," &C, &C, EN- 
TITLED "THE COMMON LOT." 

Nontgomery ! true, the common lot 

Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave : 
Yet some shall never be forgot — 

Some shall exist beyond the grave. 

" Unknown the region of his birth," 

The hero \ rolls the tide of war ; 
Yet not unknown his martial worth, 

Which glares a meteor from afar. 

His joy or grief, his weal or wo, 

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ; 

Yet nations now unborn will know 
The record of his deathless name. 

The patriot's and the poet's frame 
Must share the common tomb of all ; 

Their glory will not sleep the same ; 
That will arise, though empires fall. 

The lustre of a beauty's eye 

Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 

The fair, the brave, the good must die, 

And sink the yawning grave beneath. 
\ 

Once more the speaking eye revives, 

Still beaming through the lover's strain ; 

For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
She died, but ne'er will die again. 

The rolling seasons pass away, 

And Time, untiring, waves his wing ; 

Whilst honor's laurels ne'er decay, 
But bloom in fresh unfading spring. 

All, all must sleep in grim repose, 

Collected in the silent tomb ; 
The old and young, with friends and foes, 

Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 



• " L'Amitie est l'Amour sans ailes " is a French proverb. 

f Only printed in the private volume. 

J No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemoun, 
Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times, the fame of Marl* 
borough, Frederick the Great, Ceunt Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c, an 
familiar to every historical reader, but the exact place of their birth is kncvn 
to a very small proportion of their admirers. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



447 



The mouldering marble lasts its day, 
Yet falls at length an useless fane ; 

To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey, 

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 

What though the sculpture be destroy'd, 
From dark oblivion meant to guard ? 

A bright renown shall be enjoy'd 
By those whose virtues claim reward. 

Then do not say the common lot 
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave ; 

Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 



1806. 



TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER* 

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind : 
I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 

But retirement accords with the tone of my mind ; 
I will not descend to a world I despise. 

Did the senate or camp my exertions require, 
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth ; 

When infancy's years of probation expire, 

Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 

The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd, 
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ; 

At length in a volume terrific reveal'd, 
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 

Oh ! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 
Bids me live but to hope for prosperity's praise. 

Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, 
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 

For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 
What censure, what danger, what wo would I brave ! 

Their lives did not end when they yielded their 
breath, 
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? 

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules ? 
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd ? 

Why search for delight in the friendship of fools ? 

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love ; 

In friendship I early was taught to believe ; 
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove ; 

I have found that a friend may profess, yet de- 
ceive. 

To me what is wealth ? it may pass in an hour, 
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown. 

To me what is title ? — the phantom of power ; 
To me what is fashion ? — I seek but renown. 

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul, 
I still am unpractised to varnish the truth ; 

Then why should I live in a hateful control ? 
Why waste upon folly the days of my youth ? 



"( Only found in the private rolume. 



THE DEATH OF- CALMAR AND ORLA.* 

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.f 

Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on 
their remembrance through the mist of time. In 
the twilight, he recalls the sunny hours of morn. 
He lifts his spear with trembling hand. " Not thus 
feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!" 
Past is the race of heroes ! but their fame rises on 
the harp ; their souls ride on the wings of the wind ; 
they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, 
and rejoice in their hall of clouds ! Such is Calmar. 
The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks 
down from eddying tempests ; he rolls his form in 
the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the moun- 
tain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fin- 
gal. His steps in the field were marked in blood ! 
Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear ; but 
mild was the eye of Calmar : soft was the flow of 
his yellow locks : they streamed like the meteor of 
the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul : his 
thoughts were given to friendship ; to dark-haired 
Orla, destroyer of heroes ! Equal were their swords 
in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla: gentle 
alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave 
of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue 
waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal 
roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the 
ocean ! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They 
come to the aid of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. 
But the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. 
The sons of Lochlin slept ; their dreams were of 
blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal 
flies. Not so _the host of Morven. To watch was 
the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their 
spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs ; 
they stood around. The king was in the midst. 
Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the 
king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of 
Morven," said the hero, " to-morrow we meet the 
foe: but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin ? He 
rests in the halls of Tura ; he knows not of our 
coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the 
hero, and call the chief to arms ? The path is by 
the swords of foes, but many are my heroes. They 
are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! Who 
will arise ?" 

"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark- 
haired Orla, " and mine alone. What is death to 
me ? 1 love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the 
danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek 
car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of 
bards ; and lay me by the stream of Lubar." — " And 
shalt thou fall alone ?" said fair-haired Calmar. 
" Wilt thou leave thy friend afar ? Chief of Oithona ! 
not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, 
and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been 
the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells : 
ours be the path of danger : ours has been the cave 
of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on the 



• First published in Hours of Idleness. 

t It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied 
in the catastrophe, is taken from " Nisus and Euryalus," of which episode • 
translation is already given in the present volume. 



448 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



banks of Lubar." " Calmar," said the chief of 
Oithona; "why should thy yellow locks be dark- 
ened in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My 
father dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in his 
boy ; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for 
her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the 
hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of 
Calmar. Let him not say, ' Calmar has fallen by 
the steel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy Orla, the 
chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the 
azure eye of Mora ? Why should her voice curse 
Orla, the destroyer of Calmar ? Live, Calmar ! 
Live to raise my stone of moss ; live to revenge me 
in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards 
above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to 
Orla from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall 
smile on the notes of praise." " Orla," said the son 
of Mora, " could I raise the song of death to my 
friend ? Could I give his fame to the winds ? No, 
my heart would speak in sighs. Faint and broken 
are the sounds of sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall 
hear the song together. One. „cloud shall be ours on 
high. The bards will mingle the names of Orla and 
Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps 
are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak 
dim twinkles through the night. The northern star 
points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests 
on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they 
frown in sleep ; their shields beneath their heads. 
Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. The fires 
are faint ; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed ; 
but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel 
the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the 
journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, 
meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glist- 
ens through the shade. His spear is raised oxi 
high. " Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of 
Oithona ? " said fair-haired Calmar. " We are in the 
midst of foes. Is this a time for delay ?" " It is a 
time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. 
" Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear ? 
Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The 
blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I 
slay him sleeping, son of Mora ? No ! he shall feel his 
wound : my fame shall not soar on the blood of 
slumber. Rise ! Mathon ! rise ! the son of Conna 
calls ; thy life is his ; rise to combat." Mathon 
starts from sleep ; but did he rise alone ? No : the 
gathering chiefs bound on the plain. "Fly! Cal- 
mar! fly!" said dark-haired Orla. "Mathon is 
mine. I shall die in joy. But Lochlin crowds 
around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla 
turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft ; his shield falls 
from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls 
by the side of -the blazing oak. Strumon sees him 
fall : his wrath rises : his weapon glitters on the 
head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His 
brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the 
spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the ocean on 
two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of 
Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in 
foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise 
the chiefs of Morven oh the scattered crests of Loch- 
lin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He 
strikes his shield ; his sons throng around ; the peo- 
ple pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. 
Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes his spear. 
The eagle wing of Fillan. floats on the wind. Dread- 



ful is the clang of death ! many are the widows ol 
Lochlin. Morven prevails in his strength. 

Morn glimmers on the hills ; no living foe is seen; 
but the sleepers are many ; grim they lie on Erin. 
The breeze of ocean lifts their locks ; yet they do not 
awake. The hawks scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a 
chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they 
mingle with the dark hair of his friend. " 'Tis Cal- 
mar : he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one 
stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy 
Orla. He breathes not ; but his eye is still a flame. 
It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in 
Calmar's ; but Calmar lives ! he lives, though low. 
"Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis 
mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet 
bound on the hills of Morven." 

" Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Mor- 
ven with Orla," said the hero. " What were the 
chase to me alone ? Who would share the spoils of 
battle with Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough was 
thy soul, Orla ! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. 
It glared on others in lightning ; to me a silver 
beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora j 
let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from 
blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my 
friend. Raise the song when I am dark !" 

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. 

When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the 
blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. 
The bards raised the song. 

" What form rises on the roar of clouds ? Whoso 
dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests ? 
His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown 
chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. 
Peace to thy soul, Orla ! thy fame will not perish. 
Nor thine, Calmar ! Lovely wast thou, son of blue- 
eyed Mora ; but not harmless was thy sword. It 
hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek 
around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar ! It 
dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name 
shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy 
fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch 
of the rainbow ; and smile through the tears of the 
storm."* 



TO E. N. L. ESQ.f 

11 Nil ego contulenm jucundo sanus ajuico." — Hot. E. 

Dear L , in this sequester'd scene, 

While all around in slumber lie, 
The joyous days which ours have been 
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; 
Thus if amid the gathering storm, 
While clouds the darken'd noon deform, 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow, 
Which spreads the sign of future peace, 
And bids the war of tempest cease. 



* I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope tha. 
Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems com- 
plete in themselves ; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the 
work remains undisputed, though not without faults— particularly, in some 
parts, tnrgid and bombasdc diction. The present humble imitation will be 
pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior, 
which evinces an attachment to their favorite author. 

f First published in Hours of Idleness. 





^gS&^S&zz^-r-. 



<0^^xis -■■.■»53SsSS5SrS®«SE»?J' 






HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



449 



Ah! though the present brings but pain, 

I think those days may come again ; 

Or if, in melancholy mood, 

Some lurking envious fear intrude, 

To check my bosom's fondest thought, 

And interrupt the golden dream, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace, 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore, 
Nor through the groves of Ida chase 

Our raptured visions as before, 
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
And Manhood claims his stern dominion ; 
Age will not every hope destroy, 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of Spring : 
But if his scythe must sw'eep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowers, 
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
If frowning Age, with cold control, 
Confines the current of the soul, 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh, 
Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan, 
And bids me feel for self alone ; 
Oh ! may my bosom never learn 

To soothe its wonted heedless flow ; 
Still, still despise the censor stern, 

But ne'er forget another's wo. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which remembrance yet delays, 
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild, 
Aud even in age at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 

To you my soul is still the same : 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn, 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue ! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er ; 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I'll think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 

And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
We heed no more the wintry blast, 

When lull'd by zephyr to repose. 
Full often has my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
But now, without a theme to choose, 

The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown ; 

E is a wife, and C a mother, 

And Carolina sighs alone, 

And Mary's given to another ; 
And Cora's eye, which rolled on me, 

Can now no more my love recall ; 
In truth, dear L , 'twas time to flee; 

For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
And though the sun, with genial rays, 
His beams alike to all displays, 
And every lady's eye's a sun, 
These last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridian don't become her 
Whose sun displays a general summer ! 
Thus faint is every former flame, 
57 



And passion's self is now a name. 
As, when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved their light, 
And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 

Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
Thus has it been with passion's fires, 

As many a boy and girl remembers, 
With all the force of love expires, 

Extinguished with the dying embers. 

But now, dear L , 'tis midnight's noon, 

And clouds obscure the watery moon, 
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
Described in every stripling's verse; 
For why should I the path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before ? 
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, 
Has thrice retraced her path of light, 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; 
And then with those our childhood knew, 
We'll mingle with the festive crew ; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing the laughing hours away ; 
And all the flow of souls shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower, 
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn. 



TO .* 

Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine, 
As once this pledge appear'da token, 

These follies had not then been mine, 
For then my peace had not been broken. 

To thee these early faults I owe, 

To thee, the wise and old reproving : 

They know my sins, but do not know 
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 

For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
And all its rising fires could smother ; 

But now thy vows no more endure, 
Bestow'd by thee upon another. 

Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 
And spoil the blisses that await him ; 

Yet let my rival smile' in joy, 
For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 

Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, 
My heart no more can rest with any ; 

But what is sought in thee alone, 
Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, 
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 

Nor Hope, nor Memory, yield their aid, 
But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 



Mils Chaworth. First published in (he first edition of Hours of Idlenet*. 



450 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Yet all this giddy waste of years, 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 
These varied loves, these matron's fears, [ures ; 
These thoughtless strains to Passion's meas- 

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd : 
This cheek, now pale from early riot, 

"With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 

Yes, once this rural scene was sweet, 
For nature seem'd to smile before thee, 

And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, 
For then it beatybut to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other joys ; 

To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 

In spite of every vain endeavor ; 
And fiends might pity what I feel, 

To know that thou art lost for ever. 



STANZAS.* 

I "would 1 were a careless child, 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wild, 

Or bounding o'er the dark -blue wave ; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxonf pride 

Accords not with the freeborn soul, 
Which loves the mountain's craggy side, 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 

Fortune ! take back these cultured lands. 

Take back this name of splendid sound, 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me along the rocks I love, 

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar ; 
I ask but this — again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known before. 

Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er design'd for me : 
Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be ? 
Onoe I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss : 
Truth ! — wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this ? 

I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my early friends are fled : 
How cheerless feels the heart alone, 

When all its former hopes are dead ? 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still. 

How dull ! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power. 



Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few, 

In years and feelings still the same, 
And I will fly the midnight creW, 

Where boist'rous joy is but a name. 

And woman ! lovely woman, thou, 

My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now, 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall. 
Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid wo, 
To make that calm contentment mine, 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 

Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
My breast requires the sullen glen, 

Whose gloom may suit a darkcn'd mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 

To flee away, and be at rest.* 



LINES f 

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCH VARB 
OF HARROW ON THE HILL, SEPTEMBER 2, 1807- 

Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh, 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
With those who. scatter'd far, perchance deplore, 
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before : 
Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
Thou drooping Elm ' beneath whose boughs I lay, 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, 
But, ah ! without the thoughts which then were mine. 
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 
Invite the bosom to recall the past, 
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
" Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell ! " 
When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, 
And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
Oft have I thought 'twould soothe my dying hour, 
If aught may soothe when life resigns ner power, 
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell : 
With this fond dream methinks 'twere sweet to die — ■ 
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie ; 
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ; 
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd ; 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved ; 
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, 
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here ; 
Deplored by those, in early days allied, 
And unremember'd by the world beside. 



• First published in the second edition of Houre of Idleness. 
t Sassenage, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or 
Oigluh. 



• Psalm iv. ver. 6.—" And 1 said. Oh I that 1 had wings like a dove J fot 
then would I fly away, and be at rest." This verse also constitutes a put 
of the most beautiful anthem in our language. 

t First published in the second edition of the Hours of Idleoew. 



CRITIQUE, 



EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, FOR JANUARY, 1808. 



Hours of Idleness ; a Series of Poems, original and 
translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a 
Minor. 8vo. pp. 200.— Newark, 1807. 

The poesy of this young lord belongs to the class 
which neither gods nor men are said to permit. 
Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity 
of verse with so few deviations in either direction 
from that exact standard. His effusions are spread 
over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below 
the level, than if they were so much stagnant water, 
As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author 
is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We 
have it in the titlepage, and on the very back of the 
volume ; it follows his name like a favorite part of 
his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the pre- 
face ; and the poems are connected with this general 
statement of his case, by particular dates, substan 
tiating the age at which each was written. Now, 
the law upon the point of minority we hold to be 
perfectly clear. It is, a plea available only to the 
defendant ; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplement 
ary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be 
brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of 
compelling him to put into court a certain quantity 
of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, 
it is highly probable that an exception would be 
taken, were he to deliver for poetry the contents of 
this volume. To this he might plead minority; 
but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the 
article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for 
the price in good current praise, should the goods 
be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on 
the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. 
Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he ten's us 
about his youth is rather with a view to increase our 
wonder than to soften our censures. He possibly 
means to say, " See how a minor can write ! This 
poem was actually composed by a young man of 
eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen ! " — But, 
alas ! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, 
and Tope at twelve ; and so far from hearing, with 
any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were 
written by a youth from his leaving school to his 
leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to 
be the most common of all occurrences ; that it 
happens in the life of nine men in ten who are 
sducated in England; and that the tenth man 
writes better verse than Lord Byron. 

His other plea of privilege our author rather 
Drings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, 



however, does allude frequently to his family and 
ancestors — sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes ; 
and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, 
he takes care to remember us of Dr. Johnson's 
saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, 
his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. la 
truth, it is this consideration only that induces us 
to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, 
beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forth 
with abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which 
are considerable, and his opportunities, which are 
great, to better account. 

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to 
assure him, that the mere rhyming of the final 
syllable, even when accompanied by the presence ot 
a certain number of feet, — nay, although (which 
does not always happen) those feet should scan 
regularly, and have been all counted accurately 
upon the fingers, — is not the whole art of poetry. 
We would entreat him to believe, that a certain 
portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is neces- 
sary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in the 
present day, to be read, must contain as least one 
thought, either in a little degree different from the 
ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. 
We put it to his candor, whether there is any thing 
so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the 
following, written in 1806 ; and whether, if a youth 
of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to 
his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it: 

" Shades of heroes, farewell t your descendant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

" Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret : 

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation ; 

The fume of his father's he ne'er can forget. 

11 That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish i 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 
Like you will l,e live, or like you will he perish ; 
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own." 

Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing 
better than these stanzas in the whole compass of 
the noble minor's volume. 

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting 
what the greatest poets have done before him, for 
comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see 
at his writing-master's) are odious. — Gray's Ode on 
Eton College should really have kept out the ten 
hobbling stanzas " On a distant View of the Village 
and School of Harrow." 



452 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 
How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied." 

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers 
" On a Tear," might have warned the noble author 
off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen 
auch stanzas as the following : 

" Mild Charity's glow, 

To us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 

Compassion will melt 

Where thi6 virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

" The man doom'd to sail 

With the blast of the gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, 

As he bends o'er the wave, 

Which may soon be his grave, 
The green sparkles bright Willi a Tear." 

And so of instances in which former poets had 
failed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was 
made for translating, during his nonage, " Adrian's 
Address to his Soul," when Pope succeeded so 
indifferently in the attempt. If our readers, how- 
ever, are of another,opinion, they may look at it. 



" Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite, 
Friend and associate of this day 1 

To what unknown region borne ; 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
No more with wonted humor gay, 

.But pallid, cheerless, and furlurn." 

However, be this as it may, we fear his transla- 
tions and imitations are great favorites with Lord 
Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon 
to Ossian ; and, viewing them as school exercises, 
they may pass. Only, why print them after they 
have had their day and served their turn ? And 
why call the thing in p. 79* a translation, where 
two words (SiAco \eynv) of the original are expanded 
into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81, t where 
lisaovvKTiais woS' cjoikc is rendered by means of six 
hobbling verses ? As to his Ossianic poesy, we are 
not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately 
skilled in that species of composition, that we 
should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of 
the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express 
our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If. then, 
the following beginning of a " Song of Bards " is 
by his his lordship, we venture to object to it, as far 
as we can comprehend it. "What form rises on 
the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the 
red stream of tempests ? His voice rolls on the 
thunder; 'tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. 
He was," &c. After detaining this "brown chief" 
some time, the bards conclude by giving him their 
advice to " raise his fair locks;" then to "spread 
them on the arch of the rainbow; " and " to smile 
through the tears of the storm." Of this kind of 
thing there are no less than nine pages ; and we can 
so far venture an opinion in their favor, that they 
look very like Macpherson; and we are positive 
they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. 

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists: 
but they should "use it as not abusing it;" and 
particularly one who piques himself (though indeed 
at the ripe age of nineteen) of being " an infant 



See page 431. 



t Page 421. 



Sard," — ("The artless Helicon I boast is youth' ) 
— should either not know, or should seem not t<? 
know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a 
poem above cited, on the family seat of the Byrons, 
we have another of eleven pages, on the self-samt 
subject, introduced with an apology, "he certainly 
had no intention of inserting it," but really "the 
particular request of some friends," &c. &c. It 
concludes with five stanzas on himself, "the last 
and youngest of a noble line." There is a good 
deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on 
Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of 
his youth, and might have learned that pibroch is 
not a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. 

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his 
volume to immortalize his employments at school 
and at college, we cannot possibly dismiss it with- 
out presenting the reader with a specimen of these 
ingenious effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, 
called Granta, we have the following magnificent 
stanzas: 

11 There, in apartments small and damp, 

The candidate for college prizes 

Sits poriiiir by the midnight lamp, 

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

" Who reads false quantities in Sele, 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, 
Deprived of many a wholesome meal, 
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: 

" Renouncing every pleasing page, 
From authors of historic use, 
Preferring to the letter'd sage 
The square of the hypolhenuse. 

11 Still harmless are these occupations, 

That hurt none but the hapless student, 
Compared with other recreations, 

Which bring together the imprudent." 

We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the 
college psalmody as is contained in the following 
Attic stanzas : 

' " Our choir would hardly be excused 
Even as a band of raw begiuuers ; 
All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set oi croaking sinners. 

" If David, when liis toils were ended, 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 
To us his psalms had ne'er descended : 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em ! " 

But whatever judgment may be passed on the 
poems of this noble minor, it seems we must take 
them as we find them, and be content ; for they are 
the last we shall ever have from him. He is, at 
best, he says, but an intruder into the groves of 
Parnassus ; he never lived in a garret, like thorough- 
bred poets ; and " though he once roved a careless 
mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland," he 
has not of late enjoyed this advantage. Moreover, 
he expects no profit from his publication; and, 
whether it succeeds or not, "it is highly improba- 
ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," that 
he should again condescend to become an author. 
Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. 
What right have we poor devils to be nice ? We 
are well off to have got so much from a man of this 
lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but 
has the sway " of Newstead Abbey. Again, we 
say, let us be thankful; and, with honest Sancho, 
bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in 
the mouth. 



ENGLISH BARDS 

AND 

SCOTCH REVIEWERS;* 

A SATIRE. 



1 1 had rather be a kitten, and cry mew 1 
Than oue of these same metre ballad-mongers." 

SHAKSPEARE. 
' Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 'tis true, 
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too." 

POPE. 



A FIFTH edition of the "English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers," in which Lord Byron intro- 
duced several alterations and corrections, was pre- 
pared in 1812, but was, at his desire, destroyed on 
the eve of publication. One copy of this edition 
alone escaped, from which the satire has been printed 
in the present volume. The Author re-perused the 
poem in the latter part of the summer in 1816, after 
his final departure from England. He at that time 
also corrected the text in several places, and added 
a few notes and observations in the margin, which 
the reader will find inserted. On the blank leaf 
preceding the title-page of the copy from which he 
read, Lord Byron has written — "The binding of 
this volume is considerably too valuable for the 
contents ; and nothing but the consideration of its 
being the property of another prevents me from 
consigning this miserable record of misplaced anger 
and indiscriminate acrimony to the flames." 



PREFACE.f 

All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged 
me not to publish this satire with my name. If I 
were to be " turned t from the career of my humor 
by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain," 
I should have complied with their counsel. But I 



• In the original manuscript, the title was " THE BRITISH BARDS, 
A SATIRE." 

t This preface was written for the second edition, and printed with it. 
The noble author had left this country previous to the publication of that edi- 
ton, and is not yet returned. — Note to the fourth edition, 1811. - 

He u, and gone again. 1816.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 



am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by review- 
ers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I 
have attacked none personally who did not com- 
mence on the offensive. An author's works are 
public property : he who purchases may judge, and 
publish his opinion if he pleases ; and the authors 
I have endeavored to commemorate may do by me 
as I have done by them : I dare say they will 
succeed better in condemning my scribblings than 
in mending their own. .But my object is not to 
prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make 
others write better. 

As the poem has met with far more success than 
I expected, I have endeavored m this edition to 
make some additions and alterations, to render it 
more worthy of public perusal. 

In the first edition of this satire, published anony- 
mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's 
Pope were written by, and inserted at the request 
of, an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in the 
press a volume of poetry. In the present edition 
they are erased, and some of my own substituted in 
their stead ; my only reason for this being that 
which I conceive would operate with any other 
person in the same manner, a determination net to 
publish with my name any production whim was 
not entirely and exclusively my own composition. 

With * regard to the real talents of many of the 
poetical persons whose performances are mentioned 
or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed 
by the author that there can be little difference of 
opinion in the public at large ; though, like other 
sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of prose- 
lytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his fault? 



The preface to the first edition began here. 



454 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



overlooked, and his metrical canons received without 
scruple and without consideration. But the unques- 
tionable possession of considerable genius by several 
of the writers here censured renders their mental 
prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be 
pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten ; per- 
verted powers demand the most decided reprehension. 
No one can wish more than the author that some 
known and able writer had undertaken their expos- 
ure ; but Mr. Gifford has devoted hinfself to Massin- 
ger, and, in the absence of the regular physician, a 
country practitioner may, in cases of absolute neces- 
sity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to prevent 
the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided 
there be no quackery in his treatment of the mal- 
ady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared 
nothing short of actual cautery can recover the 
numerous patients afflicted with the present preva- 
lent and distressing rabies for rhyming. — As to the 
Edinburgh Reviewers — it would indeed require an 
Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author 
succeeds in merely "bruising one of the heads of 
the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in 
the encounter, he will be amply satisfied. 



Still* must I hear ? — shall hoarse Fitzgeraldf bawlj 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse ? 
Prepare for rhyme — I '11 publish, right or wrong : 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 

Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill ! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labor, big with verse or prose, 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
What wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 
Our task complete, like Hamet's§ shall be free ; 
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me : 
Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream|| 



• The first ninety-six Hoes were prefixed to the second editioo : the original 
cr/ened with — 

Time was, ere yet io these degenerate days, 
Ignoble themes, &c. — Line 97. 
f Hoarse Fitzgerald.— Bight enough; but why notice such a mounte- 
t>ank ? — MS. note by Lord Byron. 

X IMITATION. 
" Semper ego auditor tantum ? nunquamne reponam, 
Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri ? " 

Juvenal, Satire I. 
Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the "Small Beer Poet," 
.nflicts his annual tribute of verse on the " Literary Fund : " not content 
with writing, he spouts in person, after the company have imbibed a reason* 
able quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation. 

§ Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen in the last chapter of 
Don Quixote. Oh I that our voluminous gentry would follow the example 
of Cid Hamet Benengeli. 

U No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream. — This must have been writ- 
ten in the spirit of prophecy. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 



Inspires — our path, though full of 'horns, is plain 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey ; 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime ; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale ; 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit ! but not belong 

To me the arrows of satiric song ; 

The royal vices of our age demand 

A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 

Still there are follies," e'en for me to chase, 

A.nd yield at least amusement in the race: 

Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 

The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 

Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small, 

Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 

1 too can scrawl, and once upon a time 

I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 

A schoolboy ij'eak, unworthy praise or blame; 

I printed — older children dt> the same. 

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 

A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. 

Not that a title's sounding charm can save 

Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 

This Lambe must own,* since his patrician name 

Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 

No matter, George continues still to write, J 

Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. 

Moved by the great example, I pursue 

The self-same road, but make my own review: 

Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be 

Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time to ev'ry trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote; 
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : 
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit ; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 

And shall we own such judgment ? no — as soon 

Seek roses in December — ice in June ; 

Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 

Believe a woman or an epitaph, 

Or any other thing that's false, before 

You trust in critics, who themselves are sore, 

Or yield one single thought to be misled 

By Jeffrey's heart or Lambe's Boeotian head. § 



• 77<is Lambe must own.— He's a very good fellow, and except his rcotnel 
and sister, the best of the set, to my rr.ind. — MS. 7iole of Lord Byron. 

t This ingenuous youth is menlioued more particularly, with his produc- 
tions, in another place. 

J In the Edinhurgh Review. 

§ By Jeffrey's heart or Lambe's Bmotian head. — This was not just. 
Neither the heart nor the head of these gentlemen are at all what they ans 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



45 a 



To these young tyrants,* by themselves misplaced, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 
To these, when authors bend in humble awe, 
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law — 
While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare ; 
While such are critics, why should I forbear? 
But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

fThen should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Gifford trod before ; 
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed : 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
But hold ! X exclaims a friend, — here's some neglect ; 
This — that — and 't other line seem incorrect. 
What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got, 
And careless Dryden — ay — but Pye has not, — 
Indeed ! — 'tis granted, faith ! — but what care I ? 
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 

i 
Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days, 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, 
When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
No fabled graces, flourish'd side by side ; 
From the same fount their inspiration drew, 
And, rear'd by taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. 
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 
A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song, 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Otway's 

melt — 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page, 
Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
This truth at least let satire's self allow, 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now : 
The loaded press beneath her labor groans, 
And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
While Soufhey's epics cram the creaking shelves, 
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
§Thus saith the preacher: || "Nought beneath the 

sun ; 
Is new } " yet still from change to change we run : 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 



here represented. At the time this was written (1S08) I was personally unac- 
quainted with either. 1816. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 

Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the alpha and omega, the first and the last 
of the Edinburgh Review ; the others are mentioned hereafter. 
* " Stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique 

. occurras periturre parcere charta*." 

Juvenal, Satire I. 
t IMITATION. 
11 Cur tamen hoc libeal potius decurrere campo 
Per quern magnus equos Aurutics flexit alumnu3 
Si vacat, et placida latfonem admittitis edam." 

Juvenal, "Satire I. 
t But hold I exclaims a friend, &c. — The following six lines were inserted 
la the fifth edition. 

§ Thus saith the preacher, &c -The following fourteen lines were inserted 
fcl the second edition. 
| Eeclesiastes, chap. i. 



In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ! 
Nor less new schools of poetry -arise, 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail ; 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not, 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott.* 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
For notice eager, pass in long review : 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race , 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
And tales of terror jostle on the road : 
Immeasurable measures move along ; 
For simpering folly loves a varied song, 
To strange mysterious dullness still the friend, 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrelsf — may they be the last! — 
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, 
Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace, 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 



* Stott, better known in the " Morning Post " by the name of Hafiz 
This personage is at present the most profound explorer of the bathos. 1 
remember, when the reigning family kit Portugal, a special ode of Mastel 
Stott's, beginning thus: 

(Stott loquitur quoad Hibernia.) 
" Princely offspring of Braganza, 

Erin greets thee with a stanza," &c. &c. 
Also a sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thundering ode, 
commencing as follows : 

" Oh I for a Lay ! loud as the surge 
That lashes Lapland's sounding shore." 
Lord have mercy on us ! the ".Lay of the Last Minstrel" was nothing to 
•his. 

t See the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never was any plan so 
incongruous and absurd as the groundwork ol this production. The entrance 
of Thunder and Lightning prologuizing to Bayes's tragedy unfortunately 
takes away the merit of originality from the dialogue between Messieurs the 
Spirits of Flood and Fell in the first canto. Then we have the amiable 
William of Deloraine, " a stark moss-trooper," videlicet, a happy compound 
of poacher, sheep-slealer, and highwayman. The propriety of his magical 
lady's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his candid acknowledg- 
ment of his independence of the trammels of spelling, although, la use his 
own elegant phrase, " 'twas his neck-verse at hairbee," i. e. the gallows. 

The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, who 
travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, without the aid of seven-leagued 
boots, are the chef de asuvres in the improvement of taste. For incident we 
have the invisible, but by no means sparing box on the ear, bestowed on the 
page, and the entrance of a knight and charger into the castle, under the 
very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion, the hero of the latter 
romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine would have been, had ii-; 
been able to lead and write. The poem was manufactured for Messrs 
Constable, Murray, and Miller, worshipful booksellers, in consideration ol 
the receipt of a sum of money a-nd truly, considering the inspiration, it is a 
very creditable production. If Mr. Scott will write for hire, let him do his 
best for his paymasters, but not disgrace his g.-nius, which is undoubtedly 
great, by a repetition of flack-letter ballad imitations. 



456 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchance, 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line ? 
No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : 
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain, 
And sadly gaze on gbld they cannot gain ! 
Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
And bid a long "good night to Marmion."* 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
While. Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was j'oung, 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
While awe-struck rations hail'd the magic name ! 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years.f 
Empires have moulder' d from the face of earth, 
Tongues have expired with those who gave them 

birth, 
Without the glory such a strain can give, 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
On one great work a life of labor spent : 
With eagle pinions soaring to the skies, 
Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
"Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
The scourge of England and the boast of France ! 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, J 
Arabia's monstrous, wild and wond'rous son ; 
Domdaniel'& dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'crcome, 
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Since startled metre fled before thy face, 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence, 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
Now, last and greatest Madoc spreads his sails, 
Cacique in Mexico and prince in Wales : 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
More old than Mandeville's and not so true. 



* " Good night to Marmion " — the pathetic and also prophetic exclamation 
of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the death of honest Marmion. 

t As the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story of the Iliad, they 
may almost be classed as one grand historical poem. In alluding to Milton 
and Tasso, we consider the " Paradise Lost," and " Gierusalemme Liberata, " 
as their standard efforts, since neither the "Jerusalem Conquered " of the 
Italian, nor the " Paradise Regained " of the English bard, obtained a pro- 
portionate celebrity to their former poems. Query : Which of Mr. Southey's 
will survive ? 

t Thalaba, Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in open defiance of pre- 
cedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something novel, and succeeded 
to a miracle. Joan of Arc was marvellous enough, but Thalaba was one of 
those poems " which," in the words of Porson, " will be read when Homer 
and Virgil are forgotten, but— not till Vien." 



Oh ! Southey ! Southey ! * cease thy varied song ! 

A bard may chant too often and too long ; 

As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare ! 

A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. 

But if, in spite of all the world can say, 

Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; 

If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil, 

Thou wilt devote old women 4o the devil,f 

The babe unborn thy dread intent may rUe : 

" God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too. J 

§Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 

That mild apostate from poetic rule, 

The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 

As soft as evening in his favorite May, 

Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and troubla 

And quit his books for fear of growing double ; " [| 

Who, both by precept and example, shows 

That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; 

Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 

Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 

And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 

Contain the essence of the true sublime. 

Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 

The idiot mother of " an idiot boy ;" 

A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, 

And, like his bard, confounded night with day ; IT 

So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 

And each adventure so sublimely tells, 

That all who view the " idiot in his glory, 

Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 

To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 

Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 

Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. 

If Inspiration should her aid refuse 

To him who takes a pixy for a muse,** 

Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 

The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 

So well the subject suits his noble mind, 

He brays, the laureat of the long-ear'd kind. ft 



* We beg Mr. Southey's pardon : " Madoc disdains the degrading tide 01 
pic." See his preface. Why is epic degraded ! and by whom ? Certainly 
the late romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laureat Pye, Ogilvy, Hole, and gentle 
Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the epic muse ; but as Mr. Southey's 
poem " disdains the appellation," allow us to ask — has he substituted any 
thing belter instead ? or must he be content to rival Sir Richard Blackmore in 
the quantity as well as the quality of his verse ? 

t See "The Old Woman of Berkley," a ballad, by Mr. Southey, wherein an 
aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a "high-trotting horse." 
| The last line, " God help thee," is an evident plagiarism from the Anti- 
cobin to Mr. Southey, on his dactylics : 

" God help thee, silly one 1 " 

Poetry of Hie Anti-jacoUn, p. 25. 
§ Against this passage on Wordsworth ami Coleridge, Lord Byron has 
written " unjust." 

|| Lyrical Ballads, p. 4.— "The Tables Turned." Stanza I. 
" Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 
Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, 
Or surely you'll grow double." 
^T Mr. W. in his preface labors hard to prove that prose and verse are 
much the same; and certainly his precepts and practice are strictly con- 
formable. 

" And thus to Betty's questions, he 
Made answer like a traveller bold, 
The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo, 
And the sun did shine so cold," &c. Sec. 

Lyrical Ballads, p. 129. 
1 Coleridge's Poems, p. 11, Songs of the Pixies, i. e. Devonshire fairiet; 
p. 42, we have " Lines to a Young Lady; " and p. 5Z, " Lines to a youcf 
is." 

ft He brays. Hie laureat of Vie long-ear'd kind.— Altered by Lord Byre* 
in bis last revision of the satire. In all former editions the line stood, 
" A fellow-feeling makes us wond'rous kind." 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



457 



Oh ! wonder-working Lewis ! monk, or bard, 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard ! 
Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou takest thy stand, 
By gibb'ring spectres hail'd thy kindred band; 
Or tracest chaste description on thy page, 
To please the females of our modest age : 
All hail, M. P. ! * from whose infernal brain 
Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
At whose command "grim women" throng in 

crowds, 
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, 
With " small gray men," " wild yagers," and what- 
not, 
To crown with honor thee and Walter Scott ; 
Again all hail ! if tales like thine may please, 
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; 
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 

Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, 

With sparkling eyes and cheek by passion flush'd, 

Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are 

hush'd ? 
'Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just, 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, 
She bids thee "mend thy line,f and sin no more." 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 

To whom such glittering ornaments beiong, 

Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of blue, J 

And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, 

Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires, 

And o'er harmonious fustian^ half expires, 

Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 

Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 

Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 

By dressing Comoens|| in a suit of lace ! 

Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste ; 

Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but chaste : 

Cease to deceive ; thy pilfered harp restore, 

Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 

IT Behold ! — ye tarts ! one moment spare the text — 
Hayley's last work, and worst — until his next ; 



• " For every one knows little Matt's an M. P."— See a poem to Mr, 
Lewis, in The Statesman, supposed to be written by Mr. Jekyll. 
t In the original manuscript, " Mend thy life." 

I The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may refer to 

" Strangfird's Camoens," page 127, note to page 56, or to the last page of 

.he Edinburgh Review of Strangford's Camoens. 

§ Fustian; in the first edition, nonsense. 

] It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the public as poems of 

Camoens are no more to be found in the original Portugese, than in the 

Songs of Solomon. 

^[ * Behold ! — ye tarts I one moment spare his text — 

Hayley's last work, and worst — until his next; 

"Whether he spins poor couplets into plays, 

Or damns the dead with purgatorial praise." 

So emended by Lord Byron in the fifUi edition of tliis satire. The lines 

tere originally printed : 

" In many marble-cover'd volumes view 
Haylev, in vain attempting something new ; 
Whether he spins his comedies in rhyme, 
Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst tu"W ' 

58 



Whether he spin poor couplets into plays, 

Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise, 

His style in youth or age is still the same, 

For ever feeble and for ever tame. 

Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs" shine ! 

At least I'm sure they triumph'd over mine. 

Of " Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear 

That luckless music never triumph'd there.* 

Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
On dull devotion — lo ! the Sabbath bard, 
Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme ; 
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke,f 
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. J 

Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings 

A thousand visions of a thousand things, [years. § 

And shows, still whimpering through threescore oi 

The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 

And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles ! 

Thou first, great oracle of.tender souls ? 

|| Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief, 

The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; 

Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 

What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells.1t 

Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 

In every chime that jingled from Ostend ; 

Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap, 

If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 

Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest, 

All love thy strain, but children like it best : 

'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song, 

To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! 

With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, 

Ere miss as yet completes her infant years : 

But in her teens thy whining powers are vain ; 

She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 

Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 

The lofty numbers of a harp like thine , 

" Awake a louder and a loftier strain,"** 

Such as none heard before, or will again ! 



* Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are " Triumphs of 
Temper," and " Triumphs of Music." He has also written much comedy 
in rhyme, epistles, &c, &c. As he is rather an elegant writer of notes and 
biography, let us recommend Pope's advice to Wycherley to Mr. H.'s con- 
sideration, viz. " to convert his poetry into prose," which may be easily done 
by taking away the final syllable of each couplet. 

j " Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke." 

In the first edition, 

11 Breaks into mawkish lines each holy bbok." 
X Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of cant, under the name of 
" Sabbath Walks," and " Biblical Pictures." 

§ Still whimpering Oirough tlireescore of year3. — Thus altered in the 
fifth edition. The original reading was, 

" Dissolved in thine own melting tears." 
|| Whether Viou sing'st, &c. — This couplet, in all the editions Before Uie 
fifth, was priuted, -^ 

" Whether in sighing winds thou seek'st relief, 
Or consolation in a yellow leaf." 
IT See Bowles's Sonnets, &c— " Sonnet to Oxford," and " Stanzas on 
hearing the Bells of Ostend." 

•• " Awake a louder," &c, &c, is the first line in Bowles's "Spirit of 
Discovery ; " a very spirited and pretty dwarf epic. Among other exquisite 
lines we have die following : — 

" A kiss 
Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet 
Here heard ; they trembled even as if the power," &c, &c. 
That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much astonished, aa 
well they might be, at such a phenomenon. 

[Misquoted and misunderstood by me ; but not intentionally. It was no; 
the " woods," but the people in them who trembled — why, Heaven only 
knows — unless they were overheard making the prodigious smack. — MS. 
note by Lord Byron. 1S16.] 



458 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Where all discoveries jumbled from trie flood, 

Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, 

By more or less, are sung in every book, 

From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 

Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road, 

The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ;* 

And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss ! — 

When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 

Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell, 

Stick to thy sonnets, man ! at least they sell.f 

But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 

Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe; 

If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd, 

Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 

If Pope whose fame and genius from the first 

Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 

Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan ; 

The first of poets was, alas ! but man. 

Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 

Coiisult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll ; J 

Let all the scandals of a former age 

Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 

Affect a candor which thou canst not feel, 

Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 

Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire, 

And do for hate what Mallet J did for hire. 

Oh ! had'st thou lived in that congenial time, 

To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme ; |] 

Throng'd with the rest around his living head, 

Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead ; 

A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 

IF And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains.** 

ft Another epic ! Who inflicts again 

More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 



* The episode above alluded to is the story of " Robert a Machin " and 
" Anne d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who performed the kiss above 
mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. 
t " Slick to thy sonnets, man ! — at least they sell : 

Or take the only path that open lies 

For modern worthies who would hope to rise : 

Fix on some well-known name, and, bit by bit, 

Pare oft' the merits of his worth and wit ; 

On each alike employ the critic's knife, 

And when a comment fails, prefix a life ; 

Hint certain failings, faults U-fore unknown, 

Review forgotten lies, and add your own ; 

Let no disease, let no misfortune 'scape, 

And print, if luckily deformed, his shape : 

Thus shall the world, quite undeceived at last, 

Cleave to their present wits, and quit their past; 

Eards once revered no more with favor view, 

But give the modern sonneteers their due : 

Thus with the dead may living merit cope, 

Tims Bowles may triumph o'er the shade of Pope." 
In the first edition, the observations on Bowles ended with these lines, 
Which were written by a friend of Lord Byron," and emitted when the satire 
was published with the author's name. The following fifty-five verses, con- 
taining the conclusion of the passage on Bowles, and the notices of Cottle and 
Maurice, were then printed for the first time. 

I Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a bookseller. Lord 
Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hervey, author of " Lines to the Imitator 
of Horace." 

§ Lord Bnlingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his decease, because 
the poet had retained some copies of a work by Lord Bolingbroke, (the 
Patriot King,) which that splendid, but malignant genius, had ordered to be 
desti-jfri. 

(I ijcv..'.-3 the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. 

" Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, 
Making night hideous : answer him, ye owls I " 

Dunciad. 
Tf And Uruc'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains.— Too savage all this on 
B'-wles— MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

•* See Bowles's late edidon of Pope's works, for which he received three 
iundred pounds : thus Mr. B. has experienced how much easier it is to profit 
tty the reputation of another than to elevate his own. 

I I AnoOier epic .'—Opposite this passage on Joseph and Amos Cottle, Lord 
Byron has written, " All right." 

* Hobhouse. 



Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 

Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 

And sends his goods to market — all alive! 

Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 

Fresh fish from Helicon ! * who'll buy ! who'll buy ? 

The precious bargain's cheap — in faith not I. 

t Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat,, 

Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat ; 

If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 

And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 

In him an author's luckless lot behold, 

Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold 

Oh, Amos Cottle ! — Phoebus ! what a name 

To fill the speaking trump of future fame ! — 

Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 

What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! 

When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 

Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 

Oh pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 

Had Cottle J still adorn'd the counter's side, 

Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, 

Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 

Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, 

He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. § 

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 

Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep 

So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves / 

Dull Maurice || all his granite weight of leaves : 

Smooth solid monuments of mental pain ! 

The petrifactions of a plodding brain, [again. 

That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back 

With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, 

Lo ! sad Alcseus wanders down the vale ; 

Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at 

last, 
His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast: 
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, 
His blossoms wither as thje blast prevails ! 
O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ! 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep ! IT 

Yet say ! why should the bard at once resign 

His claim to favor from the sacred nine ? 

For ever startled by the mingled howl 

Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl ; 

A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 

** By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 



• Fresh fish from Helicon ! — " Helicon " is a mountain, and not a fish- 
pond. It should have been " Hippocrene." — MS. note by Lord Byron, 
1816. 

t Your turtle feeder's verse, &c. — This couplet was altered in the fifth 
edition. It originally stood : 

" Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight, 

Too much o'er bowls of sack prolong the night." 

% Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but one or both, once 

Hers of books they did not write, and now writers of books that do not sell, 
have published a pair of epics. "Alfred," (poor Alfred 1 Pye has been at 
him too 1) " Alfred," and the " Fall of Cambria." 

§ He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. — I saw some letters of this 
fellow (Joseph Cottle) to an unfortunate poetess, whose productions, which 
the poor woman by no means thought vainly of, he attacked so roughly and 
bitterly, that I could hardly resist assailing him, even were it unjust, which it 
is not — for verily he is an ass. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

I Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a ponderous 
quarto upon the beauties of " Richmond Hill," and the like : — it also takes 
in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and 
New, and the parts adjacent. 

Tf Poor Montgomery 1 though praised by every English Review, has been 
bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After all, the bard of Sheffield is a man 
of considerable genius : his " Wanderer of Switzerland," is worth a thousand 
" Lyrical Ballads," and at least fifty " degraded epics." 

1 See Lord Byron's letter to Mr. Murray, June 13, 1813, volume 2. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



459 



Aged or young, Vne living or the dead, 

No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. 

Why do the injured unresisting yield 

The calm possession of their native field ? 

Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 

Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat?* 

Health to immortal Jeffrey ! once, in name, 
England could boast a judge almost the same; 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, 
And given the spirit to the world again, 
To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw ; 
Since well instructed in the patriot school 
To rail at party, though a party tool, 
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
Back to the sway they forfeited before, 
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
And raise this Daniel to the judgment seat ? f 
Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope, 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
" Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care, 
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 

Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 

To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 

And guard it sacred in its future wars, 

Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ! 

Can none remember that eventful day, X 

That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, 

When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 

And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by ? § 

Oh, day disastrous ! On her firm-set rock, 

Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock : 

Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 

Low groan'3 the startled whirlwinds of the north ; 

Tweed ruffled half his wave to form a tear, 

The other half pursued its calm career; || 

Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base, 

The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 

The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 

On such occasions, feel as much as man — 

The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, 

If Jeftcry died, except within her arms : *T 



* Arthur's seat ; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 

f And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat. — Too ferocious — this is 
mere insanity. MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

X Can none remember, &c. — All this is bad, because personal. — MS. note 
by Lard Byron. 1816. 

§ In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk-Farm. The duel 
was prevented by the interference of the magistracy ; and, on examination, 
the balls of the pistols were found to have evaporated. This incident gave 
occasion to much waggery in the daily prints. 

I am informed that Mr. Moore published at the time a. disavowal of the 
statements in :lhe newspapers, as far as regarded himself; and in Justice to 
him t mention this circumstance. As 1 never heard of it before, 1 cannot 
9t te the particulars, and was only made acquainted with the fact very 
lately.— November 4, 1811. 

| The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum ; it would have been 
highly reprehensible lin the English half of the river to have shown the 
smallest symptom of apprehension. 

Tf This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth (the principal 
prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to have been most affected on this 
occasion, is much to be commended. It was to be apprehended, that the 
many unhappy criminals executed in the front might have rendered the 
edifice more callous. She is said to be of the softer sex, because her delicacy 
of feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like most feminine impul- 
ses, perhaps a little selfish. 



Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn. 
The sixteenth story, where himself was born, 
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 
And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : 
Strew'd were the streets around with milk-whita 

reams, 
Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; 
This of his candor seem'd the sable dew, 
That of his valor show'd the bloodless hue ; 
And all with justice deem'd the two combined 
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er 
The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore ; 
From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, 
And straight restored it to her favorite's head: 
That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r, 
Caught it, as Danae caught the golden show'r, 
And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine. 
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
" My son," she cried, " ne'er thirst for gore again, 
Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 
O'er politics and poesy preside, 
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ? 
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit, 
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 
So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan, 
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 
First in the oat-fed phalanx * shall be seen 
The travell'd Thane, Athenian Aberdeen.f 
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer, j and sometimes, 
In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes. 
Smug Sydney § too thy bitter page shall seek, 
And classic Hallam,|| much renown'd for Greek ; 
Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
And paltry Pillans H shall traduce his friend ; 
While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe,** 
Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damn.+f 
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 
Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 



• Oat-fed phalanx. — So altered in the fifth edition. The origina 

reading was, " ranks illustrious." 

f His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the Athenian 
Society, and reviewer of " Gell's Topography of Troy." 

} Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. One of the 

principal pieces is a "Song on the Recovery of Thor's Hammer;" the 

translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar tongue, and endeth thus : 

u Instead of money and rings, 1 wot, 

The hammer's bruises were her lot, 

Thus Odin's son his hammer got." ■ 

§ The Rev. Sydney Smith, the reputed author of Peter Plymley's Letters, 
and sundry criticisms. 

II Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's (( Taste," and was exceedingly 
severe on some Greek verses therein: it was. not discovered that the lines 
were Pindar's till the press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which 
still stands an everlasting monument of Hallam's ingenuity.* 

The said Hallam is incensed because he is falsely accused, seeing that he 
never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry — not for having 
said so, but on his account, as 1 understand his lordship's feasts are preferabb 
to his compositions. — If he did not review Lord Holland's performance, 1 an- 
glad, because it must have been painful to read, and irksome to praise it. I. 
Mr. Hallam will tell me who did review it, the real name shall find a place 
in the text ; provided, nevertheless, the said name be of two orthodox musical 
syllables, and will come into the verse : till then, Hallam must stand for want 
of a better. 

Tf Pillans is a tutor at Eaton. 

•* The Hon. G. Lambe reviewed "Beresford's Miseries," and is moreovei 
author of a farce enacted with much applause at the Priory, Stanmore ; and 
damned with great expedition at the late theatre, Covent Garden. It was 
entitled, " Whistle for it." 

ft Damn'd like Vie devil, dci'il-Uke will damn. — The line stood, in al. 
editions before the fifth, 

(( As he himself was damn'd shall try to damn." 



• Hallam's ingenuity. — The note ended here in the first edition. 



460 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



While gratt ful Britain yields the praise she owes 
To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
Yet mark one caution, ere thy next Review 
Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, 
Beware lest blundering Brougham* destroy the sale, 
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 
Her son, and vanished in a Scottish mist.f 

Then prosper, Jeffrey! J pertest.of the train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery gain ! 
Whatever blessing waits a genius Scot, 
In double portion swells thy glorious lot ; 
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets, 
And showers their odors on thy candid sheets, 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear.J 
Lo ! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamor'd grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone ; 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men, 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen ! 

Illustrious Holland ! || hard would be his lot, 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! 
Holland, with Henry Petty at his back, 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
Shall Grub street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, 
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, 
HAnd, grateful for the dainties on his plate, 
Declare his lordship can at least translate !** 
Dunedin ! view thy children with delight, 
They write for food — and feed because they write ; 
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape, 
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 



' Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh Review, throughout 
the article concerning Don Pedro de Cevallos, has displayed more politic; 
lhan policy ; many of the worthy burgesses of Edingbnrgh being so incensed 
at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subsbrip- 
liona.* 

It seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as 1 supposed, but a Eorderer. 
and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay : — So be it. 

f 1 ought to apologize to the worthy deities for introducing a new goddess 
with short petticoats to their notice : but alas I what was to be done ? 1 c 
not say Caledonia's genius, it being well known there is no such genius to be 
found from Clackmannan toCathness; yet without supernatural agency, how 
was Jeffrey to be saved ? The national " kelpies" are too unpoetical, and 
the " brownies," and " gude neighbors" (spirits of a good dispostion) re- 
fused to extricate him. A goddess, therefore, has been called for the purpose j 
and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only communi- 
cation he ever held, or is likely to hold, with any thing heavenly. 

X Then prosper, Jeffrey ! Sfc. — This paragraph was introduced in the fifth 
edition. 

§ See the color of the back binding of the Edingburgh Review. 

U fltustnous Holland! lmrd would be his lot, 

His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! 

Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds too.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 
1816. 

If And, grateful for the dainties, lee. — In all editions before the fifth, this 
:oupiet was printed, 

" And grateful to the founder of the fi-ast, 
Declare Ids landlord can translate at least." 

* * Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega, inserted 
,n his life of the author ? both are bepraised by liis disinterested guests. 



Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
Reforms each error, and refines the whole.* 

Now to the drama turn — oh ! motley sight ! 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite ! 
Piyis, and a prince within a barrel pent,f 
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania's o'er, 
And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 
While British critics suffer scenes like these ? 
While Reynolds vents his " dammees ! " " poohs ! ". 

and" zounds ! " j 
And common-place and common sense confounds ? 
While Kenny's "World" — ah! where is Kenny'a 

wit ?— 

Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit ; § 
And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in all but words ? || 
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage, 
The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent gone ? 
Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ! 
Awake, George Colman ! Cumberland, awake! 
Ring th' alarum bell ! let folly quake ! 
Oh, Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy assume her throne again ; 
Abjure the mummery of German schools; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age, 
One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, 
Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread ? IF 
On those shall Farce display buffoon'ry's mask, 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skeffiiigton, and Mother Goose, 
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot. 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
Still Sherrington and Goose divide the prize. 
And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise, 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs ; ** 
Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on, ft 



* Their subscriptions.— Here followed in the first edidon, " The name of 
tVrs personage is pronounced Broom in the south, but the truly northern and 
tfiusical'pronunciationis Brougham, in two syllables." 

The couclusiiu of the note was substituted for the above in the second 
edition. 



• Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having displayed her matchlesa 
wit in the Edinburgh Review. However that may be, we know, from good 
authority, that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal — no doubt, for cor 
rection. 

t In the melo-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prince ia clapt into a barrel on 
the stage j a new asylum for distressed heroes. 

I All these are favorite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and prominent in hit 
comedies, living and defunct. 
§ " While Kenny's "World," — ah ! where is Kenny's wit ? — 

Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit." 
Thus corrected in the fifth edition. The lines were originally printed, 
"While Kenny's " World," just suffered to proceed, 
Proclaims the audience very kind indeed." 
H Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury-lane theatre, stripped the 
trao-edy of Bonduca of the dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle 
ofCaractacus. — Was this worthy ofhis sire, or of himself? 

TT Siddons Hoes to tread. — In all editions previous to the fifth, " Kemble 
lives to tread." 

* » Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury-lane theatre — at 
such, Mr. Skeffington is much indebted to him. 

ft Mr. Skeffington is the illustrious author of the "Sleeping Beauty;" 
and some comedies, particularly " Maids and Bachelors:" Baculaurii b»- 
culo magis quam lauro digni. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



461 



While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with 4he scene, 
Stares,* wondering what the devil it can mean ; 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are we now — ah ! wherefore should we turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
Degen'rate Britons ! are ye dead to shame, 
Or, kind to dullness, do you fear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles of our present race 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face ; 
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
And worship Catalina's pantaloons,-)- 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humor than grimace. 

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 

To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, 

Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 

To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down : 

Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 

And bless the premise which his form displays ; 

While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks 

Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes : 

Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 

Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil ; 

Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 

Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe; 

Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 

Strain he/ fair neck, and charm the listening throng ] 

WhetJ not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ! 

Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 

By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 

No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 

And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display 

Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 

§Or hail at once the patron and the pile 

Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle !|| 

Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, 

Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 

Behold the new Petroniusll of the day, 

Our arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 

There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 

The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, 



* " Stares ;" first edition, " keeps." 

f Naldi and Catalina require little notice — for the visage of the one, and the 
•alary of the other, will enable us long to recollect these amusing vagabonds 
Besidei, we are still black and blue from the squeeze on the first night of the 
lady's appearance in trousers. 

t Whet not your scythe.— From Lord Byron's correction in 1816. In the 
former editions, " Raise not your, scythe." Against the six concluding lines 
of this paragaph the author has written — " Good." _ 

§ Or hail at once the patron and the pile. — The following seventy lines to 
" as for the smaller fry," &c, were first inserted in the second edition. 

H To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a man, 1 beg 
leave to state, that it is the institution, and not the duke of that name, which 
is here alluded to. A gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost 
in the Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at backgammon. • It is but 
Justice to the managers in this instance to say, that some degree ofdisapproba- 
tion was manifested : but why are the implements of gaming allowed in a place 
devoted to the society of both sexes t A pleasant thing tor the wives or 
daughters of those who are blest or cursed with such connections, to hear the 
billiard-tables rattling in one room, and the dice in another 1 That this is the 
case I myselfcan testify, as a late worthy member of an institution which ma- 
terially affects the morals of the higher orders, while the lower may not even 
move to the sound of a tabor and fiddle without a chance of indictment for 
riotous behavior. 

Tf Petronius "Arbiter elegantiarum" to Nero, " and a very pretty fellow in 
his day," as Mr. Congreve's " Old Bachelor " saith of Hannibal. 



* True. It was Billy W — — y who lost the money. I knew him, and wan 
a subscriber to the Argyle at the time of the event. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 
1816. 



The song from Italy, the step from France, 
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, 
The smile of beauty and the flush of wine, [bine ■ 
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords com 
Each to his humor — Comus all allows ; 
Champagne, dice, music, or your neighbor's spouse 
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 
Of piteous ruin, which yourselves have made ; 
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
Nor think of poverty, except " en masque," 
When for the night some lately titled ass 
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. 
The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, 
The audience take their turn upon the floor ; 
Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap ; 
The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 
The last display the free unfetter'd limb ! 
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair 
With art the charms which nature could not spare ; 
These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease, 

Where, all forgotten but the power to please, 

Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 

Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught ; 

There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spain, 

Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main; 

The jovial caster 's set, and seven 's the nick, 

Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 

If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 

And all your hope or wish is to expire, 

Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 

And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife :* 

Fit consummation of an earthly race 

Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 

While none but menials o'er the bed of death, 

Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath ; 

Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, 

The mangled victim of a drunken brawl, 

To live like Clodius,f and like Falkland^ fall. 

Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
Even I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong, 
Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost, 
To fight my course through passion's countless host, § 
Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal, 
Although some kind, censorious friend will say, 
"What art thou better, meddling fool,|| than they ? " 



• Two Panels for your wife.— Thus altered in the fifth edition. Th« 
original reading was, " a Paget for your wife." 

f Mntato nornene de te 

Pabnla narratur. 

J 1 knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night I beheld hhn 
presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of hospitality ; on Wednes- 
day morning, at three o'clock, I saw stretched before me all tint reir.alned oi 
courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant and successful 
officer: his faults were the faults of a sailor — as such, Britons will forgive 
him. He died like a brave man in a better cause : for had he fallen in liko 
manner on the deck of the frigate to wlr'ch he was just appointed, his bis.' 
moments would have been held up by his countrymen as an example t« 
succeeding heroes. 

§ To fight my course through passion's countless host. — Yes : and a 
precious chase they led me. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

What art tliou belter, meddling fool 7— Fool enough, certainly, theD, 
and no wiser since. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 



462 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist in me. 
No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals 

From silly Hafiz* up to simple Bowles, 

Why should we call them from their dark abode, 

In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road ? 

Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 

To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square ? 

If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 

Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 

What harm ? In spite of every critic elf, 

Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 

Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try, 

And live in prologues, though his dramas die ; 

Lords too are bards, such things at times befall, 

And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all. 

Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, 

Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymesPf 

Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled, 

No future laurels deck a noble head ; 

jNo muse will cheer, with renovating smile, 

The parylytic puling of Carlisle. 

The puny schoolboy and his early lay 

Men pardon, if bis folly's pass away ; 

But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 

Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse 

What heterogenous honors deck the peer ! 

Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer !§ 

So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 

His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage, 

But managers for once cried, " Hold, enough !" 

Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 

Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 

And case his volumes in congenial calf; 



* What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, Hafiz, could he 
lise from liis Bplendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, where he reposes with Ferdousj 

and Sadi, the oriental Horner and Catullus, and behold liis name assumed by 
ose Stott of Dromore, the most impudent and execrable of literary poachers 
for the daily prints. 

t Here followed in the original manuscript, 



alone Apollo deigns to smile, 

ew Roscommon in Carlisle. 



Ono 
And 

The provocation alluded to in Lord Byron's note, page 262, took place 
while the satire was in press. These lines were erased in consequence, and 
oil those down to, " With yon, ye Druids," &c, substituted in their place. 
The following additional lines were written, but suppressed before publication : 

In these our times, with daily wonders big, 
A lettered peer is like a Inn-red pig ; 
Both know their alphabet, but who, from thence, 
Inters that peers or pigs have manly sense ? 
Still less that such should woo the graceful nine ? 
Parnassus was not matte for lords and swine. 

X No muse will cheer, with renovating smite, 

The paralytic paling of Carlisle. 



This couplet stood in the first edition, 



' Nor e'e 
On min 



a hackney M i 
: Byron, or m 



will deign to smile 
: Carlisle." 



Opposite these lines on Lord Carlisle, Lord Byron has written, in the 
copy which he perused in IS1G, "Wrong also — the provocation was not 
sufficient to justify the acerbity." 

§ The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny pamphlet 
on the slate of the stage, and offers his plan of building a new theatre, it is 
to be hoped his lordship will be permitted to bring forward any thing for the 
stage—except his own tragedies. 



Yes ! doff that covering, where morocco shines, 
And hang a calf-skin* on those recreant lines. 

With you", ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
With you I war not : Gifford's heavy hand 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band 
On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen ; 
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, 
And Melville's Mantlet prove a blanket too ! 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard, 
And, peace be with you ! 'tis your best reward. 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live ; 
But now at once your fleeting labors close, 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade, 
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind, j 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, 
Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still ; 
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's,} 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells ; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.|| 

HWhen some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse, 
Heavens ! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds ap- 

pLaud ! 
How ladies read, and literati laud ! 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 
'Tis sheer ill-nature — don't the world know best ? 
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 
And Capel Lofft** declares 'tis quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade! 
Swains ! quit the plough, resign the useless spade ! 
Lo ! Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
Gifford was born beneath an adverse star, 
Forsook the labors of a servile state, 
Stemm'd the rude storm and triumph'd over fate : 



• . " Doff that lion's hide, 

And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limls." 

Shale. King John. 
Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form a conspicuous 
ornament to his bookshelves : 

" The rest is all but leather and prunella." 
f " Melville's Mantle," a parody on " Elijah's Mantle," a poem. 

} This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K , seems to 

be a follower of the Delia Crusca school, and has published two volumes of 
ry respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go ; besides sundry novels in 
the style of the first edition of the Monk. 

To the above, Lord Byron added, in 1816: "She since married the 
Morning'Post— an exceeding good match — and is since dead — which is 
better." * 

§ From this line the par-ssage in the first edition stood thus : 
Though Bell has lost his nightingales and owls, 
Matilda snivels still, and Hafiz howls, 
And Crusca's spirit, rising from the dead, 
' Revives in Laura, Quiz, and X. Y. Z. 

jl These are the signatures of various worthies who figure in the poetical 
departments of the newspapers. 

T| When some brisk youth, fyc. — The following paragraph was inserted hi 
the second edition. 

This was meant for poor Blackett, who was then patronized by A. J. B., 
but that 1 did not know, or this would not have been written, at least I lliink 
not.- MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

*• Capel Lofi't, Esq., the Maecenas of shoemakers, and preface-writer-gen- 
eral to distressed versemen ; a kind of gratis accoucheur to those who wish U 
be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring forth. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



463 



Then why no more ? if Phccbus smile on you, 

Bloomfield ! why not on brother Nathan too ?* 

Him too the mania, not the muse has seized ; 

Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : 

And now no boor can seek his last abode, 

No common be enclosed, without an ode. 

Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 

On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 

Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole, 

Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul ! 

Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, 

Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 

So shall the fair your handiwork peruse ; 

Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoes. 

May Moorlandf weavers boast Pindaric skill, 

And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 

While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 

And pay for poems — when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 

Neglected genius ! let me turn to you. 

Come forth, oh Campbell ! J g lve tn y talents scope ; 

Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 

And thou, melodious Rogers !§ rise at last, 

Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 

Arise ! let blest remembrance still inspire, 

And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ; 

Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 

Assert thy country's honor and thine own. 

What ! must deserted Poesy still weep 

Where her last hopes with pious Co>vper sleep ? 

Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns, 

To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns ! 

No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious 

The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, [brood, 

Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast, 

Who least affecting, still affect the most : 

Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 

Bear witness Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil.|| 

" Why slumbers Gifford ? " once was ask'd in vain ;1T 

Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again. 

Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? 

Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge ? 

Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet ? 

Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? 



* See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any one else 
chooses to call it, on the enclosure of " Hunington Green." 

t Vide " Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Staffordshire. ' 
\ It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader the authors of 
"The Pleasures of Memory" and "The Pleasures of Hope," the most 
beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except Pope's " Essay o 
Man : " but so many poetasters have started up, that even the names ( 
Campbell and Rogers are become strange. 

Beneath this note Lord Eyron has written, in the copy of this satire which 
he read in 1816. 

" Pretty Miss Jacqueline 
Had a nose aquiline, 
And would assert rude 
Things of Miss Gertrude, 
While Mr. Marmion, 
Led a great army on, 
Making Kebaraa look 
Like a fierce Mameluke." 

§ Melodious Rogers. — Rogers has not Fulfilled the promise of his first 
poems, but has still very great merit. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

|| Gifford, author of the Baviad and Majviad, the first satires of the day, 
and translator of Juvenal. 

Sotheuy, translator of Wicland's Oberon and Virgil's Georgics, and author 
of " Saul," an epic poem. 

Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular, particularly " Scotland's 
Scaith, or the Ways of War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in 
one month. 

TT Mr. Gilford promised publicly that the Eaviad and Majviad should not 
6c his last original works : let him remember, " Mox in reluctantes dra- 



Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path, 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? 
Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim'd, 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White !* while life was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
fThe spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 
Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science' self destroyed her favorite son; 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit 
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart ; 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; 
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 

There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; 
That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
'Tis true, that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, 
Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; 
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
This fact in Viftue's name let CrabbeJ attest ; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 
■JAnd here let Shee|| and genius find a place, 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line; 
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, 
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow : 
While honors, doubly merited, attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower 
Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour : 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd 

afar, 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 



• Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, 1806, in consequence 
of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies which would have matured a 
mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itaeU 
destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must 
impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was alotted 
to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he wat 
destined to assume. 



T 



The spoiler swept dull soaring lyre away, 
Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 



So altered by Lord Byr 
tion3, the lines stood, 



eperusing the s 



1816. Tn former edi 



u The spoiler came ; and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there." 

X Crabbe. — I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these timet k 
point of power and genius.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

$ And litre let Shee, &c— The ensuing twenty-two lines were inserted m 
the second edition . 

I Mr. Shee, author of " Rhymes on Art," and " Element «f Art." 



464 



B\ RON'S WORKS. 



But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallow' d feelings for those classic lands ; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
And views their remnants with a poet's eye ! 
Wright !* 'twas thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associate bards !f who snatch'd to light 
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight ; 
Whose mingling tastes combined to cull the wreath 
Where Attic flowers Aonian odors breathe, 
And all their renovated fragrance flung, 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue : 
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone : 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

Let these or such as these, with just applause, 
Restore the muse's violated laws : 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme, 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, 
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear ; 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
But now, worn down, appear in native brass ; 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
Evaporate in similes and sound : 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.J 

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop, 
The meanest object of the lowly groujp, 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloyd :§ 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
The native genius with their being given 
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 

And thou, too, Scott !|| resign to minstrels rude 

The wilder Slogan of a border feud : 

Let others spin the meagre lines for hire ; 

Enough for genius if itself inspire ! 

Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 

Prolific every spring, be too profuse; 

ULet simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse, 

And brother Coleridge lull the babes at nurse ; 

Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, 

To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost : [Moore, 

**Let Moore still sigh ; let Strangford steal from 

And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yore ; 

Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, 

And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave ; 



* Mr. Wright, late consul-general for the Seven Islands, is author of a 
very beautiful poem just published: it is entitled " Hont Ionics," and is 
descriptive of the islet and the adjacent coast of Greece. 

f The translators of the Anthology, Bland and Merivale, have since 
published separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity 
to attain eminence. 

t The neglect of the " Botanic Garden " is some proof of returning taste ; 
the scenery is its sole recommendation. 

§ Messrs. Lambe and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Soulhey and Co. 

H By the by, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his hero or heroine will 
lie less addicted to " Gramarye," and more to grammar, than the Lady of 
the Lay and her bravo, William of Deloraine. 

If Against this passage on Wordsworth, and the following line on Cole- 
ridge, Lord Byron has written, " unjust." 

•• Let Moore still si'ft.— Fifth edition. The original reading was, " Let 
Moore be lewd." 



Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine 

And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line , 

Let Stott, Carlisle,* Matilda and the rest 

Of Grubb-street and of Grosvenor-place the best, 

Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain, 

Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 

But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 

Should leave to humbler bards ignoble lays ; 

Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 

Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. 

Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 

The glorious record of some nobler field, 

Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, 

Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 

Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 

fFor Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin Hood ? 

Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, 

And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! « 

Yet not with thee alone his name should live, 

But own the vast renown a world can give ; 

Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 

And tell the tale of what she was before ; 

To future times her future fame recall, 

And save her glory, though his country fall. 

jYet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, 

To conquer ages and with time to cope ? 

New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 

And other victors^ fill the applauding skies ; 

A few brief generations fleet along, 

Whose sons forget the poet and his song ; 

E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may 

claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblestblast, 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last ; 
And glory like the phoenix midst her fires, || 
Exhales her odors, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, 
Expert in science, more expert at puns ? 



• It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my guardian 
and relative, to whem I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few year* 
ago ?— The guardianship was nominal, at least as far as I have been ab.e U 
discover; the relationship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it; but as hit 
lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion to me, I shall not 
burden my memory with the recollection. I do not think that personal 
differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler ; but I se« 
no reason why they should act as a preventive when the author, noble or 
ignoble, has, for a series of years, beguiled a "discerning public" (as the 
advertisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial 
nonsense. Besides, 1 do not step aside to vituperate the earl : no— his works 
come fairly in review with those of other patrician literati. If, before I escaped 
from my teens, I said any thing in favor of his lordship's paper books, it was 
in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of others than my 
own judgment, and 1 seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere 
recantation. 1 have heard that some persons conceive me to be under 
obligations to Lord Carlisle : if so, 1 shall'be most particularly happy to learn 
what they are, and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated and 
publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an opinion on 
his printed things, I am prepared to support, if necessary, by quotations 
from elegies, odes, eulogies, episodes, and certain facedous and dainty trage- 
dies bearing his name and mark : 

•' What can ennoble knaves, or fools or cowards ? 
Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards." 
So says Pope. Amen ! 

Much too si*age, whatever the foundation might be. — MS. note by Lori 
Byron. 1816. 

This note first appeared in the second edition. 

f In the first edition, " Outlaw'd Sherwood's." 

X Yet what avails, &c— The following twelve lines were introduced in 
the second edition. 

§ " Tollere humo, victorque virOm volitare per ora." 

Virgil. 

t Like the phardx midst her fires.— The devil take that phoenix I How 
came it there ? — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



465 



Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she flies, 
*Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize; 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by Hoyle :f 
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. J 
Ye ! who in Granta's honors would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 

$ There Clarke, still striving piteously " to please," 

Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 

A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 

A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 

Condemned to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 

And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, 

Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 

Himself a living libel on mankind. || 

Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race \M 

At once the boast of learning, and disgrace: 

**So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson'sff verse 

Can make thee better, or poor Hcwson'sJJ worse. 

But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, 

The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 

On her green banks a greener wreath she$$ wove, 

To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove ; 

Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 

And modern Britons glory in their sires. |||| 



* Eoe?i from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize. — Thus corrected, in 
1816, by Lord Byron. In tanner editions : 

" And even spurns the great Seatonlan prize." 

t Thus in the original manuscript : 

With odes by Smyth, and epic songs by Hoyle ; 
Hoyle whose learn'd page if still upheld by whist, 
Required no sacred theme to bid us list. 

X The " Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaries of whist, chess, &c. 
are not to be superseded by the vagaries of his poetical namesake, whose 
poem comprised, as expressly stated in the advertisement, all the " plagnes 
of Egypt." 

§ There Clarke, still striving, tc. — These eight lines were added in the 
second edition. 

Right enough : this was well deserved, and well laid on. — MS. note by 
Lord Byron. 1816. 

|| This person, who has lately betrayed the most rabid symptoms of con- 
firmed authorship, is writer of a poem denominated the " Art of Pleasing," 
as " Incus a non lncendo," containing little pleasantry and less poetry. He 
bJm acts as monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the "Satirist." 
If this unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the 
mathematics, and endeavor to take a decent degree in his university, it might 
eventually prove more serviceable than his present salary. 

T[ " Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Prohus transported a considerable 
tody of Vandals." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, p. 83, vol. ii. There is no 
reason to doubt the truth of this assertion j the breed is still in high perfec- 
tion.* 

These four lines were substituted for the following in the original man- 
uscript : 

Yet hold — as when by Heaven's supreme behest, 
If found, ten righteous had preserved the rest, 
In Sodom's fated town, for Granta's name 
Let Hodgson's genius plead, and save her fame. 

** So lost to Ph&bus, tiiat, &c— This couplet, thus altered in the fifth 
edition, was originally printed, 

" So sunk in dullness, and so lost in shame, 
That Smyth and Hodgson scarce redeem thy fame." 

■ft This gentleman's name requires no praise; the man who in transla- 
tion displays unquestionable genius may well be expected to excel In orig- 
inal composition, of which it is to be hoped we shall soon see a splendid 
specimen. 

XI Hewson Clarke, Esq., as it is written. 
§§ "Is" in the first edition. 

Hfl The "Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem, by Richards. 



* The breed is still in high perfection.— In the first edition, " There is no 
reason to doubt the truth of this assertion, as a large stock of the same breed 
a to be found there at this day." 

59 



For me, who, thus unask'd,* have dared to tell 
My country, what her sons should know too well, 
fZeal for her honor bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
No just applause her honor'd name shall lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
'Tis thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been 
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen : 
But Rome decay 'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main ; 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl'd, 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate. 
With warning ever scoff d at, till too rate ; 
TZ themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine. ^ 

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, 

The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 

Still hear thy motley orators dispense 

The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 

While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit. 

And old dame Portland^ fills the place of Pit* 

Yet once again adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; 
And Afric's|| coast and Calpe'slI adverse height, 
And Stamboul's** minarets must greet my sight : 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime,tt 
Where Kaff JJ i s c ^ a( i i n rocks, and crown'd with 

snows sublime. 
But should I back return, no tempting press§tj 
Shall drag my journal from the desk's recess : 
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, 
Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carr; 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin|||| still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of vertii ; 
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 
Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; 



* Unask'd; in the first edition vjiknown. 

f Zeal for her lionor, &c. — In the first edition, this couplet ran, 
'* Zeal for her honor, no malignant rage, 
Has bade me spurn the follies of her age." 

\ And urge thy bards to gain a name like tliine. — With this verse the satire 
ended in the original edition. 

§ A friend of mine being asked why his grace of Portland was likened to 
an old woman ? replied, " he supposed it was because he was past bearing." 
His grace is now gathered to his grandmothers, where he sleeps as sound as 
ever ; but even his sleep was better than lus colleagues' waking. 1811. 

|| Afric's coast. Saw it, August, 1809.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

Tf Gibraltar. Saw it, August, 1809.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 1S16. 

* • Stamboul. Was there the summer of 1310.— A/.^. note by Lord Byron. 
1816. 

ft Georgia. 

%X Mount Caucasus. Saw the distant ridge of, 1810, 1811.— MS. note by 
Lord Byron. 1816. 
§§ But should I back return, no tempting press 

Shall drag, &c. 
These four lines were altered in the fifth edition. They originally stood, 
" But should I back return, no letter'd sage 
Shall drag my common-place book on the stage : 
Let vain Valencia * rival 1 nckless Carr, 
And equal hhn whose work he sought to mar." 
J || Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, with and without 
noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of Phidias I " Credat Judaius 1 " 



* Lord Valencia (whose tremendous travels are forthcoming with due 
decorations, graphical, topographical, typographical) deposed, on Sir John 
Can's unlucky suit, that Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of the 
"Stranger in Ireland." — Oh, fie, my lord? has your lordship no more 
feeling for a fellow-tourist ? but " two of a trade," they say, &c. 



466 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And make their grand saloons a general mart 

For all the mutilated blocks of art : 

Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 

I leave topography to rapid* Gellf 

And, quite content, no more shall interpose 

To stun the public ear — at least with prose. 

• 
Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career, 
Prepared for rancor, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear : 
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own — 
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
My voice was heard again, though not so loud, 
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ; 
And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house,* 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse. 



• Rapid. Thus altered in the fifth edition. In all previous editions 
"classic." 

f "Rapid/* indeed ! He lopograpliized and typographized King- Prhm's 
dominions in three days ! — 1 called him " classic " before 1 saw the Troad, 
but since have learned better than to tack his name with what don't belong to 
it. — Note to the Jiftii ediiion. 

Mr. Gell's Topography of Troy * and Ithaca f cannot fail to ensure the 
approbation of every man possessed of classical liste, as well for the inlbri. a- 
lion Mr. Gell conveys to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and research 
the respective works displ iv. — Note to all Vie early editions.. 

Since seeing the plain of Troy, my opinions are somewhat changed as to 
the above note. Gell's survey was hasty and superficial. — MS. note by Lord 
Byron. 1816. 

J Din of Melbourne ho'ise.— Singular enough, and din enough, 

God knows. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 



• Troy. Visited both in 1810 and 1811.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 
t Jtltica. Passed first in 1809.— MS. note by Lord Byron. -1816. 



By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel they too are " penetrable stuff; " 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall, 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes ; 
But now so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth : 
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, 
Nor care if courts and crowd's applaud or hiss; 
Nay more, though all my rival rhymsters frown, 
I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
Thus much I've dared ; if my incondite lay* 
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say: 
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare, 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.f 



• 71iu3 much I've dared • if my incondite lay. 

The reading of the fifth edition : originally printed, 

" Thus much I've dared to do ; how far my lay." 

t The greater part of this satire 1 most sincerely wish had never been 
written — not only on account of the injustice of much of the critical, and 
some of the personal part of it — but the tone and temper are such as I can- 
not approve. — Byron. July 14, 1816. 

Diodata, Geneva. 



THE FOLLOWING ARGUMENT INTENDED FOR THE SATIRE WAS IN THE 
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, BUT NOT PUBLISHED. 



The poet considereth times past and their poesy— rnaketh a sudden transition to times present — is incensed against book-makers — revileth W. Scott 
for cupidity and ballad-mongering, with notable remarks on Master Southey— compUineth that Master Southey hath inflicted three poems epic and 
otherwise on the public — inveigheth against Wm. Wordsworth ; bot laudeth Mr. Coleridge and his elegy on a young ass— is disposed to vituperate 
Mr. Lewis— and greatly rebukcth Thomas Little (the late), and the Lord Strangford— recommendeth Mr. Haley to turn his attention to prose — 

and exhorleth the Moravians to glorify Mr. Grahame— sympathizeth with the Rev. Bowles— and deploreth the melancholy fate of Montgomery 

— breakelh out into invective agamst the Edinburgh Reviewers — calleth them hard names, harpies, and the like — apostrophiseth Jeffrey and pro- 
phesieth — Episode of Jeffrey and Moore, their jeopardy and deliverance ; portents on the morn of combat ; the Tweed, Tolbooth, Frith or Porla 
severally shocked ; descent of a goddess to save Jeffrey ; incorporation of the bullets with his sinciput and occiput — Edinburgh Reviewers en wuzt#e 
—Lord Aberdeen, Herbert, Scott, Hallam, Pillans, Lambe, Sydney Smith, Brougham, &.C.— The Lord Holland applauded for dinners :.ad trans!.. 
lions.— The Drama; Skeflington, Hook, Reynolds, Kenney, Cherry, &c— Sheridan, Colman, and Cumberland called upon to write— return to 
poesy— scribblers of all sorts — Lurdi sometimes rhyme ; much better not— Hafiz, Rosa Matilda, and X. Y. Z. — Rogers, Campbell, Gilford, &- 
true poets— translators of the Greek Anthology— Crabbe — Darwin's style — Cambridge — Seatonian Prize — Smyth— Hodgson — Oxford — Richard*— Peeta 
loquitur— -conclusion. 



POSTSCRIPT.* 



I have been informed, since the presnet edition 
went to press, that my trusty and well-beloved 
cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a 
most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, mi- 
resisting Muse, whom they have already so be- 
devilled with their ungodly ribaldry : 

" Tuntajne animis ccclestibns irce ! " 

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Ague- 
cheek saith, " an' I had known he was so cunning 
of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought 
him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the 
Bosphorus before the next number has passed the 
Tweed ! But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in 
Persia. 

My northern friends have accused me, with justice, 
of personality towards their great literary anthro- 
pophagus, Jeffrey ; but what else was to be done with 
him and his dirty pack, who feed by "lying and 
slandering," and slake their thirst by " evil speak- 
ing ? " I have adduced facts already well known, 
and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion, 
nor has he thence sustained any injury ; — what 
scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with 
mud ? It may be said that I quit England because 
I have censured there "persons of honor and wit 
about town," but I am coming back again, and 
their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those 
who know me can testify that my motives for 
leaving England are very different from fears, 
literary or personal : those who do not, may one 
day be convinced. Since the publication of this 
thing, my name has not been concealed ; I have 
Deen mostly in London, ready to answer for my 
transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry 



Addjd to the lecond edition. 



carters ; but, alas, " the age of chivalry is OTer," 
or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a- 
days. 

There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke (Subaudi 
esquire), a sizer of Emmanuel College, and, I believe, 
a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have 
introduced in these pages to much better company 
than he has been accustomed to meet ; he is, not- 
withstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason 
that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with 
a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellow 
ship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contem- 
poraries prevented from success, has been abusing 
me, and what is worse, the defenceless innocent 
above mentioned, in " The Satirist " for one year 
and some months. I am utterly unconscious oi 
having given him any provocation ; indeed, I ana 
guiltless of having heard his name till coupled with 
"The Satirist." He has therefore no reason to 
complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Pla 
giary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I have- 
now mentioned all who have done me the honor to 
notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book 
except the editor of " The Satirist," who, it seems 
is a gentleman — God wot ! I wish he could impart a 
little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. 
I hear that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up thx 
cudgels for his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle : I hop», 
not : he was one of the few, who, in the very short 
intercourse I had with him, treated me with kind 
ness when a boy, and whatever he rr.ay sbj Ci do 
" pour on, I will endure." I havo r.othirg ^ur'hei 
to add, save a general note of Ihr nksg' rir,.g to 
readers, purchasers, and publisner's, and, in thf/ 
words of Scott, I wish 

M To all and each a fai< good ni gi.., 
And T045 dreams and slumbere light." 



HINTS FROM HORACE: 

BBINQ AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH TERSE TO THE EPISTLE "AD PISPNES, DE ARTE POETICA," /.KO 
INTENDED AS A SEQ.UEL TO "ENGLISH BARDS AND .SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 



Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 

Reddere qua? ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." 

HOR. De Arte Poet. 



'• Rhyr 



are difficult tilings — they are stubborn things, sir." 
FIELDING'S Amelia. 



Athens, Capuchin Convent, March 12, 1811. 

Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
His costly canvass with each flatter'd face, 
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush, 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honor to a mermaid's tail ? 
Or low* Dugost (as once the world has seen) 
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen ? 
Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. 

Poets and painters, as all artists know, 

May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow ; 

"We claim this mutual mercy for our task, 

And grant in turn the pardon which we ask ; 

But make not monsters spring from gentle dams — 

Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
Jungere si velit, et varias inducere plumas, 
Undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum 
Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne ; 
Spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici ? 
Credite, Pisones, iste tabulae fore librum 
Persimilem, cujus, velut aegri somnia, vanaa 
Fingentur species, ut nee pes, nee caput uni 
Reddatur formee. Pictoribus atque poetis 
Quidlibet audendi semper fuit sequa potestas 
Scimus, et hanc veniam petimusque damusque 

vicissim : 
Sed non ut placidis coeant immitia ; non ut 
Serpentes avibus geminentur, tigribus agni. 



• In an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad wherever there 
are Englishmen, I read an account of this dirty dauber's caricature of Mr. 

H , and the consequent action, &c. The Bubject is probably too well 

known to require further comment. 



A labor'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends ; 
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down, 
As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain; 
The groves of Granta, and her gothic halls, 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and 

old walls : 
Or in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow or the river Thames.* 

You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine- 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign; 
You plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot ; 
Then glide down Grub-street — fasting and forgot : 
Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint review, 
Whose wit is never troublesome till true. 



In fine, to whatsoever you aspire, 
Let it at least be simple and entire. 

Incoeptis gravibus plerumque et magna professi 
Purpureus, late qui splendeat, unus et alter ' 

Assuitur pannus ; cum lucus et ara Diana?, 
Et properantis aquoe per amcenos ambitus agros, 
Aut fiumen Rhenum, aut pluvius describitur arcus. 
Sed nunc non erat his locus : et fortasse cupressum 
Scis simulare : quid hoc, si fractis enatat exspes 
Navibus, sere dato qui pingitur ? amphora caepit 
Institui : currente rota cur urfceus exit ? 
Denique sit quod vis, simplex duntaxat et unum 

Maxima pars vatum, pater, et juvenes patre digni, 
Decipimur specie recti. Brevis esse laboro, 
Obscurus fio : sectantem levia, nervi 
Deficiunt animique : professus grandia, turget: 
Serpit humi tutus nimium timidusque procella) 
Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter unam, 
Delphinum sylvis appingit, rluctibus aprum. 



• Where pure description held the place of sense."— Pope. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



469 



The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 

(Give tar, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 

Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 

I labor to be brief — become obscure ; 

One falls while following elegance too fast ; 

Another soars, inflated with bombast ; 

Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly, 

He spins his subject to satiety ; 

Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 

Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves ! 

Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice 
The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 
None are complete, all wanting in some part, 
Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man, 
But coats must claim another artizan.* 
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame ; 
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose ! 

Dear authors ! suit your topics to your strength, 
And ponder well your subject, and its length ; 
Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware 
"What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear. 
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, 
Await the poet skilful in his choice ; 
With native eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omitted line ; 
This shall the author choose, or that reject, 
Precise in style, and cautious to select. 
' Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear not if 'tis needful/to produce 
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, 
(As Pittf has furnish'd us a word or two, 
Which lexicographers declined to do ;) 
So you indeed, with care, — (but be content 
To take this licence rarely) — may invent. 

In vitium ducit culpae fuga, si caret arte. 
JEmilium circa ludum faber imus et ungues 
Exprimet, et molles imitabitur sere capillos ; 
Infelix operis summa, quia ponere totum 
Nesciet. Hunc ego me, si quid componere curem, 
Non magis esse velim, quam pravo vivere naso, • 
Spectandum nigris oculis nigroque capillo. 

Sumite materiem vestris, qui scribitis, sequam 
Viribus ; et versate diu quid ferre recusent, 
Quid valeant humeri. Cui lecta potenter erit res, 
Nee facundia deseret hunc, nee lucidus ordo. 

Ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor, 
Ut jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debentia dici 
Pleraque differat, et praesens in tempus omittat ; 
Hoc amet, hoc spernat promissi carminis auctor. 

In verbis etiam tenuis caustusques serendis ; 
Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum 
Reddiderit junctura novum. Si forte necesse est 
Indiciis monstrare recentibus abdita rerum, 
Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis 
Continget ; dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter, 
Et nova actaque nuper habebunt verba fidem, si 



* Merc common mortals were commonly content with one tailor and with 
one bill, but the more particular gentlemen found it impossible to confide 
their lower garments to the makers of their body clothes. I speak of the 
beginning of 1809; what reform may have since taken place 1 neither know 
nor desire to know. 

t Mr. Pitt was liberal in his additions to our parliamentary tongue, as may 
o» seen in many publications, particularly the Edinburgh Review. 



New words find credit in these latter days, 

If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 

What Chaucer, Spencer did, we scarce refuse 

To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 

If you can add a little, say why not, 

As well as WiHiam Pitt and Walter Scott ? 

Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, 

Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues ; 

'Tis then — and shall be — lawful to present 

Reform in writing, as in parliament. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 

So fade expressions which in season please. 

And we and ours, alas ! are due to fate, 

And works and words but dwindle to a date. 

Though as a monarch nods, and commerce callg, 

Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 

Though swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd, 

sustain 
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, 
And rising ports along the busy shore 
Protect the vessel from old ocean's roar, 
All, ill must perish ; but, surviving last, 
The love of letters half preserves the past. 
True, some decay, yet not a few revive; * 
Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive, 
As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
Our life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars which gods and angels wage, 
Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page ? 
His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
To themes celestial told in epic song. 

The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
The lover's anguish or the friend's complaint. 
But which, deserves the laurel, rhyme or blank ? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank ! 
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 

Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 

You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's dean.f 
\ 
Graeco fonte cadant, parce detorta. Quid autem 
Caecilio Plautoque dabit Romanus, ademptum 
Virgilio Varioque ? ego cur, acquirere pauca 
Si possum, invideor, cum lingua Catanis et Ennl 
Sermonem patrium ditaverit, et nova rerum 
Nomina protulerit ? Licuit, semperque licebit, 
Signatum pra?sente nota producere nomen. 

Ut silvaj foliis pronos mutantur in annos ; 
Prima cadunt : ita verborum vetus interit aetas, 
Et juvenum ritu florent modo nata, vigentque 
Debemur morti nos nostraque : sive receptus 
Terra Neptunus classes aquilonibus arcet, 
Regis opus ; sterilisve din palus, aptaque remis, 
Vicinas urbes alit, et grave sen tit aratrum : 
Seu cursum mutavit iniquum frugibus an.nis, 
Doctus iter melius ; mortalia facta peribunt ; 
Nedum sermonum stet honoSj et gratia vivax. 
Multa renascentur, quae jam cecidere ; cadentque 
Quas nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus, 
Quem penes arbitrium est et jus et norma loquendi. 
Res gestae regumque ducumque et tristia bella, 



• Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at present in as much 
request as old wine or new speeches. In fact this is the millenium of black 
letter : thanks to our Hebers, Webers, and Scotts ! 

t Mac Flecknoe, the Dunciad, and all Swift's lampooning ballads. 
Whatever their others works may be, these originated in personal feelings, 
and angry retort on unworthy rivals ; and though the ability of these satires 
elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the personal chancter ot 
the writers. 



470 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 

To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 

Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's days, 

No sing-song hero rants in modern plays ; 

"While modest Comedy her verse foregoes 

For jest and pun* in very middling prose. 

Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse, 

Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse, 

But so Thalia pleases to appear, 

Poor virgin ! damn'd some twenty times a year ! 

"Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight : 

Adapt your language to your hero's state. 

At times Melpomene forgets to groan, 

And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone ; 

Nor unregarded will the act pass by 

"Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high. 

Again our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 

When common prose will serve for common things 

And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, 

To " hollowing Hotspur " f and the sceptred sire. 

'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your art, 
To polish poems ; they must touch the heart : 
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song, 
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along ; 
Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
Whiche'er may please you — any thing but sleep. 
The poet claims our tears^; but, by his leave, 
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 

If banish' d Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, 
And men look angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye ; 
For nature form'd at first the inward man, 
And actors copy nature — when they can. 

Quo scribi possent numero monstravit Homerus. 

Versibus impariter junctis querimonia primum; 
Post etiam inclusa est voti sententia compos. 
Quis tamen exiguos elegos emiserit auctor, 
Grammatici certant, et adhuc sub judice lis est. 

Archilochum proprio rabies armavit iambo ; 
Hunc socci cepere pedem, grandesque cothurni, 
Altemis aptum sermonibus, et populares 
Vincentem strepitus, et natum rebus agendis. 

Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum, 
Et pugilem victorem, et equum certamine primum, 
Et juvenum curas, et libera vina referre. 

Descriptas servare vices operumque colores, 
Cur ego, si noqueo ignoroque, poeta salutor ? 
Cur nescire, pudens prave, quam discere malo ? 

Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult, 
Indignatur item privatis, ac prope socco 
Dignis carminibus narrari coona Thyestse. 
Singula quajque locum teneant sortita decenter 
Interdum tamen et vocem comcedia tollit, 
Iratusque Chremes tumido delitigat ore : 
Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri. 
^Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exsul, uterque 
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba, 
Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela, [sunto, 

Non satis est pulchra esse poemata; dulcia 
Et, quocunque volent, animum auditoris agunto. 
"Ut ridentibus arrident, ita fientibus adflent 



* With all the vulgar applause anJ critical abhorrence of puns, they have 
Aristotle on their side, who permits them to orators, and gives them conse. 
queue? by a grave disquisition. 

\ " And in his ear I'll hollow, Mortimer I "—1 Henry IV. 



She bids the beating heart with rapture bound, 
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground ; 
And for expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung, 
She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, 
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
(At least in theatres) with common sense ; 
O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit, 
And raise a laugh with any thing but wit. 

To skilful writers it will much import, 

"Whence spring their scenes, from common life OJ 

court ; 
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, 
To draw a " Lying Valet," or a " Lear," 
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
A wandering " Peregrine," or plain " John Bull ;" 
All persons please, when nature's voie'e prevails, 
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. 

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot : 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not ? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : 
Make it appear as if it might have been. 

If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw, 
Present him raving, and above all law : 
If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand ; 
For tears and treachery, for good or evil, 
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil . 
But if a new design you dare essay, 
And freely wander from the beaten way, 
True to your characters, till all be past, 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'Tis hard to venture where our betters fail, 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale ; 
And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err ; 

Humani vultus : si vis me flere, dolendum est 
Primum ipsi tibi ; tunc tua me infortunia lredent 
Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loqueris, 
Aut dormitabo, aut ridebo : tristia mccstum 
Vultum verba decent; iratum, plena minarum, 
Ludentem, lasciva ; severum, seria dictu. 
Format enim natura prius nos intus ad omnem 
Fortunarum habitum ; juvat, aut impellit ad iram ; 
Aut ad humum moerore gravi deducit, et angit ; 
Post effort animi motus interprete lingua. 
Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta, 
Romani tollent equites peditesque cachinnum. 

Intererit multum, Davusne loquatur an heros ; 
Maturusne scnex, ad anhuc florente juventa 
Fervidus : an matrona potens, and scdula nutrix ; 
Mercatorne vagus, cultorne virentis agelli ; 
Colchus an Assyrius ; Thebis nutritus, an Argis. 

Aut famam sequere, aut sibi convenientia finga 
Scriptor honoratum si forte reponis Achillem ; 
Impiger, iracundus, inexorabillis, aeer, 
Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arroget armis. 
Sit Medea fercx invictaque, flelilis Ino ; 
Perfidus Ixion ; Io vaga ; tristis Orestes ; 
Si quid inexpertum scenes committis, et audes 
Personam formare novam ; servetur ad imum 
Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. 

Difficile est proprie communia dicere ; tuque 
Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus, 
Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus. 
Publica materies privati juris erit, si 
Nee circa vilem patulumque moraberis orbem : 
Nee verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus 
Interpres, nee desilies imitator in arctum 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



471 



Yet copy not too close y, but record, 
More justly, thought for thought than word for word : 
Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways, 
But only follow where he merits praise. 

For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may lead 

To tremble on the nod of all who read, 

Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls, 

Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles !* 

" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 

And pray, what follows from his boiling brain ? — 

He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, 

Whose epic mountains never fail in mice ! 

Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 

The temper'd warbliugs of his master lyre : 

Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 

" Of man's first disobedience and the fruit " 

He speaks, but as his subject swells along, 

Earth, heaven, and Hades echo with the song. 

Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 

As if we witness'd all already done ; 

Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 

To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 

Gives, as each page improves upon the sight, [light; 

Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness — 

And truth and fiction with such art compounds, 

We know not where to fix their several bounds. 

If you would please the public, deign to hear 

What soothes the many-headed monster's ear ; 

If your heart triumph when the hands of all 

Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 

Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page, 

And sketch the striking traits of every age ; 

While varying man and varying years unfold 

Life's little tale so oft, so vainly told. 

Unde pedem proferre pudor vetet, aut operis lex. 

Nee sic incipies, ut scriptor Cyclicus olim : 
" Fortunam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellum." 
Quid dignum tanto feret hie promissor hiatu 
Parturiunt montes : nascetur ridiculus mus. 
Quanto rectius hie, qui nil molitur inepte ! 
"Die mihi, Musa, virum captas post tempora 

Trojse 
Qui mores hominum multorum vidit, et urbes." 
Non fumura ex fulgore, sed ex furao dare lucem 
Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat, 



* About two years ago a young man, named Townsend, was announced 
by Mr. Cumberland (in a review since deceased) as being engaged in an 
epic poern to be entitled " Armageddon." The plan and specimen promise 
much ; but I hope neither to oifeud Mr. Townsend nor his friends, by 
recommending to his attention the lines of Horace to which these rhymes 
allude. If Mr. Townsend succeeds in his undertaking, as there is reason tu 
hope, how much will the world be indebted to .Mr. Cumberland for bringing 
him before the public ! But till that eventful day arrives, it may be doubted 
whether the premature display of his plan (sublime as the ideas confessedly 
are) has not, by raising expectation too high, or diminishing curiosity, by 
d:veloping his argument, rather incurred the hazard of injuring Mr. Town- 
seud's future prospects. Mr. Cumberland (whose talents 1 shall not depre- 
ciate by the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr. Townsend must not 
suppose me actuated by unworthy motives in this suggestion. 1 wish the 
author all the success be can wish himself, and shall be truly happy to see 
epic poetry weighed up from the bathos where it li- j s sunken with Southey, 
Cottle, Cowley (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy, Wilkie, Pye, and all the '■ dull 
of past and present days." Even if he is not a A/i/ton, he may be better 
than Blackmore ; if not an Homer, an Antimavhus. 1 should deem myself 
presumptuous, as a ynung man, in offering advice, were it not addressed to 
one still younger. Mr. Townsend has the greatest difficulties to encounter ; 
but in conquering them he will find employment j in having conquered them, 
iiis reward. I know too well "the scribbler's scull", the critic's contumely," 
and 1 am afraid time will teach Mr. Townsend to know them better. Those 
who succeed and liiuse who do not must bear this alike, and it is bard to say 
which have most of it I trust that Mr. Townsend 's share will be from envy; 
— he will soon know mankind well enough not to attribute this expression to 
malice. 

The above note was written before the author was apprized of Mr. Cum- 
berland's death. y 



Observe his simple childhood's dawning days, 
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays 
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, 
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens ! 

Behold him freshman ! forced no more to groan 
O'er *Virgil's devilish verses and his own, 
Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse, 
He flies from Tavell's frown to "Fordham's Mews; ' 
(Unlucky Tavell ! doom'd to daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils and by bears.f) 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain, 
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash. 
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
Constant to nought — save hazard and a whore, 
Yet cursing both — for both have made him sore ; 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
The p — x becomes his passage to degrees) ; 
Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term away 
And, unexpell'd perhaps, retires M. A. ; 
Master of arts ! as hells and clubs% proclaim, 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name ! 

Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 
Sits in the senate ; gets a son and heir ; 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to cheer, 
His son's so sharp — he'll see the dog a peer ! 

Manhood declines — age palsies every limb , 

He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him , 

Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charyb- 
Nee reditum Diomedis ab interitu Meleagri, [dim 
Nee gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo. 
Semper ad eventum festinat ; et in medias res 
Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit, et qua? 
Desperat tractata nitescere posse, relinquit': 
Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet, 
Primo ne medium, medio ne discrepet imum. 

Tu, quid ego et populus mecum desideret, audi. 
Si plausoris eges aula:a manentis, et usque 
Sessuri, donee cantor, Yos plaudite, dicat 
iEtatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores, 
Mobilibusque decor naturis dandus et annis. 
Reddere qui voces jam scit puer, et pede certo 
Signat humum ; gestit paribus colludere, et iram 
Colligit ac ponit temere, et mutatur in horas. 

Imberbis iuvenis, tandem custode remoto, 
Gaudet equis canibusque, et aprici gramine campi ; 
Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper, 
Utilium tardus pro visor, prodigus ajris, 
Sublimis, cupidusque, et amata rclinquere pernix. 

Conversis studiis, ajtas animusque virilis 
Quauit opes et amicitias, inservit honori ; 
Commisisse cavet quod mox mutare laboret. 



Harvey, the circulator of the circulation of the blood, used to fling 

away Virgil in his ecstacy of admiration, and say*" the book had a devil." 

Now, such a character as 1 am copying would probably fling it away also, 

but rather wish that the devil had the book ; not from any dislike to the poet, 

but a well-founded horror of hexameters. Indeed the public school penance oi 

long and short " is enough to beget an antipathy to poetry for the residua 

a man's life, and, perhaps, so far may be an advantage. 

t " [nfandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem." i dare say Mr. TaTsil 

(to whom I mean no affront) will understand me ; and it is no matter whelhei 

any one else does or no. — To the above events, " quceque ipse miserrima vidi 

et quorum pars magna fui," all times and terms hear testimony. 

J " Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk little, and are cheated 
good deal. "Club," a pleasant purgatory, when- you lose more, and are 
not supposed to be cheated at all. 



472 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, 
And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 
Counts cent, per cent., and smiles, or vainly frets, 
O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's debts ; 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
Complete in all life's lessons — but to die ; 
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please, 
Commending every time, save times like these ; 
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot, 
Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot ! 

But from the drama let me not digress, 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. 
Though women weep, and hardest hearts are stirr'd, 
When what is done is rather seen than heard, 
Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all besides, I here am French — 
Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench ; 
The gladiatorial blood we teach to flow- 
In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show : 
We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
And find small sympathy in being sick. 
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
Appals an audience with a monarch's death ; 
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours, or nature bear ? 
A *halter'd heroine Johnson sought to slay — 
We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play. 
And (Heaven be praised !) our tolerating times 
Stint metamorphoses to pantomines, 
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake 
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief, 
We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do, 
Whose postscripts prate of dying " heroines blue ?"f 

Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can, 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man ; 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong, 
Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends, 
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends ! 

Multa senem conveniunt incommoda ; vel quod 
Quaerit, et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti ; 
Vel quod res omnes timidCgelideque ministrat, 
Dilator, spe longus, incrs, avidusque futuri ; 
Difficilis, querulus, laudator temporis acti 
Se puero, castigator censorque minorum. 
Multa ferunt anni venientcs commoda secum, 
Multa recedentes adimunt. Ne forte seniles 
Mandentur juveni partes, pueroque viriles, 
Semper in adjunctis, revoque morabimur aptis. 

Aut agitur res in scenis, aut acta refertur. 
Seguius irritant animos demissa per aurem 



* " Irene had to speak two lines with the bowstring round her neck ; but 
the audience cried out ' Murder ! ' and she was obliged to be carried off the 
stage.".— BosweWs Life of Johnson. 

t In the postscript to the " Castle Spectre" Mr. Lewis tells 113, that though 
blacks w?re unknown in England at the period of his action, yet he has made 
the anachronism to set off the scene : and if he could have produced the 
effect " by making his heroine blue" — 1 quote him — "blue he would have 
made her I " 



Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whores, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
Where rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their bread 
In all, iniquity is grown so nice, 
It scorns amusements which are not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear, 
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore, 
His anguish doubling by his own " encore ; " 
Squeezed in " Fops Alley," jostled by the beaux, 
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease, 
Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release : 
Why this, and more, he suffers — can ye guess ? — 
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress ! 

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools ; 
Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools ! 
Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend clerk,* 
(What harm, if David danced before the ark ?) 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were pleas'd with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse 

jokes. 
Improving years, with things no longer known, 
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan, 
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, 
'Tis strange Benvolio suffers such a show;f 
Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place, 
Oaths, boxing, begging,' all, save rout and race. 
Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime, 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time ; 
Mad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best, 
And turn'd some very serious things to jest. 
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers, 
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers : 
" Alas, poor Yorick ! " ripw for ever mute ! 
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
When " Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschus ! with whom once more I hope to sit 
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 
Yes, friend ! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell, 
And bear Swift's motto, " Vive la bagatelle ! " 
Which charm'd our days in each JEgean clime, 
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 

Quam qure sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quay 
Ipse sibi tradit spectator. Non tamen intus 
Digna geri promes in scenam; multaque tolles 
Ex oculis, qua? mox narret facundia prrcsens. 
Ne pucros coram populo Medea trucidet ; 
Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus ; 
Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem. 
Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 
Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu 
Fabula, qua; posci vult et spectata reponi. 
Nee Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
Incident. ****** 



* " The first theatrical representations, entitled ' Mysteries and Moralities,' 
were generally enacted at Christmas, by monks, (as the only persons who 
could read,) and latterly by the clergy and students of the universities. The 
dramatis personse were usually Adam, Pater Coilestis, Faitl% Vice," &c., 
&c. — Vide Warton's History of English Poetry. 

t Benvolio does not bet ; but every man who maintains race-horses is a 
promoter of all the concomitant evils of the turf. Avoiding to bet is a little 
Pharisaical. Is it an exculpation ? I think not. J never yet heard a bawd 
praised for chastity because she lierself did not commit fornication. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



473 



Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past, 
Soothe thy life's scene's nor leave thee in the last ; 
But find in thine, like pagan* Plato's bed, 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, 

"Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies ; 

Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance ; 

Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 

Yet fChesterfield, whose polish'd pen inveighs 

'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays ; 

Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician- brains, 

And damning dullness of lord chamberlains. 

Repeal that act ! again let Humor roam 

Wild o'er the stage — we've time for tears at home ; 

Let "Archer" plant the horns on " Sullen's" brows, 

And " Estifania " gull her " Copper "J spouse ; 

The moral's scant— but that may be excused, 

Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 

He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 

Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; 

Ay, but Macheath's example — psha ! — no more ! 

It form'd no thieves — the thief was form'd before, 

And spite of puritans and Collier's curse, $ 

Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 

Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men ! 

Nor burn damn'd Drury if it rise again. 

But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal ! 

Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal ? 

For times of fire and fagot let them hope : 

Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 

As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 

So would new sects on newer victims gaze, 

E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 

Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin ! 

While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves, 

And Simeon kicks, where ||Baxter only " shoves." 

Whom nature guides, so writes, that every dunce 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once ; 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 

Let pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope ? 
Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 
For art too rude, for nature too refined, 

Ex noto fictum carmen sequar, ut sibi quivis 
Speret idem : sudet multum frustraque laboret 
Ausus idem : tantum series juncturaque pollet ; 
Tantum de medio sumtis accedit honoris. 

Silvis deducti caveant, me judice, Fauni, 
Ne, velut innati triviis ac pene forenses, 
Aut nimium teneris juvenentur versibus unquam, 
Aut immunda crepent, ignominiosaque dicta, [res : 
Offenduntur enim, quibus est equus, et pater, et 
Nee, si quid fricti cieeris probat et nucis emtor, 



* Under Plato's pillow a volume of the frlimes of Sophron was found the 
day he died. — Vide Bartlielemi, De Pauw, or Diogenes Laertius, if agree- 
able. De Pauw calls it a jest book. — Cumberland, in his Observer, terms it 
moral, like the sayings of " Publius Cyrus.'* 

f His speech on the licensing act is one of his most eloquent efforts. 

X Michael Perez, the " Copper Captain," in " Rule a Wife and have a 
Wife." 

§ Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, &c. on the subject of the 
drama, is too well known to require further comment. 

H "Baxter's shove to heavy-a — d Christians." The veritable title of a 
rook once in good repute, and likely enough to be so again. — Mr. Simeon is 
the very bully of beliefs, and castigator of " good works." He is ably sup- 
ported by John Stickles, a laborer in the same vineyard : — but I say no more, 
or according to Johnny in lull congregation, " No hope for Vtem as 
buglu." 

60 



Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste : 
The dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest ; 
Proscribed not only in the world polite, 
But even too nasty for a city knight ! 

Peace to Swift's faults ! his wit hath made them 

pass 
Unmatched by all, save matchless Hudibras ! 
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet ; 
Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
This measure moves a favorite of the Nine. 
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain, 
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late, 
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight 
And, varied skillfully, surpasses far 
Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war, 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 

But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
What few admire — irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 'tis hard, 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts confine, 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line ? 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
To gain the paltry suffrage of " correct?" 
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase, 
To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 

Ye who seek finish'd models, never gease, v 
By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek, content with native strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen, 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, any thing but chaste ; 
Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 

iEquis accipiunt animis, donantve corona. 

Syllaba longa brevi subjecta vocatur iambus, 
Pes citus : unde etiam trimetris accrescere jussit 
Nomen iambeis, cum-6enos redderet ictus, 
Primus ad extremum similis sibi : non ita pridem 
Tardior ut paulo graviorque veniret ad aures, 
Spondeos stabiles in jura paterna recepit 
Commodus et patiens ; non ut de sede secunda 
Cederet aut quarta socialiter. Hie et in Acci 
Nobilibus trimetris apparet rarus, et Enni. 
In scenam missos magno cum pondere versus, 
Aut opera? celeris nimium curaque carentis, 
Aut ignorata? premit artis crimine turpi. 

Non quivis videt immodulata poemata judex ; 
Et data Romanis veftiia est indigna poetis. 
Idcircone vager, scribamque licenter, ut omnes 
Visuros peccata putem mea, tutus, et intra 
Spem venial cautus ? vitavi denique culpam, 
Non laudem merui. Vos exemplaria Gra^ca 
Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna. 
At vestri proavi Plautinos et numeros et 
Laudavere sales ; nimium patienter utrumque, 
Ne dicam stulte, mirati ; si modo ego et vos 
Scimus inurbanum lepido seponere dicto, 



474 

Though you and I, who eruditely know 
To separate the elegant and low, 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears, 
Detect with fingers in default of ears. 

In sooth I do not know or greatly care 

To learn, who our first English strollers were ; 

Or if, till roofs recived the vagrant art, 

Our muse, like that of Thespis, kept a carf. 

But this ia certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 

There's pomp enough, if little else, in plays ; 

Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 

Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone. 

Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
Though too licentious for dramatic laws : 
At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest, 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 

Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside, 
Our enterprising bards pass nought untried ; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
An English subject for an English muse, 
And leave to minds which never dare invent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could claim 
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, 
If all our bards, more patient of delay, 
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way ? 

Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, 
And prove our marble with too nice a nail ! 
Democritus himself was not so bad; 
He only thought, but you would make us mad ! 

But, truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so hard; 
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth, 
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth ; 
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet, 
And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 

Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure. 

Ignotum tragicae genus invenisse Camenaa 
Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 
Qua; canerent agerentque peruncti foecibus ora. 
Post hunc persona; pallaeque repertor honestos 
iEschylus, et modicis instravit pulpita tignis, 
Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno. 

Successit vetus his comoedia, non sine multa 
Laude ; sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim 
Dignam lege regi ; lex est accepta ; chorusque 
Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure noeendi. 

Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetae ; 
Nee minimum meruere decus, vestigia Grneca 
Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta, 
Vet qui preetextas, vel qui docuere togatas. 
Nee virt.ute foret clarisve potentius armis, 
Quam lingua, Latium, si non offenderet unum- 
quemque poetarum limoe labor et mora. Vos, 6 
Pompilius sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod non 
Multa.dies et multa litura coercuit, atque 
Preresectum decies non castigavit ad unguem. 

Ingenium misera quia fortunatius arte 
Credit, et excludit sanos Helicone poetas 
Democritus ; bona pars non ungues ponere curat 
Non barbam ; secreta petit loca, balnea vitat. 
Nanciscetur enim pretium nomenque poetoe, 
Si trious Anticyris caput insanabile nunquam 
Tonsori Licino commiserit. O ego laevus, 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



With little rhyme, less reason, if you please, 
The name of poet may be got with ease, 
So that not tuns of helleboric juice 
Shall ever turn your head to any use ; 
Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a lake, 
And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake;* 
Then print your book, once more return to town, 
And boys shall hunt your hardship up and down. 

Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight, 

To purge in spring (like BayesJ before I write ? 

If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 

I know no scribbler, with a madder style ; 

But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice), 

I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 

I'll labor gratis as a grinder's wheel, 

And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel, 

Nor write at all, unless to teach the art, 

To those rehearsing for the poet's part ; 

From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, 

And from my own example, what is wrong. 

Though modern practice sometimes differs quite, 
'Tis just as well to think before you write ; 
Let every book that suits your theme be read, 
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 

He who has learnt the duty which he owes 
To friend and country, and to pardon foes ; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest ; 
Who takes our laws and worship as they are, 
Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar; 
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise, 
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize ; 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse, 
As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 

Sometimes a sprightly wit and tale well told, 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 
A longer empire o'er the public mind 
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 

Unhappy Greece ! thy sons of ancient days, 
The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 

Qui purgor bilem sub verni temporis horam ! 
Non alius faceret meliora poemata : verum 
Nil tanti est : ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 
Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi : 
Munus et officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo ; 
Unde parentur opes ; quid alat formetque poetam 
Quid deceat, quid non ; quo virtus, quo ferat error 

Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons 
Rem tibi Socratica: poterunt ostendere charta? : 
Verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur. 
Quid didicit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis ; 
Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et 

hospes ; 
Quod sit conscripti, quod judicis officium ; quce 
Partes in helium missi ducis ; ille profecto 
Reddere personae scit convenientia cuique. 
Respicere exemplar vitas morumque jubebo 
Doctum imitatorem, et vivas hinc ducere voces. 

Intcrdum speciosa locis morataque recte 
Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte, 
"Valdius oblectat populum, meliusque moratur, 
Quam, versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae. 

Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 
Musa loqui, praeter laudem nullius avaris. 



• As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better paid, and may, lika 
him, be one day a senator, having a better qualification than one half of th4 
heads he crops, viz. — independence. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



475 



Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel 
To " long and short" before they're taughtto spell) 
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
"A penny saved, my lad's, a penny got." 
Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
Two thirds, how much will the remainder make ? 
"A groat." — "Ah, bravo! Dick hath done the sum ! 
He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 
'Tis clear, are fit for any thing but rhymes ; 
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right 
Who hides all verses from his children's sight ; 
For poets (says this sage, and many more,)* 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore ; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old, 
Discovers little silver and less gold, 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Is poor as Ints,f or an Irish mine. J 

Two objects always should the poet move, 
Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
For our remembrance your didactic line ; 
Redundance places memory on the rack, 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fiction does best when taught to look like truth, 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth : 
Expect no credit for too wond'rous tales, 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 

Young men with aught but elegance dispense, 
Maturer years require a little sense. 
To end at once : — that bard for all is fit 
Who mingles well instruction with his wit ; 
For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
The patronage of Paternoster-row ; 
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass, 
(Who ne'er despises books that bring him. brass ;) 

Romani pueri longis rationibus assem 
Discunt in partes centum diducere : dicat 
Filius Albini, Si de quincunce remota est 
Uncia, quid superat ? poterat dixisse — Triens. 

Eu! • 

Rem poteris servare tuam. Redit uncia : quid fit ? 
Semis. An haec animos aerugo et cura peculi 
Cum semel imbuerit, speramus carmina fingi 
Posse linenda cedro, et levi servanda cupresso ? 

Aut prodesse volunt, ajit delectare poetae ; 
Aut simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitae. 
Quidquid praecipies, esto brevis : ut cito dicta 
Percipiant animi dociles, teneantque fideles. 
Omne supervacuum pleno de pectore manat. 

Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris : 
Nee, quodcunque volet, poscat sibi fabula credi : 
Neu pranse Lamiae vivum puerum extrahat alvo. 

Centura? seniorum agitant expertia frugis : 
Celsi prautereunt austera poemata Rhamnes. 
Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci, 



* I have not the original by me, but the Italian translation runs as follows : 
— " E una cosa a. niio credere molto stravagante, che un padredesideri, e 
permetta, che suo figliuolo coltiii e perfezioni questo taiento." A little further 
nu : " Si trovano di rado nel Parnaso le rniniere d'oro e d' argento." — Edu- 
cazione dei Fanciulli del Signor Locke. Venetian edition. 

t " Iro pauperior: " this is the same beggar who boxed with Ulysses for 
a pound of kid's fry, which he lost, and half a dozen teeth besides. — See 
Odyssey, p. 18. 

X The Irish gold mine of Wicklow, which yields just ore enough to swear 
by, or gild a bad guinea. 



Through three long weeks the taste of London lead 
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 

But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown 

That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, 

And wayward voices, at their owner's call, 

With all his best endeavors, only squall; 

Dogs blink their cover, flints withhold their spam, 

And double-barrels (damn them !) miss their mark.* 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
But pardon equally to books or men, 
The slips »f human nature, and the pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 

Despises all advice too much to mend, 

But ever twangs the same discordant string, 

Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 

Let Havard'sf fate o'ertake him, who for once 

Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 

At first none deem'd it his, but when his name 

Announced the fact — what then ? — it lost its famo 

Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, 

In a long work'tis fair to steal repose. 

As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stand 
The critic eye, and please when near at hand ; 
But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, 
But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 

• 
Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance or choice 
Hath led to listen to the muse's voice', 
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise ; 
Few reach the summit which before you lies. 
Our church and state, our courts and camps, con* 

cede 
Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 
In these plain common sense will travel far ; 
All are not Erskines who mislead the bar : 

Lectorem delectando pariterque monendo. 
Hie meret aira liber Sosiis ; hie et mare transit, 
Et longum noto scriptori prorogat oovum. 

Sunt dclicta tamen, quibus ignovisse velimus ; 
Nam neque chorda sonum reddit quern vult 

manus et mens, 
Poseentique gravem persmpe rcmittit acutum ; 
Nee semper feriet quodcunque minabitur arcus. 
Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis 
Offendar maculis, quas aut in curia fudit, 
Aut humana parum cavit natura. Quid ergo est ? 
Ut scriptor si peccat idem librarius usque, 
Quamvis est monitus, venia caret ; et citharoedus 
Ridetur, chorda qui semper oberrat eadem : 
Sic mihi, qui multum cessat, fit Chtcrilus ille, 
Quem bis terque bonum cum risu miror ; et idem 
Indignor, quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus. 
Verum opcri longo fas est obrepere somnum. 

Ut pictura, poesis : erit qure, si propius stes, 
Te capiet magis ; et quoadam, si longius abstes : 
Haec amat obscurum ; volet haec sub luce videri, 
Judicis argutum quae non formidat acumen : 



• As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, to whom he was undel 
great obligations — "And Homer (damn him!) calls 1 ' — it may be presumed 
that any body or any thing may be damned in verse by poetical license ; and, 
in case of accident, 1 beg leave to plead so illustrious a precedent. 

f For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, see " Davies's Life of Ga& 
rick." I believe it is " Regulus," or " Charles the First." The moment il 
was known to be his the theatre thinned, and the bookseller refused to giv« 
the customary sum lor the copyright. 



476 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But poesy between the best and worst 

No medium knows ; you must be last or first ; 

For middling poets' miserable volumes, 

Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 

Again, my Jeffrey ! — as that sound inspires, 

How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires ! 

Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel, 

When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, 

Or mild Eclectics,* when some, worse than Turks, 

Would rob poor Faith to decorate "good works." 

Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim — 

My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 

Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase ! 

For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 

Arise, my Jeffrey ! or my inkless pen 

Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 

Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 

Alas ! I cannot "strike at wretched kernes." 

Inhuman Saxon ! wilt thou then resign 

A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine ? 

Dear, d — d contemner of my schoolboy songs, 

Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs ? 

If unprovoked thou once couldst bid me bleed, 

Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 

What ! not a word — and am I then so low ? 

Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe ? 

Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent ? 

No wits for nobles, dunces by descent ? 

No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name, 

Nor one facetious paragraph of blame ? 

Is it for this on Ilion I have stood, 

And. thought of Homer l«ss than Holyrood ? 

On shore of Euxine or ^Egean sea, 

My hate, imtraveU'd, fondly turned to thee. 

Ah ! let me cease ! in vain my bosom burns, 

From Corydon unkind Alexixf turns : 

Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego, 

Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 

Hrec placuit semel ; hnec decies repetita placebit. 

major juvenum, quamvis et voce paterna 
Fingeris ad rectum, et per te sapis, hoc tibi dictum 
Tolle memor :_ certis medium et tolerabile rebus 
Recte concedi: consultus juris, et actor 
Causarum mediocris, abest virtute diserti 
Messalce, nee scit quantum Cascellius Aulus: 
Sed tamen in pretio est : mediocribus esse poetis 
Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnae. 



To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers 1 have to return thanks for the 
fervor of that charity which in 1809 induced them to express a hope, that a 
thing- then published by me might lead to certain consequences, which, all 
though natural enough, surely came but rashly from reverend lips. 1 refer 
them to their own pages, where they congratulated themselves on the pros- 
pect of a tilt between Mr. Jeffrey and myself, from which some great good was 
lo accrue, provided one or both were knocked on the head. Having survived 
two years and a half those " Elegies" which they were kindly preparing to 
review, 1 have no peculiar gusto to give them "so joyful a tiouble," except, 
indeed, "upon compulsion, Hal j" but if, as David says in the "Rivals," it 
should come to "bloody sword and gun fighting'," we " won't run, will we, 
Sir Lucius t" I do not know what I had done to these Eclectic gentlemen : 
my works are their lawful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces like Aga-j, if it 
should seem meet unto them ; but why they should be in such a hurry °to kill 
off their author, 1 am ignorant. " The race is not always to the swift nor the 
Dattle to the strong;;' and now, as these Christians hare " smote me on one 
check," I huld them up the other ; and in return for their good wishes, o-ive 
them an opportunity of repeating them. Had any other set of men expressed 
such sentiments, I should have smiled, and left them to the "recording 
angel," but from the pharisees of Christianity decency might be expected"! 
can assure these brethren, that, publican and sinner as I am, I would not 
Bare treated "mine enemy's dog thus." To show them the superiority of 
my brotherly love, if ever the Reverend Messrs. Simeon or Ramsden should 
be engaged in such a conflict as that in which they requested me to fall, 1 hope 
ihey may escape with being " winged " only, and that Heaviside may be at 
kand to extract the ball, 
t luvenies alium, si te hie fastidit, Alexin. 



What then ? — Edina starves some lanker son, 
To write an article thou canst not shun : 
Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 
As bold in Billingsgate, though less ren'own'd. 

As if at table some discordant dish 

Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish ; 

As oil in lieu of butter men decry, 

And poppies please not in a modern pie; 

If all such mixtures then be half a crime, 

We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 

Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites ; 

Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun ; 
Will he who swims not to the river run ? 
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 
Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist,' or foil, 
None reach expertness without years of toil ; 
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease, 
Tag twenty thousand couplets when they please. 
Why not ? — shall I, thus qualified to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate, 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs, 
To all their income, and to twice its tax ; 
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault, 
Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt ? 

Thus think "the mob of gentlemen ;" but you, 

Besides all this, must have some genius too. 

Be this your sober judgment, and a rule, 

And print not piping hot from Southey's school, 

Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 

I trust will spare us for at least nine years. 

And hark'ye, Southey !* pray — but don't be vext— 

Burn all your last three works — and half the next. 

Ut gratas inter mensas symphonia discors, 

Et crassum unguentum, et Sardo cum melle 

papaver 
Offendunt, poterat duci quia coena sine istis; 
Sic animis natum inventunique poema juvandis, 
Si paulum a summo decessit, vergit ad imum. 

Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis, 
Indoctusque pila?, discive, trochive, quiescit, 
Ne spissa? risum tollant impun e corona? : 
Qui nescit, versus tamen audet fingere ! — Quidni ? 
Liber et ingenuus prsesertim census equestreiu 
Summam nummorum, vitioque remotus ab omnL 
Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Mi#erva : 
Id tibi judicium est, cannons ; si quid tamen olim 
Scripseris, in Metii descendat juclicis aures, 
Et patris, et nostras, nonumque prematur in 

annum 
Membranis intus positis. Delere licebit 
Quod non edideris ; nescit vox missa reverti. 

Sylvestres homines sacer interpresque deorum 



Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to his tail in the " Curse of 
Rehama," maugre the neglect of Madoc, &c, and has in one instance had 

onderful effect. A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely even- 
ing last summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Paddington canal, was 
alarmed by the cry of "one in jeopardy:" he rushed along, collected a 
body of Irish haymakers (supping on buttermilk in an adjacent paddock,) pro- 
cured three rakes, one eel-spear, and a landing-net, and at last (horresco 
referens) pulled out — his own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for- 
ever, and so was a large quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, wliich 
proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. Southey's last work. Its " alacrity o* 
sinking" was so great that it has never since been heard of, though some 

intain that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry 
premises, Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's inquest brought in a ver- 
diet of " Felo de bibiiopola" against a " quarto unknown ;" and circur. istau- 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



477 



Bat why this vain advice ? once published, books 
Can never be recall'd— from pastry cooks ! 
Though "Madoc," with "Pucelle,"* instead of 

punk, 
May travel back to Quito— on a trunk ! f 

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere,- 
Led all wild beasts but women by the ear ; 
Ant had he fiddled at the present hour, 
"We'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower : 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Did more 1 than constables to keep the peace ; 
Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws, 
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes, 
And served the church without demanding tithes ; 
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
Each poet was a prophet and a priest, 
Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 

Next rose the martial Homer, epic's prince, 
And fighting's been in fashion ever since ; 
And old Tyrtaeus, when the Spartan's warr'd, 
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard, ) 
Though wall'd Ithome had resisted long, 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 

When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 

In song alone Apollo's will was told. 

Then if your verse is what all vers^e should be, 

And gods were not ashamed on't, why should w.e ? 



tial evidence being since strong against the " Curse of Kehama," of which the 
above words are an exact description,) it "Will be tried by its peers next session, 
in Grub-street.— Arthur, Alfred, Davideis, Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus, 
Exodia, Epigoniad, Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Seige of Acre, Don Rod- 
erick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve jurors. The 
judges are Pye, Bowles, and the Bellman of St. Sepulchre's. The 
same advocates, pro and con, will be employed as are now engaged in Sir F. 
Burdett's celebrated cause in the Scotch courts. The public anxiously await 
the result, and all live publishers will be subpoenaed as witnesses. 

Eut Mr. Southey has published the " Curse of Kehama :" an inviting title 
tnquibblers. By the by, it is a good deal beneath Scott and Campbell, and 
not much above Southey, to allow the booby Ballantyne to entitle them, in 
the Edinburgh Annual Register (of which, by the by, Southey is editor) 
" the grand poetical triumvirate of the day." But, on second thoughts, it 
fan be no great degree of praise to be the one-eyed leaders ol the blind, diou<di 
they might as well keep to diemselves " Scott's thirty thousana copies sold," 
which must sadly discomfit poor Southry's unsaleables. Poor Southey, i t 
should seem, is the " Lepidus" of this poetical triumvirate. I am only sur- 
prised to see himjn such good company. 

" Such things we know are neither rich nor rare, 
But wonder how the devil he came there." 

The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid : " Because, ii 
the triangles DBC, ACB, DB is equal to AC, and EC, common to both ; the 
two sides DB, BC, are equal to the two AC, CB, each to each, and the ai 
DEC is equal to the angle ACB : therefore, the base DC is equal to the base 
AB, and the triangle DBC (Mr. Southey) is equal to the triangle ACB, the 
lets to" the greater, which is absurd," &c. — The editor of the Edinburgh Ref. 
ister will find the rest of the theorem hard by his stabling : he has only to 
cross the river ; 'tis the first turnpike 'tother side " Pons Asinorum."* 

• Voltaire's " Pucelle" is not quite so immaculate as Mr. Southey's "Joan 
of Arc," and yet 1 am afraid the Frenchman has both more truth and poetry too 
on his side — (they rarely go together)— than our patriotic minstrel, whose first 
essay was in praise of a fanatical French strumpet, whose title of witch would 
be correct with the change of the first letter. 

t Like Sir B. Burgess's Richard, the tenth book of which 1 read at Malta, 
on a trunk of Eyres, 19 Cockspur 6treet. If this be doubted, 1 shall buy a 
portmanteau to quote from. 



* This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of Edinburgh. Ballantyne 
said it meant the " Bridge of Berwick," but Southey claimed it as half Eng- 
lish; Scott swore it was the "Brig o' Stirling;" he had just passed two 
King James's and a dozen Douglasses over it. At last it was decided by 
Jeffrey, that it meant nothing more nor less than " the counter of Archy 
Constable'6 shop." 



The muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd; 
In turns she'll seem a Paphian or a prude ; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, 
Mild as the same upon the second night; 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer, 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind nature always will perforin her part. 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain ; 
Yet art and nature join'd will win the 'prize, 
Unless they act like us and our allies. 

The youth who trains to ride or run a race, 
Must bear privation with unruffled face, 
Be call'd to labor when he thinks to dine, 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. • 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight, 
Have follow'd music through her farthest flight ; 
But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 
" I've got a pretty poem for the press ;" 
And that's enough ; then write and print so fast ;- 
If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last ? 
They storm the types, they publish; one and all. 
They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. 
Provincial maidens, men of high command, 
Yea, baronet's have inked the bloody hand ! 
Cash cannot quell them ; Pollio play'd this prank, 
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank !) 
Not all the living only, but the dead, 
Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head ;* 

Caedibus et victu focdo deterruit Orpheus : 
Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque leones: 
Dictus et Amphion, Thebanaj conditor arcis, 
Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda 
Ducere quo vellet : fuit hsec sapientia quondam, 
Publica privatis secernere : sacra profanis ; 
Concubito prohibere vago ; dare jura maritis ; 
Oppida moliri ; leges incidere ligno. 
Sic honor et nomen divinis vatibus atque 
Carminibus venit. Post hos insignis Humerus 
Tyrtrcusque mares animos in Martia bella 
Versibus exacuit ; dictee per carmina sortes, 
Et vitos monstrata via est : et gratia regum 
Pieriis tentata modis : ludusque repertus, 
Et longorum operum finis : ne forte pudori 
Sit tibi Musa lyree solers, et cantor Apollo. 

Natura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
Qusesitum est : ego nee studium sine divite vena, 
Nee rude quid prosit video ingenium ; alterius sit 
Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. 
Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam, 
Multa tulit fecitque puer ; sudavit et alsit ; 
Abstinuit Venere et vino : qui Pythia cantat 
Tibicen, didicit prius, extimuitque magistrum. 
Nunc satis est dixisse ; Ego mira poemata 

pango ; 
Occupet extremum scabies ; mini turpe relinqui 
Et quod non didici, sane nescire fateri. 



-Si carmina condes, 



Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentes. 
Quintilio si quid recitares, Corrige, sodes 
Hoc (aiebat) et hoc : melius te posse negares, 



* " Turn quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsum, 
Gurgite cum medio portans CBagrius Hebrus, 
Volveret Eurydicen vox ipsa, el frigida lingua ; 
Ab, miseram Eurydicen 1 anima fugiente vocabat ; 
Eurydicen toto referebant fltunine npce. — Georgic. iv. 523. 



478 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Damu'd all their days, they posthumously thrive — 

Dug up from dust, though buried when alive ! 

Reviews record this epidemic crime, 

Those " Books of Martyrs" to the rage for rhyme. 

Alas ! wo worth the scribbler ! often seen 

In Morning Post or Monthly Magazine. 

There lurk his earlier lays ; but soon, hot-prest, 

Behold a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 

Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords, 

To muse-mad baronets or madder lords, 

Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 

Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale ! 

Hark to those notes, narcotically soft ! 

The cobbler laureats sing* to Capel LofFt !f 

Till, lo ! that modern Midas, as he hears, 

Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 



There lives one druid who prepares in time 
'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme ; 
Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, 
So publish faults which friendship should excuse. 
If friendship's nothing, self-regard might teach 
More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
But what is shame, or what is aught, to him ? 
He vents his spleen or gratifies his whim. 

Bis terque expertum frustra, delere jubebat, 
Et male tornatos incudi reddere versus. 
Si defendere delictum quam vertere malles, 
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat 
inanem, 



* I beg Nathaniel's pardon ; he is not a cobbler; it is a tailor, but begged 

Capel Lotil to sink the profession in his preface to two pair of panta pi 

of cantos, which he wished the public to try on ; but the sieve of a patron let it 
out, and so Mir saved the expense of an advertisement to his country custo- 
mers. — Merry's " Moorfield's whine " was nothing to all this. The " Delia 
Cruscans " were people of some education, and no profession : but these Ar- 
cadians (" Arcades ambo " — bumpkins both) send out their native nonsense 
without the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes and smallclothes in the 
parish unrepaired, to patch up Elegies on Enclosures and Pajans to Gun- 
powder. Sitting on a shopboard, they describe fields of battle, when the only 
blood they ever saw was shed from the finger ; and an " Essay on War " is 
produced by the ninth part of a " poet." 

11 And own that June such poets made a Tate." 

Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope ? and if he did, why not take it as 
his mono r 

t This well-meaning gentleman lias spoiled some excellent shoemakers, 
and been accessory to the poetical undoing of many of the industrious poor. 
Nathaniel Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire sing- 
ing; nor has the malady confined itself to one county. Pratt too, (who 
once was wiser,) has caught the contagion of patronage, and decoyed a poor 
fellow named Blacken into poetry ; but he died during the operation, leaving 
one child and two volumes ol " Remains " utterly destitute. The girl, if she 
don't take a poetical twist, and come lorth as a shoemaking Sappho, may do 
well ; but the " tragedies " are as rickety as if they had been the offspring of 
an Earl or a Sealonian prize poet. The patrons of this poor lad are certainly 
answerable for his end, and it ought to be an indictable offence. But this is 
the least they have done, for, by a refinement of barbarity, they have made 
the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing what he would have 
had sense enough never to print himself. Certes these rakers of " Remains " 
come under the statute against " resurrection men." What does it signify 
whether a poor, dear, dead dunce is to be stuck up in Surgeons' or in Stationers' 
Hall ? Is it so bad to unearth his hones as his blunders ? Is it not better to 
gibbet his body on a heath, than his soul in an octavo ? " We know what we 
are, but we know not what we may be ; " and it is to be hoped we never shall 
know, if a man who has passed through life with a sort of eclat is to find 
himself a mountebank on the other side of Styx, and made, like poor Joe 
Blackest, the laughing-stock of purgatory. The plea of publication is to pro- 
vide tor the child ; now, might not some of this " Sutor ultra Crepidam's " 
friends and seducers have done a decent action without inveigling Pratt into 
biography ? And then his inscription split into so many modicums ! — " To 
the Duchess of Somnch, the Right Hun. So-and-So, and Mrs. and Miss 
Somebody, these volumes are, &c, &c." — why, this is doling out the " soft 
milk of dedication " in gills, — there is but a quart, and he divides it among a 
doien. Why, Pratt, hadsl thou not a puff left ! Dost thou think six families of 
distinction can share this in quiet ? — There is a child, a book, and a dedication ; 
»end the girl to hei grace, the volume to the grocer, and the dedication to the 
ferd. 



Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate, 
Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate; 
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown, 
Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town ; 
If so, alas, 'tis nature in the man — 
May heaven forgive you, for he never can! 
Then be it so ; and may his withering bays • 
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise ! 
While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 
But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, 
Be (what they never were before) — be sold ! 
Should some rich bard, (but such a monster now. 
In modern physics, we can scarce allow,) 
Should some pretending scribbler of the court, 
Some rhyming peer — there's plenty of the sort — * 
All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 
(Ah! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn !) 
Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 
Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 
How would the preacher turn eacn rueful leaf, 
Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief ! 
Yet, since 'tis promised at the rector's death, 
He'll risk no living for a little breath. 

Quin sine rivali teque et tua solus amares. 

Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes : 
Culpabit duros ; incomptis allinet atruni 
Transverso calamo signum ; ambitiosa recidet 
Ornamenta ; parum claris lucem dare coget ; 



• Here will Mr. Clifford allow me to introduce once more to his notice the 
sole survivor, the " ullimus Romanorum," the last of the "Cruscanti 1 " — 
"Edwin," the "profound," by our Lady of Punishment I here he is at 
lively as in the days of "well said Baviad the Correct." I thought Fitzgerald 
had been the tail of poesy, but, alas ! he is only the penultimate. 

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING 
CHRONICLE. 

" What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
Do some men spoil, who never think 1 
And so perhaps you'll say of me. 
In which your readers may agree. 
Still I write on, and tell you why; 
Nothing's so bad, you can't deny, 
But may instruct or entertain, 
Without the risk of giving pain. 
And should you doubt what 1 assert, 
The name of Camden 1 insert, 
Who novels read, and oft maintain'd 
He here and there some knowledge gaiu'd : 
Then why not I indulge my pen, 
Though I no fame or profit gain, 
Yet may amuse your idle men ; 
Of whom, though some may be severe, 
Others may read without a sneer ? 
Thus much premised, I next proceed 
To give you what I feel my creed, 
And in what follows to display 
Some humors of the passing day. 



ON SOME MODERN Q.UACK3 AND REFORMISTS. 

In tracing of the human mind 

Through all its various courses, 
Though strange, 'tis true, we often find f 

It knows not its resources : 

And men through life assume a part 

For which no talents they possess, 
Yet wonder that, with all their art, 

They meet no better with success. 

'Tis thus we see, through life's career, 

So few excel in their profession ; 
Whereas, would each man but appear 

In what's within his own possession, 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



479 



Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, 

(The Lord forgive him !) "Bravo ! grand ! divine ! 

Hoarse with those praises, (which, by flatt'ry fed, 

Dependence barters for her bitter bread,) 

He strides and stamps along with creaking boot, 

Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot ; 

Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 

As when the dying vicar will not die ! 

Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart ; — 

But all dissemblers overact their part. 



Ye who aspire to build the lofty rhyme, 
Believe not all who laud your false " sublime ;" 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
" Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amendment, and he answers " Burn !" 
That instant throw your paper in the fire, 
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire ; 
But if (true bard !) you scorn to condescend, 
And will not alter what you can't defend, 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains, — * 
We'll have no words — I've only lost my pains. 



Yet, if you only prize your favorite thought 

As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 

If your cool friend annoy you now and then, 

And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen ; 

No matter, throw your ornaments aside — 

Better let him than all the world deride. 

Give light to passages too much in shade, 

Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made ; 

Your friend's " a Johnson," not to leave one word, 

However trifling, which may seem absurd ; 

Such erring trifles lead to serious ills, 

And furnish food for critics, f or their quills. 



Arguet ambigue dictum : mutanda notabit ; 
Fiet Aristarchus : nee dicet, Cur ego amicum 
Oftendam in nugis ? hoe nuga3 seria ducent 
In mala derisum semel exceptumque sinistre. 
Ut mala quem scabies aut morbus regius urguet, 



We should not see such daily quacks 

(For quacks there are in every art) 
Attempting-, by their strange attacks, 

To meliorate the mind and heart. 

Nor mean I here the stage alone, 
Where some deserve th' applause they meet; 

For quacks there are, and they well known, 
In either house, who hold a seat. 

Reform's the order of the day, I hear, 

To which 1 cordially assent ; 
But then let this reform appear, 

And every class of men cement. 

For if you but reform a few, 

And others leave to their full bent, 
I fear you will but little do, 

And find your time and pains misspent. 

Let each man to his post assign 'd 

By Nature, take his part to act, 
And then few causes shall we find 

To call each man we meet — a quack.* 

* Bastard of your brains. — Minerva being the first by Jupiter's head- 
fhece, and a variety of such unaccountable parturitions upon earth, such a» 
Madoc, &c, &c, &c. 

t " A crust for the critics." — Bays, in the Rehearsal. 



• For such every man is who cither appears to be what he is not, or strives 
to be what he cannot. 



As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune, 

Or the sad influence of the angry moon, 

All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues, 

As yawning waiters fly* Fitzscribble's lungs ; 

Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 

As prelate's homily or placeman's speech ; 

Long as the last years of a lingering lease, 

When riot pauses until rents increase. 

While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 

O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways, 

If by some chance he walks into a well, 

And shouts for succor with stentorian yell, 

" A rope! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace!" 

Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace; 

For there his carcass he might freely fling, 

From frenzy, or the humor of the thing, 

Though this has happen'd to more bards *han 

one, 
I'll tell you Budgell's story and have done. 



Budgell a rogue and rhymester for no good* 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood,) 
When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
" To die like Cato,"f leapt into the Thames ! 
And therefore be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang or drown. 
Who saves the intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he 

leaves ; 
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely choose. 



Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
Prick not the poets conscience as a curse ; 
JDosed with vile drams on Sunday he was found, 
Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 



Aut fanaticus error et iracunda Diana, 

"V esanum tetigisse timent fugiuntq'ue sequuntur. 

Hie dum sublimes versus ructatur, et errat, 

Si veluti merulis intentus decidit auceps 

In puteum, foveamve ; licet, Succurrite, longum 

Clamet, Io cives ! non sit qui tollere curet. 

Si quis curet opem ferre, et demittere funem, 

Qui scis an prudens hue se dejicerit, atque 

Servari nolit ? Dicam : Siculique poetse 

Narrabo interitum. Deus immortalis haberi 

Dum cupit Empedocles, ardentem frigidus iEtnam 

Insiluit; sit jus, liceatque perire poetis : 

Invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti. 

Nee semel hoc fecit ; nee, si retractus erit, jam 

Fiet homo, et ponet famosoe mortis amorem 

Nee satis apparet cur versus factitet : utrum 

Minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental 

Moverit incestus : certe furit, ac velut ursus, 



And the H waiters " are the only fortunate people who can " fly " from 

them; all the rest, viz., the sad subscribers to the " Literary Fund," being; 

ipelled, by courtesy, to sit out the recitation, without a hope of exclaim- 

: " Sic " (that is, by choking Fitz. with bad wine or worse poetry) " me 

servavit Apollo I " 

t On his table were found these words : What Cato did and Addison ap- 
proved cannot be wrong. 11 But Addison did not " approve ; " and if he 
had, it would not have mended the matter. He had invited his daughter on 
the same uater party, but Miss Budgell, by some accident, escaped this last 
paternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of " Atticus," and the enemy of 
Pope. 

\ If "dosed with," Slc, be censured as low, I beg leave to refer to the 
iginal for something still lower ; and if any reader witl translate " Minx 
it in patrios cineres," Ac, into a decent touplet, I will insert said coupiet 
in lieu of the present. 



480 



BYRON'S WOR£S. 



And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage — 
Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his cage. 
If free, all fly his versifying fit, 
Fatal at once to simpleton or wit : 

Objectos caveaj valuit si frangere clathros, 
Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus. 



" Dfficile est proprie commur.ia dicere." — Mde. Dacier, Mde. deSevigne, 
Boileau, and others, have left their dispute on the meaning of this passage in 
a tract considerably longer than the poem of Horace. It is printed at the 
close of the eleventh volume of Madame de Sevigne's Letters, edited by 
Grouvelle, Paris, 1806. Presuming that all who can construe may venture an 
oninion on such subjects, particularly as so many who can not have taken the 
same liberty, I should have held my H farthing candle" as awkwardly as 
anoUier, had not my respect for the wits of Louis the Fourteenth's Augustan 
siecle induced me to subjoin these illustrious authorities. 1st, Boileau : " II 
est difficile de trailer des sujets qui font 1 la portie de tout le monde d'une 
mauiere qui vous les rende propes, ce qui s'apelle s'approprier un sujet par le 
lour qu' on y donne." 2dly, Batteux : " Mais il e6t bier, difficile de donner 
des traits propres et individuels aux eties purement possibles." 3dly, Dacier : 
*' II est difficile de traiter convenablement ces caracteres que tout le monde 
peut inventer." Mde. de Sevigne's opinion and translation, consisting of 



But him, unhappy ! whom he seizes, — him 

lie flays with recitation limb by limb ; 

Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach, 

And gorges like a lawyer or a leech. 

Quern vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque legendo, 
Non missura cutem, nisi plena cruoris, hirudo. 



Eome thirty pages, I omit, particularly as M. Grouvelle observes, " La chose 
est bien remarquable, aucune de ces diverses interpretations ne parait etre la 
veritable." But, by way of comfort, it seems, fifty years aflerwards, " Le 
Itiniineux Dumarsuis " made his appearance to set Horace on his legs again, 
" dissaper tous les nuages, et concilier tons les disseutimens J " and, some 
fifty years hence, somebody, still more luminous, will doubtless start up and 
demolish Dumarsais and his system on this weighty affair, as if he were no 
better than Ptolemy or Tycho, or comments of no more consequence than 
astronomical calculations on the present comet. 1 am happy to say, " la 
longueur de la dissertation " of M. D. prevents M. G. from saying any more 
on the matter. A better poet than Boileau, and at least as good a scholar as 
Sevigue, has said, , 

" A little learning is a dangerous thing," 
and by this comparison of comments it may be perceived how a good dea, 
may be rendered as perilous to the proprietors. 



THE CURSE OF MINERTA. 



" Pallas te hoe vulnere, Pallas 

lmmola*, et jwenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit." 

JENEID, lib. xii. 



Athens, Capuchin Convent, March 17, 1811. 

*Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 

Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 

But one unclouded blaze of living light ; 

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 

Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows ; 

On old iEgina's rock and Hydra's isle 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 

O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 

Though there his altars arc no more divine. 

Descending fast, the monntain-shadows kiss 

Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 

Their azure arches through the long expanse, • 

More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 

Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast 

When, Athens ! here thy wisest looked his last. 



* The lines with which this satire opens, to "As thus, within the walls 
Pallas' fane," are repeated, with some alterations, at the commencement 
the third canto of the Corsair. 



How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their -murder'd sage's* latest day I 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land where PhcEbus never frown'd before ; 
But ere he sunk below Cithseron's head, 
The cup of wo was quaff 'd — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him that scorned to fear or fly, 
Who lived and died as none can live or die. 

But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign ; t 
No murky vapor, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 



• Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset, (the hour of exe. 
cution,) notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went 
down. 



of 

of t The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
I day6 in winter are longer, but in summer of less duration. 



country ; the 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



481 



And bright around, with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkled o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd ''ark and wide, 
Where meek Cephisus shads Ytis scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The glimmering turret of the gay kiosk,* 
And sad and sombre mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; 
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the iEgean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. 

As thus within the walls of Pallas' fane, 
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, 
Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore : 
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man, 
The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease, 
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 

Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god : 
But chiefly, Pallas ! thine ; when Hecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode ! 

Yes, 'twas Minerva's self; but, ah! how changed 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! 
Not such as erst, by her divine command, 
Her form appeared from Phidias' plastic hand ; 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
Her idle aegis bore no Gorgon now ; 
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance ; 
The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, 
Shrunk from her touch, and wither'd in her grasp ; 
And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, 
And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of wo ! 

" Mortal ! " — 'twas thus she spake — " that blush of 

shame 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
Now honor'd less by all, and least by me : 
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing ? — look around. 
Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyrannies expire. 



• The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is without the present 
walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the 
tree the wall intervenes, vepliisus' stream is indeed scanty, and lllissus has 
no streum at all. 

61 



'Scaped from the rajage of the Turk and Goth, 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. 
Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain ; 
These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn'd,* 
That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd 
What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came 
The insulted wall sustains his hated name : 
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ; 
Be ever hail'd with equal honor here 
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer: 
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
So when the lion quits his fell repast, 
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last : 
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own 
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd ; 
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
Another name with his pollutes my shrine : 
Behold where Dian's beams disdain'd to shine ! 
Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame. "f 



She ceased awhile and thus I dared reply, 

To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : 

" Daughter of Jove ! in Britian's injured name, 

A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 

Frown not on England ; England owns him not ; 

Athena ! no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. 

Ask'st thou the difference ? From fair Phyles 

towers 
Survey Boeotia ; Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard land j 
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command : 
A barren soil, where Nature's germs confined 
To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; 
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 
Each genial influence nurtured to resist ; 
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 
Till, burst at length each wat'ry head o'erflows, 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
Despatch her scheming children far and wide ; 
Some east, some west, some every where but north 
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
And thus — accursed be the day and year ! — 
She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, 
As dull Bosotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, 
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, 
And shine like children of a happier strand ; 



* This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the Acropolis in partic- 
ular : the temple of Jupiter Olympus, by some supposed the Pantheon, war 
finished by Hadrian ; sixteen columns are standing, of the most beautifur 
marble and architecture. 

t His lordship's name, and that of one who no longer bears it, are carved 
conspicuously on the Parthenon ; above, iu a part not far distant, are the torn 
remnants of the basso relievos destroyed in a vain attempt to remove them. 

t " Irish bastards," according to Sir Callaghan O'Erallaghan. 



482 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place, 

Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." 

" Mortal ! " the blue-eyed maid resumed, " once 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. [more 
Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance yet is mine, 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 
Hear and believe, for time will tell the rest. 

" First on the head of him who did this deed 
My curse shall light, on him and all his seed : 
Without one spark of intellectual fire, 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
Believe him a bastard of a brighter race: 
Still with his hireling artists let him prate 
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell, 
Whose noblest, native gusto is — to sell : 
To sell, and make — may Shame record the day ! 
The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey. 
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard, West, 
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 
And own himself an infant of fourscore.* 
Be all the bruisers cull'd from all St. Giles', 
That art and nature may compare their styles ; 
While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 
And marvel at his lordship's ' stone shop ' f there. 
Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs 

creep, 
To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep ; 
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 
On giant statues casts the curious eye : 
The room with transient glance appears to skim, 
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 
Mourns o'er the difference of nmu and then : 
Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper men ! 
Draws sly comparisons of these and those, 
And envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 
When shall a modern maid have swains like these ! 
Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew, 
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 
In silent indignation mix'd with grief, 
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon'd in the dust, 
May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 
Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome, 
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, 
And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 
In many a branding page and burning line ; 
Alike reserved for aye to stand accurst, 
Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

" So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, 
Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
But fits thy country for her coming fate : 
Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
To to do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar, 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war, 



" Mr. West, on seeing the " Elgin Collection," (I suppose we shall hear 
of the "Abershaw " and " Jack Shephard's " Collection,) declared himself 
11 a mere tyro " in art. 

t Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when exhibited at E House ; he 

ulcd if it was not "a stone shop ? "—He was rig-bt ; it it a shop. 



Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
Or break the compact which herself hath made ; 
Far from such counsels, from the faithless field, 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield : 
A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, 
And left-lost Albion hated and alone. 

" Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base ; 
Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood, 
And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

" Look on your Spain ! — she clasps the hand she 

hates, 
But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, 
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach that one retreat 
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 

" Look last at home — ye love not to look there 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair : 
Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls, 
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 
' Blest paper credit,'* who shall dare to sing ? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, 
Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear; 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
On Pallas calls, but calls, alas ! too late : 
Then raves for ** ; to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends} 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign 'log.' 
Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

" Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour ; 
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power ; 
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 
Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream 
Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind, 
And pirates barter all that's left behind. f 
No more the hirelings, purchased near and far. 
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 
The idle merchant on the useless quay, 
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ? 
Or, back returning, sees rejected stores, 
Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores : 
The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, 
And desperate mans him 'gainst the common doom- 
Then in the senate of your sinking state, 
Show me the man whose counsels may have weight 



* " Blest paper credit 1 last and best supply, 

That lends Corruption lighter wings lo By I "- 
t The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie. 



■Pop*. 



THE WALTZ. 



483 



Vain is each voice where tones could once command 
E'en factions cease to charm a factious land ; 
Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 
And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 



" 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in vain, 

The furies seize her abdicated reign : 

Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands. 

And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 

But one convulsive struggle still remains, 

And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wears her chains. 

The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, 

O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles; 

The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 

That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 

The hero bounding at his country's call, 

The glorious death that decorates his fall, 

Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 

And bids it antedate the joys of arms. 



But know a lesson you may yet be taught, 
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought : 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
But when the field is fought, the battle won, 
Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame, 
The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say with what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 
Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine. 
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for life, 
And she who raised, in vain regrets the strife." 



THE WALTZ: 

AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. 



' Quails in Eurota ripis aut per juga Cynthi, 
Exercet Diana choroa." V1RGJL. 

' Such on Eurota's banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seems : and so she charms the sight, 
When in the (lance the graceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtop their heads." 

DRYDEN'S VIRGIL. 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 
Sir, 

I AM a country gentleman of a midland county. 
I might have been a parliament-man for a certain 
borough, having had the offer of as many votes as 
General T. at the general election in 1812.* But I 
was all for domestic happiness ; as, fifteen years 
ago, on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged 
maid of honor. We lived happily at Hornem Hall 
till last season, when my wife and I were invited by 
the Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my 
spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no 
harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable 
(or as they call it, marketable) age, and having be- 
sides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the 
family estate, we came up in our old chariot, of which 
by the by, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than 
a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand 
barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. 
says, if I could drive, but never see the inside — that 
place being reserved for the Honorable Augustus 
Tiptoe, her partner-general and opera-knight. Hear- 



Sute of the poll, (last day,) 5. 



ing great praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing, (she was fa- 
mous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the 
last century,) I unbooted and went to a ball at the 
countess's, expecting to see a country dance, or at 
most, cotillions, reels, and all the old paces to the 
newest tunes. But, judge of my surprise, on arriving, 
to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half 
round the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman 
I never set eyes on before ; and his, to say truth, 
rather more than half round her waist, turning 

round, and round, and round, to a d d see-saw 

up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the 
" Black joke," only more " affetuoso," till it made 
me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. 
By and by they stopp'd a bit, and I thought they 
would 'sit or fall down: — but.no; with Mrs. H.'s 
hand on [his shoulder, u qua?n familiariter,"* (as 
Terrence said, when I was at school,) they walked 



• My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what 
he never remembered ; but I bought my title-page motto of a Catholic priest 
for a three shilling bank token, after much haggling for the even sixpence. 
I grudged the money to a papist, being all for the memory of Perceval and 
"No popery," and quite regretting the downfall of the pope, because we 
can't burn him any more. 



484 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



about a minute, and then at it again, like two cock- 
chafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what 
all this meant, when, with a loud lavigh, a child no 
older than our Wilhelmina, (a name I never heard but 
m the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother 
would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach,) 
said, "Lord! Mr. Hornern, can't you see they are 
valtzing ! " or waltzing, (I forget which ;) and then 
up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they 
went, and round-abouted it till supper-time. Now 
that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and 
so does Mrs. H. (though I have broken my shins, 
and four times overturned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in 
practising the preliminary steps in a morning.) In- 
deed, so much do I like it, that having a turn for 
rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and 
songs in honor of all the victories, (but till lately I 
have had little practice in that way,) I sat down, and 
with the aid of W. F. Esq. and a few hints from Dr. 
B. (whose recitations I attend, and am monstrous 
fond of Master B.'s manner of delivering his father's 
late successful " D. L. Address,") I composed the 
following hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments 
known to the public, whom, nevertheless, I heartily 
despise as well as the critics. 

I am, Sir, yours, &c. &c. 

HORACE IIORNEM. 



Muse of the many-twinkling feet !* whose charms 

Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 

Terpsichore ! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 

Reproachful term — bestowed but to upbraid — 

Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 

The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 

Far be from thee and thine the name of prude ; 

Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 

Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 

If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 

Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 

Dance forth — sous armour thou shalt take the held. 

And own — impregnable to most assaults 

Thy not too lawfully begotten " Waltz." 



* "Glance their many-twinkling feet." — Cray. 

1 To rival Lord W.'s, or his nephew's, as the reader pleases: — the one 
^lined a pretty woman, whom he deserved, by fighting' for; and the other 
has been fighting in the Peninsula many a long day, " by Shrewsbury clock," 
without gaining any thing in that country but the title of " the Great Lord," 
and "the Lord," which savors of profanation, having been liitherto applied 
only to that Being to whom " Te Dcums " for carnage are the rankest 
llnsphemy.— It is presumed the general will one day return to his Sabine 
farm ; iere 

11 To tame the genius of the stubborn pi. tin, 
Almoslas quickly as he conquer'd Spain 1 " 

The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer ; we do more — 
we contrive both to conquer and lose them in a shorter season. If the •' great 
Lord's "Crnrinnatian progress inagriculture be no speedier than the propor- 
tional average of time in Pope's couplet, it will, according to the farmer's 
proverb, be " ploughing with dogs." 

By the by — one of this illustrious person's new titles is forgotten— it is, 
however, worth remembering— " Salvador del mundo ! " credite, posleril 
If this be the appellation annexed by the inliabilants of the Peninsula to the 
name of a man who has not yet saved them — query — are they worth savin"-, 
even in this world ? for, according to the mildest modifications of any Chris- 
tian creed, those three words make the odds much against them in the next. — 
" Saviour of the world," quotha ! — it were to be wished that he, or any one 
tlse, could 6ave a corner of it— his country. Vet this stupid misnomer, 
although it shows the near connexion between superstition and impiety, so 
far has its use, that it proves there can be little to dread from those Catholics 
(inquisitor'tr.' Catholics too) who can confer such an appellation on a Pro- 
testant. I suppose next year he will be entitled the " Virgin Mary : " if so, 
'»rd George Gordon himself would have nothing to object to such liberal 
costards of our Lady of Babylon. 



Hail, nimble nymph ! to whom the young hussar, 

The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, 

His night devotes, despite of spur and boot»; 

A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes : 

Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz ! — beneath whose banner 

A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 

On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's* fame, 

Cock'd — fired and miss'd his man — but gain'd his 

aim ; 
Hail moving muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
To " energize the object I pursue," 
And give both Belial and his dance their due ! 

Imperial Waltz ! imported from the Rhine, 
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine,) 
Long be thine import from all duty free, 
And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee; 
In some few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart ; 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh Germany ! how much to thee we owe, 

As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 

Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 

And only left us thy d — d debts and dances ! 

Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, 

We bless thee still — for George the Third is left! 

Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 

For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 

To Germany, and highnesses serene, 

Who owe us millions — don't we owe the queen ? 

To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 

So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides; 

Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, 

Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 

Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 

A dozen dukes — some kings — a queen — and Waltz. 

But peace to her — her emperor and diet, 
Thtiugh now transferr'd to Buonaparte's " fiat! " 
Back to my theme — Muse of motion ! say, 
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way ? 

Borne on the breath of Hyperborean gales, 

From Hamburg's port, (while Hamburg yet had 

mails,) 
Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd to creep 
To snowy Gotter.burgh — was chill'd to sleep ; 
Or starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
Heligoland ! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
While unburnt Moscow* yet had news to send, 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend, 



• The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be sufficiently commended 
—nor subscribed for. Among other details omitted in the various despatches 
of our eloquent ambassador, he did not state, (being too much occupied with 

the exploits of Col. C , in swimming rivers frozen, and galloping over 

roads impassable,) that one entire province perished by famine in the most 
melancholy manner, as follows :— In General Rostopchin's consummate con- 
flagration, the consumption of tallow and train oil was so great, that the 
market was inadequate to the demand: and thus one hundred and thirty- 
three thousand persons were starved to death, by being reduced to whole- 
some diet ! The lamplighters of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) 
a piece, and the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a quantity of best 
moulds (four to the pound) to the relief of the surviving Scythians — the 
scarcity will soon, by such exertions, and a proper attention to the guatoj 



THE WALTZ. 



48^ 



She c ime — "Waltz came — and with her certain sets 

Of trie despatches, and as true gazettes ; 

Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, 

Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match : 

And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 

Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 

One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 

And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs ; 

Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 

Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind ; 

Brunch's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, 

Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 

Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, 

Deligthful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, 

The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, 

And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 

Not decent David, when, before the ark, 

His grand pas-seul excited some remark ; 

Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 

The knight's fandango, friskier than it ought ; 

Not soft Herodias, when with winning tread 

Her nimble feet danced of another's head ; 

Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 

Display'd so much of ley, or more of neck, 

Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 

Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 

To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 

Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; 

To you of nine years less, who only bear 

The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 

With added ornaments around them roll'd 

Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 

To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 

To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match : 

To you, ye children of — whom chance accords — 

Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords ; 

To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 

Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 

As Love or Hymen your endeavors guide, 

To gain your own, or snatch another's bride ; — 

To one and all the lovely stranger came, 

And every ball-room echoes with her name. 

Endearing Waltz ! — to thy more melting tune 

Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon. 

Scotch reels, avaunt ! and country-dance, forego 

Your future claims to each fantastic toe ! 

Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demands, 

Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 

Hands which may freely range in public sight 

Where ne'er before — but — pray "put out the light." 

Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 

Shines much too far — or I am much too near : 

And true, though strange — Waltz whispers this 

remark, 
" My slippery steps are safest in the dark ! " 
But here the muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 

Observant travellers of every time ! 
Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime ! 
O say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
Can Egypt's Almas* — tantalizing group — 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 



rather than the quantity of provision, be totally alleviated. H is said, in re- 
turn, that the untouched Ukraine has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a 
day's rheal to our suffering manufacturers. 
* Dancing girls — who do for hire what Waltz doth gratis. 



Can aught from cold Kamscatka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after waltz be-borne ? 
Ah no ! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." 

Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore, 
With George the Third's— and ended long before !— 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host ; 
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake ; 
No stifT-starch'd stays make meddling lingers ache ; 
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
Goats in their visage,* women in their shape ;) 
No damsel faints when rather closely press'd, 
But more caressing seems when most caress'd ; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial "Waltz." 

Seductive Waltz ! — though on thy native shore 
Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore ; 
Wcrter — to decent vice though much inclined, 
Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — 
Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael, 
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens, 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads; 
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
And cockneys practice what they can't pronounce. 
Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts, 
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of " Waltz !" 
Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut; 
The court, the Regent, like herself were new ;f 
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards ; 
New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; 
New coins (most new j) to follow those that fled; 
New victories — nor can we prize them less, 
Though Jenky wonders at his own success ; 
New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
That most survivors envy those who fell ; 



* It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baussiere's time, of the 
" Sieur de la Croix," lha t there be " no whiskers; " but how far these are 
indications of valor in the field, or elsewhere, may still be questionable. 
Much may be and hath been avouched on both sides. In the olden lime 
philosophers had whiskers, and soldiers none— Scipio himself was shaven — 
Hannibal thought his one eye handsome enough without a beard ; but Adrian, 
the emperor, wore a beard (having warts on his chin, which neither the 
Empress Sabina nor even the courtiers could abide)— Turenne had whiskers, 
Marlborough none — Buonaparte is unwhiskered, the Regent whiskered; 
" argal " greatness of mbid and whiskers may or may not gc .ogeiher : but 
certainly the different occurrences, since the growth of the last rieutione.l, go 
further in behalf of whiskers than the anathema of Anselm die agamsl long 
hair in the reign of Henry I. 

Formerly red was a favorite color. See Lodowick Barrey's comedy of Ram 
Alley, 1661, Act 1. Scene I. 



" Taffeta,. Now, for a 
rindow f 

" Adriano. A black mi 
" Taffeta. I think not s 
There is " nothing ne 



-What colored lieard comes next Lv the 



's, I think. 

; 1 think a red, for that is most in fashion." 
under the sun ; " but red, then a favorite, has 
iw subsided into a favorite's color. 

t An anachronism — Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz are before said to 
have opened the ball together : the bard means, (if he means any thing,) 
Waltz was not so much in vogue till the Regent attained the acme of his pop- 
ty. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the new government, illuminated 
heaven and earth, in all their glory, much about the same time : of these the 
comet only has disappeared ; the other three continue to astonish us still.— 
Printer 's Devil. 

X Among others a new ninepence — a creditable coin now forthcoming 
worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest calculation. 



486 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



New mistresses — no, old — and yet 'tis true, 
Though they be old, the thing is something new ; 
Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks,*) 
New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all 

new sticks ! 
With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, 
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue : 

So saith the muse — my ,f what say you ? 

Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 

Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 

Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 

Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much ; 

Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays, 

And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 

The ball begins — the honors of the house 

First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 

Some potentate — or royal or serene — [mien, 

With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloucester's 

Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 

Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 

From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, 

That spot where hearts^ were once supposed to be ; 

Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 

The strangest hand may wander undisplaced ; 

The lady's in return may grasp as much 

As princely paunches offer to her touch. 

Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 

One hand reposing on the royal hip : 

The other to the shoulder no less royal 

Ascending with affection truly loyal ! 

Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 

The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 

And all in turn may follow in their rank, 

The Earl of — Asterisk — and Lady — Blank ; 

Sir Such-a-one — with those of fashion's host, 

For whose blest surnames — vide " Morning Post ; " 

(Or if for that impartial print too late, [date,) 

Search Doctors' Commons six months from my 

Thus all and each, in movement soft or slow, 

The genial contact gently undergo ; 



• " Oh that right should thus overcome might ! " Who does not remem- 
ber the " delicate investigation " in the (l Merry Wives of Windsor ? " 

"Ford. Pray you, come near: if 1 suspect without cause, why then 
make sport at me ; then let me be your jest ; I deserve it. How now ? 
whither bear you this ? 

11 Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither they bear it !— you were 
best meddle with buck-washing." 

| The gentle, or ferocious reader, may fill up the blank as he pleases — 
there are several dissyllabic names at his service, (being already in the Re- 
gent's:) it would not be fair to back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, 
as every month will add to the list now entered for the sweepstakes : — a dis- 
tinguished consonant is said to be the favorite, much against the wishes of 
the knowing ones. 

X "We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor — 'tis all gone — 
Asmdoeus knows where. After all, it is of no great importance how women's 
hearts are disposed of; they have nature's privilege to distribute them as ab. 
surdly as possible. But there are also some men with hearts so thoroughly 
bad, as to remind us of those phenomena often mentioned in natural history; 
▼iz. a mass of solid stone — only to be opened by force — and when divided, you 
aiscover a toad in the centre, lively, and with the reputation of being ven- 



Till some might marvel with the modest Turk, 
If "nothing follows all this palming work ? "* 
True, honest Mirza ! — you may trust my rhyme — 
Something does follow at a fitter time ; 
The breast thus publicly resign'd to man, 
In private may resist him if it can. 

ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, 

Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! 

And thou, my prince ! whose sovereign taste and 

will 
It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
Thou ghost of Queensbury ! whose judging sprite 
Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ; 
To teach the young ideas how to rise, 
Flush in the cheek and languish in the eyes, 
Rush to the heart and lighten through the frame, 
With half-told wish and ilUdissembled flame ; 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to be or ought ; 
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, 
Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap ? 
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, 
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side, 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form 
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm ? 
At once love's most endearing thought resign, 
To press the hand so press'd by none but thine ; 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Another's ardent look without regret ; 
Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint ; 
If such thou revest — love her then no more, ' 
Or give — like her — caresses to a score ; 
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
The little left behind it to bestow. 

Voluptuous Waltz ! and dare I thus blaspheme ? 

Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 

Terpsichore, forgive ! — at every ball 

My wife now waltzes — and my daughters shall; 

My son — (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 

These little accidents should ne'er transpire ; 

Some ages hence our genealogic tree 

Will wear as green a bough for him as me) — 

Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 

Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 



In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and superfluous question- 
literally put, as in the text, by a Bersian to Morier on seeing a waltz in Pera. 
— Vid4 Morier's Travels. 



THE AGE" OF BRONZE; 

OR, 

CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS, 



" Impnr CongrtesuM AchiUi." 



The " good old times " — all times when old are 



Are gone ; the present might be if they would ; 

Great things have been, and are, and greater still 

Want little of mere mortals but their will ; 

A wider space, a greener field, is given 

To those who play their " tricks before high heaven." 

I know not if the angels weep, but men 

Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep again. 

II. 
All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
Reader ! remember when thou wert a lad, 
Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much, 
His very rival almost deem'd him such. 
We, we have seen the intellectual race 
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, 
As the deep billows of the iEgean roar 
Betwixt theHellenic and the Phrygian shore ; 
But where are they — the rivals ? — a few feet 
Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. 
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave 
Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave 
Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old 
Of " Dust to dust ; " but half its tale untold: 
Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form, 
Varied above, but still alike below ; 
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow, 
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea 
O'er^which from empire she lured Antony ; 
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown, 
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear ! 
He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 
Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth, 



And desolation ; while his native Greece 
Hath all of desolation save its peace. 
He "wept for worlds to conquer ! " he who ne'er 
Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! 
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, 
"Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 

III. 

But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car ; 
The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings, 
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings, 
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, 
Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state ? 
Yes ! where is he, the champion and the child 
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild ? 
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were 

thrones ? 
Whose table earth — whoso dice were human bones ? 
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle, 
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
Smile to survey the queller of the nations 
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
O'er eurtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings ? 
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
A surgeon's statement, and an earl's harangues 
A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 
The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
Is this indeed the tamer of the great, 
Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 
The palty jailer and the prying spy, 
The staring stranger with his note-book nigh ? 
Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great ; 
How low, how little was this middle state, 
Between a prison and a palace, where 
How few could feel for what he had to bear ' 



488 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Vain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill, 
His food and wine were doled out duly still : 
Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 
So free from homicide — to doubt's a crime ; 
And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause, 
Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause. 
But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art : 
Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face 
Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, 
None stand by his low bed — though even the mind 
Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind ; 
Smile — for the fetter'd eagle breaks his chain, 
And higher worlds than this are his again. 

IV. 

How, if that soaring spirit still retain 

A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 

How must he smile, on looking down, to see 

The little that he was and sought to be ! 

What though his name a wider empire found 

Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound; 

Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, 

He tasted empire's blessings and its curse ; 

Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 

From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape : 

How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave, 

The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 

What though his jailer, duteous to the last, 

Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast, 

Refusing one poor line along the lid, 

To date the birth and death of all it hid ; 

That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 

A talisman to all save him who bore ; 

The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 

Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast ; 

When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise, 

Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 

The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 

Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 

And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 

Do more than niggard envy still denies. 

But what are these to him ? Can glory's lust 

Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust ? 

Small care hath he of what his tomb consists ; 

Nought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists : 

Alike the better-seeing Shade will smile 

On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 

As if his ashes found their latest home 

In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 

He wants not this ; but France shall feel the want 

Of this last consolation, though so scant ; 

Her honor, fame, and faith demand his bones, 

To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 

Or carried onward in the battle's van, 

To form, like Guesclin's* dust, her talisman. 

But be it as it is — the time may come 

His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum. 

V. 

Oh heaven ! of which he was in power a feature ; 
Oh earth ! of which he was a noble creature ; 
Thou isle ! to be remember' d long and well, 
That saw'st the unfledg'd eaglet chip his shell ! 



" Guesclin died during the siege of a city ; it surrendered, and the keys 
were brought and laid upon his bier, so that the place might appear rendered 
tu his ashes. 



Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights 

Hover, the victor of a hundred fights ! 

Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone 

Alas ! why past he too the Rubicon — 

The Rubicon of man's awaken'd lights, 

To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 

Egypt ! from whose all dateless tombs arose 

Forgotten Pharaohs froni their long repose, 

And shook within their pyramids to hear 

A new Cambyses thundering in their ear; 

While the dark shades of forty ages stood 

Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 

Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 

Behold the desert peopled, as from hell, 

With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 

To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 

Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 

Behold his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 

Austria ! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 

Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! 

Ye race of Frederic ! Frederic but in name 

And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 

Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 

First, and but rose to follow ! Ye who dwell 

Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 

The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 

Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel past, 

But left thee as he found thee, still a waste, 

Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, 

Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name, 

Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear, 

That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear — 

Kosciusko ! On — on — on — the thirst of war 

Gasps for the gore of serfs, and of their czar. 

The half barbaric Moscow's minarets 

Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets ! 

Moscow ! thou limit of his long career, 

For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 

To see in vain — he saw thee — how ? with spire 

And palace fuel to one common fire. 

To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 

To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 

To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, 

The prince his hall — and Moscow was no more ! 

Sublimest of volcanos ! Etna's flame 

Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame ; 

Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 

For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height : 

Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire 

To come, in which all empires shall expire ' 

Thou other element ! as strong and stern, 

To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn ! 

Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe. 

Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 

How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 

Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang ; 

In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 

For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ! 

In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 

Her youth — their blood flows faster than hei 

wines ; 
Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. 
In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
Her offspring chill'd ; its beams are now forsaken. 
Of all the trophies gather' d from the war, 
What shall return ? — the conqueror's broken car : 
The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 
The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



489 



Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, 

Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die ; 

Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 

Before their sovereign, — sovereign as before; 

But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, 

And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield ; 

The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 

To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's, guide ; 

And backward to the den of his despair 

The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair ! 

Oh ye ! and each, and all ! Oh France ! who found 

Thy long fair fields, plough'd up as hostile ground, 

Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 

His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 

Look'd down o'er trambled Paris ! and thoiflsle, 

Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smiley 

Thou momentary shelter of his pride, 

Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride ! 

Oh France ! retaken by a single march, 

Whose path was through one long triumphal arch ! 

Oh bloody and most bootless Waterloo ! 

Which proves how fools may have their fortune too, 

Won half by blunder, half by treachery : 

Oh dull Saint Helen ! with thy jailer nigh — 

Hear ! hear Prometheus* from his rock appeal 

To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 

His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 

A name eternal as the rolling year; 

He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 

So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong ! 

A single step into the right had made 

This man the Washington of worlds betray'd : 

A single step into the wrong has given 

His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven ; 

The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, 

Of fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 

His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal, 

Without their decent dignity of fall. 

Yet Vanity herself had better taught 

A surer path even to the fame he sought, 

By pointing out on history's fruitless page 

Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 

While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, 

Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, 

Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 

Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth ; 

While Washington's a watchword such as ne'er 

Shall sink while there's an echo left to air : 

While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 

Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 

Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 

Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 

The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 

Who bursts the chains of millions to renew 

The very fetters which his arm broke through, 

And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own, 

To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 

VI. 

But 'twill not be — the spark's awaken'd — lo ! 
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; v 
The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 
Through eight long ages of alternate gore 
Revives — and where ? in that avenging clime 
Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, 



* I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus in ^ischylus, when 
he is left alone by his attendants, and befcre the arrival of the Chorus of Sea 
Nymphs. 

62 



Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew, 

The infant world redeems her name of "New." 

'Tis the old aspiration breathed afresh, 

To kindle souls within degraded flesh, 

Such as repulsed the Persian from the ahore 

Where Greece was — No ! she still is Greece no more. 

One common cause makes myriads of one breast, 

Slaves of the east, or helots'of the west; 

On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd, 

The self-same standard streams o'er either world ; 

The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword ; 

The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord ; 

The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek, 

Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique ; 

Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore, 

Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar; 

Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 

Sweep lightly by the half-tamed land of France, 

Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and woiild fain 

Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 

But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 

Break o'er th' iEgean, mindful of the day 

Of Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise, 

Not to be lull'd by tyrant victories. 

Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 

By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed, 

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, 

The foster'd feud encoiiraged to beguile, 

The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 

Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ; — 

These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can 

shcrw 
The false friend worse than the infuriate foe, 
But this is well : Greeks only should free Greece 
Not the Barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
How should the autocrat of bondage be 
The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
Than swell the Cossack's prowling caravan; 
Better still toil for master's, than await, 
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 
Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 
A live estate, existing but for thrall, 
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
For the first courtier in the czar's regard; 
While their immediate owner never tastes 
His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes ; 
Better succumb even to their own despair, 
And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 

VII. 
But not alone within the hoariest clime 
Where Freedom dates her birth with that of Time, 
And not alone, where, plunged in night, a crowd 
Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud, 
The dawn revives : renown'd, romantic Spain 
Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 
Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword ; 
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 
Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears, 
The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 
That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 
Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 
Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 
Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage ; 
The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung [sprung 
Back to the barbarous realm from whence they 



490 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But these are gone — their faith, their swords, their 

sway, 
Yet left more antichristian foes than they ; 
The bigot monarch and the butcher priest, 
The inquisition, with her burning feast, 
The faith's red "auto," fed with human fuel, 
While sate the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 
Enjoying, with inexorable eye, 
That fiery festival of agony ! 
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 
By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth ; 
The long degenerate noble ; the debased 
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced, 
But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm ; 
The once proud navy which forgot the helm; 
The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; 
The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade ; 
The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore, 
Save hers who earned it with the natives' gore ; 
The very language which might vie with Rome's, 
And once was known to nations like their home's, 
Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain ; 
But such she is not, nor shall be again. 
These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 
The new Numantine soul of old Castile. 
Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 
Revive the cry — " Iago ! and close Spain ! " * 
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 
And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 
The exterminating war, the desert plaiit, 
The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 
The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 
Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop 
For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall 
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 
The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 
Waving her more than Amazonian blade, 
The knife of Arragon,f Toledo's steel ; 
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile ; 
The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 
The Andalusian courser in the van ; 
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 
And in each heart the spirit of the Cid: — 
Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 
And win — not Spain, but thine own freedom, France ! 

VIII. 

But lo ! a Congress ! What ! that hallow'd name 
Which freed the Atlantic ? May we hope the same 
For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise, 
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
The prophets of young Freedom, summon'd far 
From climes of Washington and Bolivar ; 
Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ; 
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 
Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 
And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 
To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 
But who compose this senate of the few 
That should redeem the many ? Who renew 
This consecrated name, till now assign'd 
To councils held to benefit mankind ! 



• " St. Iago ! and close Spain ! " the old Spanish war-cry. 
f The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use of this weapon, and 
iisplayed it particularly in former French wars. 



Who now assemble at the holy call ? 

The blest Alliance, which says three are all ! 

An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 

Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 

A pious unity ! in purpose one — 

To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 

Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 

Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 

And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, 

Cared little, so that they were duly fed ; 

But these, more hungry, must have something more 

The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 

Ah ! how much happier were good xEsop's frogs 

Than we ! for ours are animated logs, 

With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 

And crushing nations with a stupid blow ; 

All duly anxious to leave little work 

Unto the revolutionary stork. 

IX. 

Thrice blest Verona ! since the holy three 

With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 

Honor'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets 

The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets ; " 

Thy Scaligers — for what was " Dog the Great," 

" Can Grande," (which I venture to translate,) 

To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 

Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 

Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 

And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate; 

Thy good old man,* whose world was all within 

Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in : 

Would that the royal guests it girds about 

Were so far like, as never to get out ! 

Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of shame, 

To tell Oppression that the world is tame ! 

Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, 

The comedy is not upon the stage ; 

The show is rich in ribandry and stars, 

Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 

Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 

For thus much still thy fettered hands are free ! 

X. 

Resplendent sight ! Behold the coxcomb czar, 

The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 

As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 

And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 

A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, 

And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit; 

Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw, 

But harden'd back whene'er the morning's raw; 

With no objection to true liberty, 

Except that it would make the nations free. 

How well the imperial dandy prates of peace, 

How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free 

Greece ! 
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ! 
How royally show off in proud Madrid 
His goodly person, from the South long hid ! 
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, 
By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son ! 
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; 



* The famous old i 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



491 



And that which Scythia was to him of yore 
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 
Many an old woman, but no Catherine.* 
Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 
The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 
Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 
To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir 

hordes, 
Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 
Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 
To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 
With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure; 
Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe ; 
Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey ? 
Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ; 
But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander 
Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free ; 
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope : 
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan 
The face of monarchs for an " honest man." 

XL 

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band 
Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers 
And tribune, which each orator first clambers 
Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found, 
Hears " the lie " echo for his answer round ! 
Our British commons sometimes deign to " hear! " 
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather 
Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
What is the simple standing of a shot, 
To listening long, and interrupting not ? 
Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction, 
In saying eloquence meant "Action, action!" 

XII. 

But where's the monarch ? hath he dined ? or yet 

Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 

Have revolutionary pates risen, 

And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ? 

His discontented movements stirr'd the troops ; 

Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups ? 

Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 

Each course enough ? or doctors dire dissuaded 

Repletion ? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 

I read all France's treason in her cooks ! 

Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say, 

Desirable to be the " Desire ? " 

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green 

abode, 
Apician table, and Horatian ode, 



* The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the Great by courtesy) 
when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the river Pruth. 



To rule a people who will not be ruled, 
And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ? 
Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 
For thrones ; the table sees thee better placed : 
A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best, 
To be a kind host and as good a guest, 
To talk of letters, and to know by heart 
One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art. 
A scholar always, now and then a wit, 
And gentle when digestion may permit ; — 
But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee 

/ 

XIII. 

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 

From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 

"Arts — arms — and George — and glory — and the 

isles — 
And happy Britain — wealth — and freedom's smiles — 
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof — 
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
Proud Wellington, with Eagle be"ak so curl'd, 
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world ! 

And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush ! not yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other day — 
And ' pilots who have weather'd every storm ' — 
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform.") 
These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
Methinks we need not sing them any more ; 
Found in so many volumes far and near, 
There's no occasion you should find them here. 
Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme. 
Even this thy genius, Canning ! may permit, 
Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit, 
And never, even in that dull house could'st tame 
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame ; 
Our last, our best, our only orator, 
Even I can praise thee — tories do no more ; 
Nay, not so much ; — they hate thee, man, because 
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
The hounds will gather to the huntsman's hollo, 
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow ; 
But not for love mistake their yelling cry ; 
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; ' 
Less faithful far than the fourfooted pack, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, 
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
But what of that ? the animal shows blood. 

XIV. 

Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 
Bewail her now imcountry gentlemen ? 
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 
The first to make a malady of peace. 
For what were all these country patriots born ? 
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn ? 
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall, 
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 



• "Naso suspendit adunco." — Horace. 
The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to his acquaintance. 



492 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 

Why would you trouble Bonaparte's reign ? 

He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices [prices ; 

Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your 

He amplified to every lord's content 

The grand agrarian alchymy, hightrera^. 

Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 

And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 

Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 

The man was worth much more upon his throne. 

True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt ; 

But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 

But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 

And acres told upon the appointed day. 

But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 

The purseproud tenant, never known to fail ? 

The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 

The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ? 

The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 

The doubling rental ? What an evil's peace ! 

In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 

In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 

The landed interest — (you may understand 

The phrase much better leaving out the land)— 

The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 

For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 

Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes, j 

Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 

And patriotism, so delicately nice, 

Her loaves will lower to the market price; 

For ah! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, 

Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry, 

And nought remains of all the millions spent, 

Excepting to grow moderate and content. 

They who are not so, had their turn — and turn 

About still flows from Fortune's equal urn ; 

Now let their virtue be its own reward, 

And share the blessing which themselves prepared. 

See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 

Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; 

Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 

Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 

Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 

Their brethren out to battle — why ? for rent ! 

Year after year they voted cent, per cent., 

Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why ? for 

rent! 
They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore 

they meant 
To die for England — why then live ? for rent ! 
The peace has made one general malecontent 
Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! 
Their love of country, millions all misspent, 
How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
No : down with every thing, and up with rent ! 
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent ! 
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess ; 
Thou should'st have gotten more, or eaten less ; 
Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 
Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war, 
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar ! 
What ! would they spread their earthquake even 

o'er cash ? 
And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash? 
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 
And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital ? 



Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, 
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes ; 
The prelates go to — where the saints have gone, 
And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, 
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 
Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 
And why ? to pamper the self-seeking wants, 
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants-. 
"Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise ; ' 
Admire their patience through each sacrifice, 
Till taught to feel the lesson 01 their pride, 
The price of taxes and of homicide ; 
Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
The debt of nations : — pray toho made it high ? 

XV. 

Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 

The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 

Where Midas might again his wish behold 

In real paper or imagined gold. 

That magic palace of Alcina shows 

More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 

Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore, 

And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 

There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the stake, 

And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 

How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines, 

Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines ; 

No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 

Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 

But let us not to own the truth refuse, 

Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 

Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 

And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own ; 

All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, 

And waft a loan " from Indus to the pole." 

The banker — broker — baron — brethren, speed 

To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 

Nor these alone : Columbia feels no less 

Fresh speculations follow each success ; 

And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 

Her mild percentage from exhausted Spain. 

Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march ; 

'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 

Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 

In every realm their scripture-promised land : — 

Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 

The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old ■ 

Two Jews — but not Samaritan's — -direct 

The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 

What is the happiness of earth to them ? 

A congress forms their "New Jerusalem," 

Where baronies and orders both invite — 

Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 

Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 

Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 

But honor them as portion of the show — 

(Where now, oh pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 

Could it not favor Judah with some kicks ? 

Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks ?" 

On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, 

To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of flesh.' 

XVI. 

Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite 
All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



493 



I speak not of the sovereigns — they're alike, 

A common coin as ever mint could strike : 

But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 

Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 

Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 

"While Europe wonders at the vast design : 

There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 

Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight ; 

There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyr's ;* 

And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 

There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters, 

Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, 

To furnish articles for " the Debats ; " 

Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 

As his dismissal in the " Moniteur." 

Alas ! how could his cabinet thus err ? 

Can peace be worth an ultra-minister ? 

He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again 

"Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain." 

XVII. 

Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 
The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride ; 
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, 
The young Astyanax of modern Troy ; 
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen ; 
She flits amid the phantoms of the hour, 
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 
Oh, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria spare 
A daughter ? What did France's widow there ? 
Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave, 
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 



* Monsiear Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author in the minis- 
ter, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign : 

" Ah ! Monsieur C , are you related to that Chateaubriand who — 

who — has written sometking ? " (ticrit quelque chose 1) It is said that the 
author of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy. 



The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 

Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 

What though she share no more, and shared in vain, 

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 

Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas > 

Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 

Where Parma views the traveller resort 

To note the trappings of her mimic court. 

But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 

Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn— 

Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 

To chill in their inhospitable clime ; 

(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; 

But no, 1 — their embers soon will burst the mould ;) 

She comes! — the Andromache (but not Racine's, 

Nor Homer's) — Lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 

Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 

Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through, 

Is offer'd and accepted ! Could a slave 

Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new grave ! 

Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 

And he e.c-empress grows as ex a wife ! 

So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 

Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ? 

XVIII. 

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, 

And sketch the group — the picture's yet to come 

My muse 'gan weep, but ere a tear was spilt, 

She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt ! 

While throng'd the chiefs of every highland clan 

To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 

Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, 

While all the Common Council cry "Claymore ! " 

To see proud Albyn's tartan's as a belt 

Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, 

She burst into a laughter so extreme, 

That I awoke — and lo ! 'twas no dream ! 

Here, reader, will we pause ; — if there's no harm in 
This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second "Carmen." 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 



SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF ""WAT TYLER. ; 



1 A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel I 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 1 



PREFACE. 

J.r .*ath been wisely said, that " One fool makes 
nany ; " and it hath been poetically observed, 

" That fools rush in where angels fear to tread." — Pope. 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had 
no business, and where he never was before, and 
never will be again, the following poem would not 
have been written. It is not impossible that it may 
be as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any 
species of stupidity, natural or acquired, be tcorse. 
The gross flattery, the dull impudence, the renegado 
intolerance, and impious cant of the poem by the 
author of Wat Tyler, are something so stupendous 
as to form the sublime of himself — containing the 
quintessence of his own attributes. 

So much for his poem — a word on his preface. In 
this preface it has pleased the magnanimous laureate 
to draw the picture of a supposed " Satanic School," 
the which he doth recommend to the notice of the 
legislature ; ihereby adding to his other laurels the 
ambition of those of an informer. If there exists any 
where, excepting in his imagination, such a school, 
is he not sufficiently armed against it by his own 
intense vanity ? The truth is, that there are certain 
writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have 
"talked of him ; for they laughed consumcdlv." 

I think I know enough of most of the writers to 
whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, 
in their individual capacities, have done more good 
in the charities of life to their fellow-creatures in 
any one year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to 
himself by his absurdities in his whole life ; and 
this is saying a great deal. But I have a few ques- 
tions to ask. , 

lstly. Is Mr. Southey the author of "Wat Tyler ? 

2dly. "Was he not refused a remedy at law by the 
highest judge of his beloved England, because it 
was a blasphemous and seditious publication ? 



3dly. "Was he not entitled by "William Smith, in 
full parliament, " a rancorous renegado ? " 

4thly. Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines 
on Martin the regicide staring him in the face ? 

And othly. Putting the four preceding items to- 
gether, with what conscience dare he call the atten- 
tion of the laws to the publication of others, be 
they what they may ? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceed- 
ing ; its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to 
touch upon the motive, which is neither more nor 
less than that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in 
some recent publications, as he was of yore in the 
" Anti-jacobin " by his present patrons. Hence all 
this " skimble-scamble stuff" about " Satanic," and 
so forth. However, it is worthy of him — " Qualis 
ab incepto." 

If there is any thing obnoxious to the political 
opinions of a portion of the public in the following 
poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He might 
have written hexameters, as .lie has written every 
thing else, for aught that the writer cared — had 
they been upon another subject. But to attempt to 
canonize a monarch, who, whatever were his house- 
hold virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot 
king — inasmuch as several years of his reign passed 
in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of 
the aggressions upon France, — like all other exag 
geration, necessarily begets opposition. In what- 
ever manner he may be spoken of in this new 
"Vision," his public career will not be more favor- 
ably transmitted by history. Of his private virtues 
(although a little expensive to the nation) there can 
be no doubt. 

With regard to the supernatural personages 
treated of, I can only say, that I know as much 
about them, and (as an honest man) have a better 
right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have 
also treated them more tolerantly. The way in which 
that poor insane creature, the laureate, deals about 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



495 



lis judgment in the next world, is like his own 
■udgment in this. If it was not completely ludi- 
crous, it would be something worse I don't think 
that there is much more to say at present. 

QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

P. S. — It is possible that some readers may object, 
in these objectionable times, to the freedom with 
which saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse 
in this "Vision." But for precedents upon such 
points I must refer him to Fielding's "Journey 
from this World to the Next," and to the Visions 
of myself, the said Quevedo, in Spanish or trans- 
lated. The reader is also requested to observe, 
that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or dis- 
cussed ; that the person of the Deity is carefully 
withheld from sight, which is more than can be said 
for the laureate, who hath thought proper to make 
him talk, not "like a school divine," but like the 
unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole action 
passes on the outside of heaven ; and Chaucer's 
Wife of Bath, Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, Swift's 
Tale of a Tub, and the other works above referred 
to, are cases in point of the freedom with which 
saints, &c, may be permitted to converse in works 
not intended to be serious. Q. R. 

**.* Mr. Southey, being, as he says, a good 
Christian and vindictive, threatens, I understand, 
a reply to this our answer. It is to be hoped that 
his visionary faculties will in the meantime have 
acquired a little more judgment, properly so called : 
otherwise he will get himself into new dilemmas. 
These apostate jacobins furnish rich rejoinders. 
Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey laudeth 
grievously " one Mr. Landor," who cultivates much 
private renown in the shape of Latin verses ; and 
not long ago, the poet laureate dedicated to him, it 
appeareth, one of his fugitive lyrics, upon the 
strength of a poem called Gebir. Who could sup- 
pose that in this same Gebir the aforesaid Savage 
Landor (for such is his grim cognomen) putteth into 
the infernal regions no less a person than the hero 
of his friend Mr. Southey's heaven, — yea, even 
George the Third ! See also how personal Savage 
becometh, when he hath a mind. The following is 
his portrait of our late gracious sovereign : 

(Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal regions, the shades 
of his royal ancestors are, at his request, called up to his view, and 
he exclaims to his ghostly guide)— 

" Aroar, what wretch chat nearest us ? what wretch 

Is that witli eyebrows white and slanting brow ? 

Listen I him yonder, who, bound down supine, 

Shrinks yelling from that sword there, eugiue-hung. 

He too among my ancestors ! I hate 

The despot, but the dastard I despise. 

Was he our countryman ? " 

" Alas, lung! 

Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 

Inclement winds blew blighting from northeast." 

11 He was a warrior then, nor fear'd the gods ? " 

Gebir, he fear'd the demons, not the gods, 

Though them indeed his daily face adored ; 

And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 

Squander'd, aa stones to exercise a sling, 

And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 

Oh madness of mankind 1 address'd, adored I " — Gebir, p. 28. 

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of 
Savagius, wishing to keep the proper veil over 
them, if his grave but somewhat indiscreet worship- 
per will suffer it ; but certainly these teachers of 
"great moral lessons" are apt to be found in 
strange company. 



I. 



Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate ; 

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 
So little trouble had been given of late ; 

Not that the place by any means was full, 
But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight" 

The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, 
And " a pull altogether," as they say 
At sea — which drew most souls another way. 

II. 

The angels all were singing out of tune, 
And hoarse with having little else to do, 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
Or curb a runaway young star or two, 

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 

Splitting some planet with its playful tail, 

As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 

III. 
The guardian seraphs had retired on hign, 

Finding their charges past all care below ; 
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky 

Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 

With such rapidity of vice and wo, 
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills, 
And yet was in arrear of human ills. 

IV. 

His business so augmented of late years, 

That he was forced, against his will, no doubt, 

(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,) 
For some resource to turn himself about, 

And claim the help of his celestial peers, 
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out 

By the increased demand for his remarks : 

Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks. 



This was a handsome board — at least for hea-»en, 
And yet they had even then enough to do, 

So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 
So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 

Each day too slew its thousands six or seven, 
Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 

They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 

The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 

VI. 

This by the way ; 'tis not mine to record 

What angels shrink from : even the very devil 

On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
So surfeited with the infernal revel; 

Though he himself had shaipen'd every sword, 
It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 

(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion — 

'Tis, that he hath both generals in reversion.) 

VII. 

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 

And heaven none — they form'd the tyrant's lease, 
With nothing but new names subscrib'd upon't ; 

'Twill one day finish : meantime they increase, 
" With seven heads and ten horns," and all in 
front, 

Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but ours are born 

Less formidable in the head than horn. 



496 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VIII. 

In the first year of freedom's second dawn 

Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one 

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
Left him nor mental nor external sun : 

A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 
A worse king never left a realm undone ! 

He died — but left his subjects still behind, 

One half as mad — and t'other no less blind. 

IX. 
He died ! — his death made no great stir on earth, 

His burial made some pomp ; there was profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 

Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion, 
For these things may be bought at their true worth ; 
'" Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 

X. 

Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 

The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the wo. 

There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced 
the pall ; 
And, when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 

The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 

XI. 

So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
Return to what it must far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight 
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
What nature made him at his birth, as bare 

As the mere million's base unmummied clay — 

Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII. 
He's d%ad — and upper earth with him has done : 

He's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 

For him, unless he left a German will ; 
But wherc's the proctor who will ask his son ? 

In whom his qualities are reigning still, 
Except that household virtue, most uncommon, 
Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 

XIII. 
" God save the king ! " It is a large economy 

In God to save the like ; but if he will 
Be saving, all the better ; for not one am I 

Of those who think damnation better still : 
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 

In this small hope of bettering future ill 
By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, 
The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 

XIV. 

I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'Tis blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 

I know my catechism ; I know we are cramm'd 
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 

I know that all save England's church have 
shamm'd, 
And that the other twice two hundred churches' 
And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase 



XV. 



God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 
God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 

And not a whit more difficult to danin 

Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb ; 
Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish 

As one day will be that immortal fry 

Of almost every body. born to die. 

XVI. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 

And nodded o'er his keys ; when lo ! there came 
A wond'rous noise he had not heard of late — 

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame ; 
In short, a roar of things extremely great, [claim ; 

Which would have made aught save a saint ex- 
But he, with first a start and then a wink, 
Said, "There's another star gone out, I think! " 

XVII. 

But ere he could return to his repose, 
A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 

At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose ; 
" Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee rise ! " 

Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes : 

To which t^re saint replied, " Well, what's the 
matter ? 

Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ? " 

XVIII. 

"No," quoth the cherub; "George the Third is 
dead." [apostle: 

" And who is George the Third ? " replied the 
"What George? what Third?" "The king of 
England," said 

The angel. "Well! he won't find kings to jostle 
Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 

Because the last we saw here had a tustle, 
And ne'er would have got into Iieaven's good 
Had he not flung his head in all our faces, [graces 

XIX. 

" He was, if I remember, king of France ; 

That head of his, which could not keep a crown 
On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 

A claim to those of martyrs — like my own : 
If I had had my sword, as I had once 

When I cut ears off, I had cut him down ; 
But having but my keys, and not my brand, 
I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 

XX. 

" And then he set up such a headless howl, 
That all the saints came out and took him in ; 

And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
That fellow Paul — the parvenu ! The skin 

Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin, 

So as to make a martyr, never sped 

Better than did this weak and wooden head. 

XXI. 

" But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
There would have been a different tale to tell ', 

The fellow-feeling in the saints' beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a spell ; 

And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 

And seems the custom here to overthrow 

Whatever has been wisely done below." 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



497 



XXII. 

The angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
The king who comes has head and all entire, 

And never knew much what it was about— 
He did as doth the puppet — by its wire, 

And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt, 
My business and your own is not to inquire 

Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 

Which is to act as we are bid to do." 

XXIII. 

"While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 
Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 

Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 
Some silver stream, (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 

Or Thames, or Tweed,) and 'mid them, an old man 
With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 

Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 

Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 

XXIV. 

But bringing up the rear of this bright host 

A Spirit of a different aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; 
His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost ; 

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face, 
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sin, 

With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 

He patter'd with his keys at a great rate, 
And sweated through his apostolic skin, 

Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 

Or some such other spiritual liquor. 

XXVI. 

The very cherubs huddled altogether, 

Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt 

A tingling to the tip of every feather, 

And form'd a circle like Orion's belt [whither 

Around their poor old charge ; who scarce knew 
His guards had led him, thSugh they gently dealt 

With royal manes, (for by many stories, 

And true, we learn the angels all are tories.) 

XXVII. 

As things were in this posture, the gate flew 

Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
Flung over space an universal hue 

Of many-color'd flame, until its tinges 
Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 

Aurora borealis spread its fringes [bound, 

O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ice- 
By Captain Parry's crews, in "Melville's Sound." 

XXVIII. 

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 

Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight : 

My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
With earthly likenesses, for her the night 

Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 

Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 
63 



XXIX. 

'Twas the archangel Michael : all men know 
The make of angels and archangels, since^ 

There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 
From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. 

There also are some altar-pieces, though 
I really can't say that they much evince 

One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 

- XXX. 

Michael fle^v forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And good arise ; the portal past — he stood; 

Before him the young cherubs and saint hoary, 
(I say yoieng, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
To state they were not older than Saint Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter.) 

XXXI. 

The cherubs and the saints bowed down before 

That archangelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god; but this ne'er nurst 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 

No thought, save for his Maker's service, duret 
Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

XXXII. 

He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 

They knew each other both for good and ill ; 
Such was their power, that neither could forget 

His former friend and future foe ; but still 
There was a high, immortal, proud regret 

In either's eye, as if 'twere less their will 
Than destiny to make the eternal years 
Their date of war, and their " champ clos " the 
spheres. 

XXXIII. 
But nere they were in neutral space : we know 

From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 
A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 

And that " the sons of God," like those of clay, 
Must keep him company ; and we might show, 

From the same book, in how polite a way 
The dialogue is held between the Powers 
Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up hours. 

XXXIV. 

And this is not a theologic tract, 
To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic 

If Job be allegory or a fact, 
But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 

From out the whole but such and such an act 
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 

'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 

And accurate as any other vision. 

XXXV. 

The spirits were in neutral space, before 
The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds is 

The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er, 
And souls despatch'd to that world or to this ; 

And therefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil aspect : though they did not kiss, 

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 

There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness 



498 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXVI. 

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau, 

But with a graceful Oriental bend, 
Pressing one radiant arm just where below 

The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 
He turn'd as to an equal, not too low, 
But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 
With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

XXXVII. 

He merely bent his diabolic brow 
An instant ; and then raising it, he stood 

In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 
Cause why King George by no means could or 

Make out a case to be exempt from wo [should 

Eternal, more than other kings, endued [tions, 

With better sense and hearts, whom history men- 

Who long have "paved hell with their good inten- 
tions." 

XXXVIII. 

Michael began: "What wouldst thou with this man, 
Now dead, and brought before the Lord ? What ill 

Hath he wrought since his mortal race began, 
That thou can'st claim him ? Speak ! and do thy 

If it be just : if in this earthly span [will, 

He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 

His duties as a king and mortal, say, 

And lie is thine; if not, let him have way." 

XXXIX. 

" Michael ! " replied the Prince of Air, " even here, 
Before the gate of him thou servest, must 

I claim my subject; and will make appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust, 

So shall he be in spirit, although dear 

To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 

Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne 

He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 

XL. 

" Look to our earth, or rather mine ; it was, 
Once, more thy master's : but I triumph not 

In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 

With all the myriads of blight worlds which pass 
In worship round him, he may have forgot 

Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 

I think few worth damnation save their kings. — 

XLI. 
" And these but as a kind of quitrent, to 

Assert my right as lord ; and even had 
I such an inclination, 'twere (as you 

Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so bad, 
That hell has nothing left to do [mad 

Than leave them to themselves : so much more 
And evil by their own internal curse, 
Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 

XLII. 
" Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 

When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor 
worm 
Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 

The world and he both wore a different form, 
And much of earth and all the watery plain 

Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 
His isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 
For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 



XLIII. 

" He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old: 
Look to the state in which he found his realm, 

And left it; and his annals too behold, 
How to a minion first he gave the helm : 

How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, 
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 

The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glance 

Thine eye along America and France. 

XLIV. 
" 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last, 

(I have the workmen safe;) but as a tool 
So let him be consumed. For out the past 

Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 
Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 

Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesars' school, 
Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 
More drench'd with gore, more cumbri'd with the 
slain. 

XLV. 
" He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 

Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 
So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty ! ' [Whose 

Found George the Third their first opponent. 
History was ever stain'd as his will be 

With national and individual woes ? 
I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 
His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want ; 

XLVI. 

" I know he was a constant consort ; own 
He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 

All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 

Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 

And this was well for him, but not for those 

Millions who found him what oppression chose. 

XLVII. 

"The New World shook him off; the Old ye\ 
Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 

Completed : he leaves his heirs on many thrones 
To all his vices, without what begot 

Compassion for him — his tame virtues ; drones 
Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 

A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 

Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them quake * 

XLVIII. 

"Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 

A part of that vast all they held of old, — 
Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 

Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter ! Cold 
Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 

The foe to Catholic participation 

In all the license of a Christian nation. 

XLIX. 

'■ True ! he allow'd them to pray God ; but as 
A consequence of prayer, refused the law 

Which would have placed them«upon the same base 
With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 

But here Saint Peter started from nis place, 
And cried, " You may the prisoner withdraw: 

Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 

While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself ! 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



499 



L. 



• So mer will I with Cerberus exchange 

My office (and his is no sinecure) 
Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure ! " 
" Saint ! " replied Satan, " you do well to avenge 

The wrongs he made your satellites endure ; 
And if to this exchange you should be given, 
I'll try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 

LI. 
Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! and devil ! 

Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 

Satan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgar's level : [sion. 

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in ses- 
Have you got more to say?" — "No." — "If you 
I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." [please, 

LII. 

Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand, 
"Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 

Clouds farther off than we can understand, 
Although we find him sometimes in our skies ; 

Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
In all the planets, and hell's batteries 

Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 

As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 

LIII. 

This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls 

Of world's past, present, or to come ; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls 

Of hell assign'd; but where their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game, 

They may range freely — being damn'd the same. 

LIV. 

They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in their loins ; J>r like to an " entre" 
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 

I borrow my comparisons from clay, 

Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses ; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV. 

When the great signal ran from heaven to hell — 
About ten million times the distance reckon'd 

From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 

How much time it takes up, even to a second, 

For every ray that travels to dispel [con'd, 

The fogs of London, through which, dimly bea- 

The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year, 

If that the summer is not too severe : — 

LVI. 

I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute : 
I know the solar beams take up more time 

Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it; 
But then their telegraph is less sublime, 

And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime ; 

The sun takes up some years for every ray 

To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 



LVII. 

Upon the verge of space, about the size 

Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd, 
(I've seen a something like it in the skies 

In the iEgean, ere a squall;) it near'd, 
And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 

Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and steer'd, 
Or teas steer'd, (I am doubtful of the grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stam- 
mer ; — 

LVIII. 
But take your choice ;) and" then it grew a cloud, 

And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 

Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these ; 
They shadow'd with their myriads space ; their loud 

And varied cries were like those of wild geese, 
(If nations may be liken'd to a goose,) 
And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose." 

LIX. 

Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 
Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : [wull ?" 

There Paddy brogued " By Jasus !" — "AVhat's your 
The temperate Scot exclaim'd : the French ghost 

In certain terms I shan't translate in full, [swore 
As the first coachman will ; and 'mid the war, 

The voice of Jonathan was heai«d to express, 

" Our President is going to war, I guess." 

LX. 
Besides, there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane; 

In short, an universal shoal of shades, 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and professions, years, and trades, 
Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 

Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades : 
All summon'd by this grand " subpoena," to 
Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or you. 

LXI. 

"When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 
As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight, 

He turn'd all colors — as a peacock's tail, 

Or sunset streaming through a gothic skylight 

In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 

Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, 

Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 

LXII. 

Then he address'd himself to Satan: ""Why— 
My good old friend, for such I deem you, though. 

Our different parties makes us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for a. personal foe ; 

Our difference is political, and I 
Trust that, whatever may occur below, 

You know my great respect for you ; and this 

Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 

LXIII. 

" "Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 

That you should half of earth and hell produce ; 
'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean, 

True testimonials are enough : we lose 
Our time, nay, our eternity, between 

The accusation and defence : if we 

Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality " 



500 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXIV. 

Satan replied, " To me the matter is 
Indifferent, in a personal point of view : 

I can have fifty better souls than this 
"With far less trouble than we have gone through 

Already ; and I merely argued his 

Late majesty of Britain's case with you 

Upon a point of form : you may dispose 

Of him ; I've kings enough below, God knows ! " 

LXV. 

Thus spoke the Demon, (late call'd "multifaced" 
By multo-scribbling Southey.) " Then we'll call 

One or two persons of the myriads placed 
Around our congress, and dispense, with all 

The rest," quoth Michael : " Who may be so graced 
As to speak first ? there's choice enough — who shall 

It be ? " Then Satan answer'd, " There are many ; 

But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite, 
Upon the instant started from the throng, 

Drest in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world ; where unite 
All the costumes since Adam's, right or -wrong, 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 

LXVII. 

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 

Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My friends of all 
The spheres, we shall catch cold among these clouds ; 

So let's to business : why this general call ? 
If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
" And 'tis for an election that they bawl, 
Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! 
Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote r " 

LXVIII. 

" Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake : these things 

Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august ; to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met : so now you know." . 

" Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," 

Said Wilkes, "are cherubs ; and that soul below 
Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind 
A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind ? " 

LXIX. 

" He is what you behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 

" If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
Gives licence to the humblest beggar's head 

To lift itself against the loftiest." — " Some," 

Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid in lead, 

For such a liberty — and I, for one, 

Have told them what I thought beneath the sun." 

LXX. 

" Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 

To urge againsthim," said the Archangel. "Why," 

Replied the spirit, " since old scores are past, 
Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 
With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 

I don't like ripping up old stories, since 

His conduct was but natural in a prince. 



LXXI. 

"Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poor, unlucky devil, without a shilling ; 

But then I blame the man himself much less 
Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 

To see him punish'd here for their excess, 
Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 

Their place below: for me, I have forgiven, 

And vote his 'habeas corpus' into heaven." 

LXXII. 

Wilkes," said the Devil, " I understand all this ; 

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 

To grow a whole one on the other side 
Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 

Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
He won't be sovereign more ; you've lost your labor, 
For at the best he will but be your neighbor. 

LXXIII. 

However, I knew what to think of it, 

When I beheld you in your jesting way 
Flitting and whispering round about the spit 

Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 
With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 

His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 
That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills ; 
I'll have him gagg'd — 'twas one of his own bills. 

LXXIV. 

" Call Junius ! " From the crowd a shadow stalk'd, 
And at the name there was a general squeeze, 

So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
In comfort, at their own aerial ease, 

But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd, (but to be balk'd, 
As we shall see,) and jostled hands and knees, 

Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder, 

Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 

LXXV. 

The shadow came— a tall, thin, gray-hair'd figure, 
That look'd as it nad been a shade on earth ; 

Quick in its motions, with an air of vigor, 
But nought to mark its breeding or its birth ; 

Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 
With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth, 

But as you gazed upon its features, they 

Changed every instant — to what, none could say. 

LXXYI. 

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 

Could they distinguish whose the features were ; 

The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess ; 
They varied like a dream — now here, now there ; 

And several people swore from out the press, 
They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 

He was his father : upon which another 

Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother : 

LXXYII. 
Another, that he was a duke or knight, 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife ; but the wight, 

Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 

He stood, the puzzle only was increas'd ; 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself — he was so volatile and thin. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



501 



LXXVIII. 

The moment that you had pronounced him one, 
Presto ! his face changed, and he was another ; 

And when that change was hardly well put on, 
It varied, till I don't think his own mother 

(If that he had a mother) would her son 
Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other : 

Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 

At this epistolary " Iron Mask." 

LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
"Three gentlemen at once," (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop ;) then you might deem 
That he was not even one ; now many rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick sieam 
Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days ; 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 

# LXXX. 

I've. an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne, 

And injuring some minister or peer, 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown. 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
'Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call 
"Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXI. 

I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads ; and books, we see, 
Are fill'd as well without the latter too : 

And really till we fix on somebody 
For certain sure to claim them as his due, 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 

The world to say if there be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

" And who and what art thou ? " the Archangel said. 

" For that you may consult my title page," 
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 

" If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell it now." — "Canst thou upbraid," 

Continued Michael, " George Rex, or allege 
Aught further ? " Junius answer'd, " You had better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter: 

LXXXIII. 

" My charges upon record will outlast 
The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 

" Repent'st thou not," said Michael, " of some past 
Exaggeration ? something which may doom 

Thyself if false, as him if true ? Thou wast 
Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 

Of passion ? " — " Passion ! " cried the phantom dim, 

' I loved my country, and I hated him. 

LXXXIV. 
" What I have written, I have written : let 

The rest be on his head or mine ! " So spoke 
Old " Nominis Umbra ; " and while speaking yet, 

Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget [Tooke, 

To call George Washington, and John Home 
And Franklin ; " — but at this time there was heard 
A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 



LXXXV. 

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 
Of cherubim appointed to that post, , 

The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 

Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 
" What's this ? " cried Michael ; "why, 'tis not a 

" I know it," quoth the incubus ; but he [ghost ?" 

Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

LXXXVI. 

" Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 
My left wing, he's so heavy ; one would think 

Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
But to the point : while hovering o'er the Brink 

Of Skiddaw, (where as usual it still rain'd,) 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 

And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 

No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXVII. 
" The former is the devil's scripture, and 

The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 
Belongs to all of us, you understand. 

I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 
And brought him oft" for sentence out of hand : 

I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 
At least a quarter it can hardly be : 
I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 

UXXXVIII. 

Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 
And have expected him for some time here ; 

A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 

But surely it was not worth while to fold 

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear : 

We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 

With carriage) coming of his own accord. ' 

LXXXIX. 

" But since he's here, let's see what he has done." 
"Done ! " cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates 

The very business you are now upon, 
And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 

Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 

When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates ?" 
Let's hear," quoth Michael, "what he has to say, 

You know we're bound to that in every way." 

XC. 

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 
By no means often was his case below, 

Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 
His voice into that awful note of wo 

To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow, 

But stuck fast with his first hexameter, 

Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 

XCI. 

But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array ; , 
And Michael rose ere he could get a word 

Of all his founder'd verses under way, [best 

And cried, " For God's sake stop, my friend! 'twere 
Non Di, non homines — you know the rest." 



502 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCII. 

A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
Which seem'd to hold all -verse in detestation ; 

The angels had of course enough of song 
When upon service ; and the generation 

Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 
Before, to profit by a new occasion : [what ! 

The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, " What ! 

Pye come again ? No more — no more of that ! " 

XCIII. 

The tumult grew ; an universal cough 
Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 

When Castlereagh has been up long enough, 

(Before he was first minister of state, [off! " 

I mean — the slaves hear noio ;) some cried, "Off! 
As at a farce ; till grown quite desperate, 

The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 

(Himself an author) only for his prose. 

XCIV. 
The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave ; 

A good deal like a vulture in the face, 
With, a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 

Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
But that indeed was hopeless as can be, 
Quite a poetic felony " de se." 

xcv. 

Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 
With one still greater, as is yet the mode 

On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 
Which now and then. will make a slight inroad 

"Upon decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly over-crow'd ; 

And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 

With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

xevr. 

He said — (I only give the heads) — he said, 

He meant no harm in scribbling : 'twas his way 

"Upon all topics ; 'twas, besides his bread, 

Of which he butter'd both sides ; 'twould delay 

Too long the assembly, (he was pleased to dread,) 
And take up rather more time than a day, 

To name his works — he would but cite a few — 

Wat Tyler — Rhymes on Blenheim — Waterloo. 

XCVII. 
Hs had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
He had written for republics far and wide, 

And then against them bitterer than ever ; 
For pantisocracy he once had cried 

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever ; 
Then grew a hearty antijacobin — 
Had turn'd his coat — and would have turn d his skin. 

XCVIII. 
He had sung against all battles, and again 

In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 
Reviewing* " the ungentle craft," and then 

Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 



See " Life of H. Kirke While." 



Fed, paid, and parnper'd by the very men 

By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd : 
He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, 
And more of both than any body knows. 

XCIX. 

He had written Wesley's life : — here, turning round 
To Satan, " Sir, I'm ready to write yours, 

In two octavo volumes, so nicely bound, 
With notes and preface, all that most allures 

The pious purchaser ; and there's no ground 
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers : 

So let me have the proper documents, 

That I may add you to my other saints." 



Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you, 

With amiable modesty, decline 
My offer, what says Michael ? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work ; not so neif 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 

CI. 
"But talking about trumpets, here's my "Vision 

Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you she A 
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 
I settle all these things by intuition, 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and ufl 
Like King Alfonso.* When I thus see double, 
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 

CII. 

He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 
Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 

Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 
He read the first three lines of the contents ; 

But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
Had vanish'd, with variety of scents, 

Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang, 

Like lightning, off from his "melodious twang. "f 

cm. 

Those grand heroics acted as a spell : 

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinion. 
The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell ; 

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominion, 
(For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell,. 

And I leave every man, to his own opinion ;) 
Michael took refuge in his trump — but lo ! 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow ! 

CIV. 
Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 

For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 
And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down ; 

Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, 
Into his lake, for there he did not drown, 

A different web being by the Destinies 
Woven for the laureate's final wreath, whene'er 
Reform shall happen either here or there. 



King Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolomean system, 6aid f that H had he 
been consulted at the creation of the world, he would have spared the Maker 

me absurdities." 

t See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disappeared " with a curt 
ous perfume and a melodious twang; " or see the A7iizquary t vol. 1. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



503 



CV. 



He first sank to the bottom — like his works, 
But soon rose to the surface — like himself ; 

For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like corks,* 
By their own rottenness, light as an elf, 

Or wish that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 
It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, 

In his own den, to scrawl some " Life," or " Vision," 

As Welborn says — " the devil turn'd precisian." 



* A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten ; it then floats, as most peo- 
pii know. 



CVI. 



As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 

Which kept my optics free from all delusion, 
And show'd me what I in my turn have shown ; 

All I saw farther, in the last confusion, [one, 

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven fo* 

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 

I left him practising the hundreth psalm. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE, 



DI MESSER LI7IGI PULCI. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of 
which this translation is offered, divides with the 
Orlando Innamorato the honor of having formed 
and suggested the style and story of Ariosto. The 
great defects of Boiardo, were his treating too seri- 
ously the narratives of chivalry, and his harsh style 
Ariosto, in his continuation, by a judicious mixture 
of the gayety of Pulci, has avoided the one ; and 
Berni, in his reformation of Boiardo's poem, has 
corrected the other. Pulci may considered as the 
precursor and model of Berni altogether, as he has 
partly been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his 
copyists. He is no less the founder of a new style 
of poetry very lately sprung up in England. I 
allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. The 
serious poems on Roncesvalles in the same lan- 
guage, and more particularly the excellent one 
of Mr. Merivale, are to be traced to the same 
source. 

It has never yet been decided entirely whether 
Pulci's intention was or was not to deride the 
religion which is one of his favorite topics. It 
appears to me, that such an intention would have 
been no less hazardous to the poet than to the 
priest, particulary in that age and country ; 
and the permission to publish the poem, and its 
reception among the classes of Italy, prove that it 
neither was nor is so interpreted. That he intended 
to ridicule the monastic life, and suffered his imagi- 
nation to play with the simple dulness of his 
converted giant, seems evident enough ; but Surely 
it were as unjust to accuse him of irreligion 
on this account, as to denounce Fielding for his 
Parson Adams, Barnabas, Thwackum, Supple, and 



the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild — or Scott, for tne 
exquisite use of his Covenanters in the " Tales of 
my Landlord." 

In the following translation I have used the 
liberty of the original with the proper names ; 
as Pulci uses Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, 
Carlomagno, or Carlomano ; Rondel, or Rondello, 
&c., as it suits his convenience; so has the trans- 
lator. In other respects the version is faithful to 
the best of the translator's ability in combining his 
interpretation of the one language with the not 
very easy task of reducing it to the same versifica- 
tion in the other. The reader, on comparing it 
with the original, is requested to remember that 
the antiquated language of Pulci, however pure, 
is not easy to the generality of Italians themselves, 
from its great mixture of Tuscan proverbs ; and 
he may therefore be more indulgent to the present 
attempt. How far the translator has succeeded, 
and whether or no he shall continue the work, are 
questions which the public will decide. He was 
induced to make the experiment partly by his love 
for, and partial intercourse with, the Italian lan- 
guage, of which it is so easy to acquire a slight 
knowledge, and with which it is so nearly impos- 
sible for a foreigner to become accurately conversant. 
The Italian language is like a capricious beauty, 
who accords her smiles to all, her favors to few, 
and sometimes least to those who have courted her 
longest. The translator wished also to present in 
an English dress a part at least of a poem never yet 
rendered into a northern language ; at the same 
time that it has been the original of some of the 
most celebrated productions on this side of the 
Alps, as well of those recent experiments in poetry 
in England which have been already mentioned. 



504 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO I. 



In the beginning was the Word next God ; 

God was the word, the word no less was he : 
This was in the beginning, to my mode 

Of thinking, and without him nought could be ; 
Therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high abode, 

Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 
One only, to be my companion, who 
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through, 

II. 

And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride, 
Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 

Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside, 
The day thy Gabriel said " All hail !" to thee, 

Since to thy servants pity's ne'er denied, 
With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 

Be to my verses then benignly kind. 

And to the end illuminate my mind. 

III. 
'Twas in the season when sad Philomel 

Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 
Deplores the ancient woes which both befel, 

And makes the nymphs enamor'd, to the hand 
Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 

His car (but temper'd by his she's command) 
Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 
Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow; 

IV. 

When I prepared my bark first to obey, 
As it should still obey, the helm, my mind, 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 

By several pens already praised ; but they 
Who to diffuse his glory were inclined, 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, 

Have understood Charles badly — and wrote worse. 

V. 

Leonardo Aretino said already, 

That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
Of genius quick, and diligently steady, 

No hero would in history look brighter, 
He in the cabinet being always ready, 

And in the field a most victorious fighter, 
Who for.the church and Christian faith had wrought 
Certes far more than yet is said or thought. 

VI. 

You still may see at Saint Liberatore 
The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 

Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory, 
Because of the great battle in which fell 

A pagan king, according to the story, 
And felon people whom Charles sent to hell ; 

And there are bones so many, and so many, 

Near them Giusaffa's would seem few, if any. 



VII. 



But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 
His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 

Florence, by his great bounty don't arise 
And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow, 

All proper customs and true courtesies : 

Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till now, 

With ^nightly courage, treasure, or the lance, 

Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 

VIII. 

Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of whom 
The wisest and most famous was Orlando ; 

Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 
In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd too, 

While the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 
Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do, 

And Dante in his comedy has given 

To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 

IX. 

'Twas Christmas-day ; in Paris all his court 
Charles held ; the chief, I say, Orlando was, 

The Dane ; Astolfo there too did resort, 
Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 

In festival and in triumphal sport, 
The much-renown'd St. Dennis being the cause ; 

Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 

And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 

X. 

Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 

Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 

Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salamone, 
AValter of Lion's Mount, and Baldovin, 

Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 
Were there, exciting too much gladness in 

The son of Pepin : — when his knights came hither, 

He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 

XL 

But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed 
Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. 

While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed, 
Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing ; 

Curst Gan, with envy bursting had such need 
To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the king 

One day he openly began to say, 

" Orlando must we always then obey ? 

XII. 

" A thousand times I've been about to say, 
Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 

Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 
Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 

Each have to honor thee and to obey ; 
But he has too much credit near the throne, 

Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided, 

By such a boy to be no longer guided. 

XIII. 

" And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
To let him know he was a gallant knight, 

And by the fount did much the day to win ; 
But I know tcho that day had won the fight, 

If it had not for good Gherardo been ; 
The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 

He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 

In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



505 



XIV. 



"If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 
When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 

The Christain cause had suffer'd shamefully, 
Had not his valor driven them back again. 

Best speak the truth when there's a reason why : 
Know then, oh emperor ! that all complaint : 

As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 

O'er which I cross'd with two and sixty counts. 

XV. 

" 'Tis fit thy grandeur should dispense relief, 
So that each here may have his proper part, 

For the whole court is more or less in grief : 

Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in heart ? " 

Orlando one day heard this speech in brief, 
As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 

Displeased he was with Gan because he said it, 

But much more still that Charles should give him 
credit. 

XVI. 

And with the sword he would have murder'd Gan, 
But Oliver thrust in between the pair, 

And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 
And thus at length they separated were. 

Orlando, angry too with Carloman, 
Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 

Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 

And burst and madden'd with disdain and grief. 

XVII. 
From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 

He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 
And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain ; 

And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 
Stretch'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again. 

Orlando, in whose brain all was not well, 
As " Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said, 
Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 

XVIII. 

Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 

On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 

Which Aldabelle thought extremely strange ; 
But soo% Orlando found himself awake ; 

And his spouse took his bridle on this change, 
And he dismounted from his horse, and spake 

Of every thing which pass'd without demur, 

And then reposed himself some days with her. 

XIX. 

Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
As far as pagan countries roam'd astray ; 

And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
The traitor Gan remember'd by the way ; 

And wandering on in error a long space, 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 

'Mid glens obscure, and distant lands he found, 

Which form'd the Christian's and the pagan's bound. 

XX. 

The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 
Descended from Anglante ; under cover 

Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 
But certain savage giants look'd him over ; 

One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 
And Alabaster and Morgante hover 

Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 

In daily jeopardy the place below. 
64 



XXI. 

The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 
Nor leave their cells for water or for wood ; 

Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 
Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 

Enter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 
Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood, 

And was baptized a Christian ; and then show'd 

How to the abbey he had found his road. 

XXII. 
Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 

We give you freely, since that you believe 
With us in Mary Mother's Son divine ; 

And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 
The cause of our delay to let you in 

To be rusticity, you shall receive 
The reason why our gate was barr'd to you : 
Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 

XXIII. 
" When hither to inhabit first we came 

These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 
As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 

They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 
From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 

'Twas fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 
But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must guard 
Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 

XXIV. 

" These make us stand, in fact, upon tb^ watch ; 

For late there have appear'd three giants rough ; 
What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 

I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; 
When force and malice with some genius match, 

You know, they can do all — we are not enough : 
And these so much our orisons derange, 
I know not what to do, till matters change. 

XXV. 

" Our ancient fathers living the desert in, 
For just and holy works were duly fed; 

Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis certain 
That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead ; 

But here 'tis fit we keep oh the alert in [bread, 

Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down for 

From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 

And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 

XXVI. 

" The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far ; he 
Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 

And flings them, our community to bury ; 
And all that I can do but more provokes." 

While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 

Which nearly crush'd Rondell, came tumbling over, 

So that he took a long leap under cover. 

XXVII. 

" For God sake, cavalier, come in with speed ; 

The manna's falling now," the abbot cried. 
" This fellow does not wish my horse should feed, 

Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. 
" Of restiveness he'd cure him had he need ; 

That stone seems with good will and aim applied." 
The holy father said, " I don't deceive: 
They'll one day fling the mountain, I believe " 



506 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXVIII 

Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 
And also made a breakfast of his own ; 

" Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 
Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone. 

Said the abbot, " Let riot my advice seem shallow ; 
As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 

I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, 

As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. , 
" That Passamont has in his hand three darts — 

Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you 
must ; 
You know that giants have much stouter hearts 

Than us, with reason, in proportion just; 
If go you will, guard well against their arts, 

For these are very barbarous and robust." 
Orlando answer'd, "This I'll see, be sure, 
And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 

XXX. 

The abbot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
" Then go you with God's benison and mine : " 

Orlando, after he had scaled the mount, 
As the abbot had directed, kept the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
Who, seeing him alone in this design, 

Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant, 

Then ask'd him, " If he wish'd to stay as servant ? " 

XXXI. 

And promised him an office of great ease. 

But, said Orlando, " Saracen insane ! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God, not to serve as footboy in your train ; 
You with his monks so oft have broke the peace — 

Vile dog ! 'tis past his patience to sustain." 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, 
When he received an answer so injurious. 

XXXII. 

And being returned to where Orlando stood, [ing 
Who had not mov'd him from the spot, and swing- 

The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude, 
As show'd a sample of his skill in slinging ; 

It roll'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 

And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, 

So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died, 

But more than dead, he seemed so stupified. 

XXXIII. 

Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright, 
Said, " I will go, and while he lies along, 

Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ? " 
But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, 

Especially Orlando, such a knight, 
• As to desert would almost be a wrong. 

While the giant goes to put off his defences, 

Orlando has recall'd his force and senses : 

XXXIV. 

And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 

Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid ; 
To the right about — without wings thou'rt too slow 

To fly my vengeance — currish renegade ! 
'Twas but by treachery thou laid'st me low." 

The giant his astonishment betray'd, 
And turn'd about, and stopp'd his journey on, 
And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 



XXXV. 

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand, 

To split the head in twain was what he schemed:— 
Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 

And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 
Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd, 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed ; 
Yet while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 

XXXVI. 

Saying, " What grace to me thou'st given ! 

And I to thee, oh Lord ! am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven 

Since by thy giant I was fairly down'd. 
All things by thee are measured just and even ; 

Our power without thine aid would nought be 
I pray thee take heed of me, till I can [found 

At least return once more to Carloman." 

XXXVII. 

And having said thus much, he went his way ; 

And Alabaster he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say, 

" How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone to 
throw ? " 
When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring, 
He suddenly betook him to his sling, 

XXXVIII. 

And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large, 
That if it had in fact fulfill'd its mission, 

And Roland not avail'd him of his targe, 

There would have been no need of a physician. 

Orlando set himself in turn to charge, 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With all his sword. The lout fell, but, o'erthrown, he 

However by no means forgot Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante had a palace in his mode, 

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, 
And stretch'd himself at ease on this abode, 

And shut himself at night within his be?th. 
Orlando knock'd, and knock'd again, to goad 

The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth, 
The door to open, like a crazy thing, 
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

XL. 
He thought that a fierce serpent had attack'd him, 

And Mahomet he eall'd ; but Mahomet 
Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd him ; 

But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
At liberty from all the fears which rack'd him ; 

And to the gate he came with great regret — [he. 

Who knocks here ? " grumbling all the while, said 
" That," said Orlando, " you will quickly see. 

XLI. 

"I come to preach to you, as o your brothers, 
Sent by the miserable monks — repentance ;, 

For Providence divine, in you and others, 
Condemns the evil done by new acquaintance. 

Tis writ on high — your wrong must pay another's ; 
From heaven itself is issued out this sentence. 

Know then, that colder now chan a pilaster 

I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



507 



XLII. 
Morgante said, " Oh, gentle cavalier ! 

Now by thy God say me no villany ; 
The favor of your name I fain would hear, 

And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
Replied Orlando, " So much to your ear 

I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
Christ I adore, v^o is the genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored." 

XLIII. 
The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 

" I have had an extraordinary vision; 
A savage serpent fell on me alone, 

And Macon would not pity my condition ; 
Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 

Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition ; 
His timely succor-set me safe and free, 
And I a Christian am disposed to be." 

XLIV. 

Orlando answer'd, "Baron just and pious, 
If this good wish your heart can really move 

To the true God, who will not then deny us 
Eternal honor, you will go above, 

And, if you please, as friends we will ally us, 
And I will love you with a perfect love. 

Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud ; 

The only true God is the Christian's God. 

XLV. 

" The Lord descended to the virgin breast 
Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 

If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest, 

Without whom neither sun nor star can shine, 

injure bad Macon's false and felon test, 
Your renegado god, and worship mine, — 

Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 

To which Morgante answer'd, "I'm content." 

XLVI. 
And then Orlando to embrace him flew, 

And made much of his convert, as he cried, 
" To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." 

To whom Morgante, "Let us go," replied; 
" I to the friars have for peace to sue." 

Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, 
Saying, " My brother, so devout and good, 
Ask the Abbot pardon, as I wish you would : 

XLVII. 
" Since God has granted your illumination, 

Accepting you in mercy for his own, 
Humility should be your first oblation." [known — 

Morgante said, " For goodness' sake, make 
Since that your God is to be mine — your station, 

And let your name in verity be shown ; 
Then will I every thing at your command do." 
On which the other said, he was Orlando. 

XLVIII. 
" Then," quoth the giant, " blessed be Jesu 

A thousand times with gratitude and praise ! 
Oft, perfect baron ! have I heard of you 

Through all the different periods of my days : 
And, as I said, to be your vassal too 

I wish, for your great gallantry always." 
Thus reasoning, they continued much to say, 
And onwards to the abbey went their way. 



XLIX. 

And by the way about the giants dead 
Orlando with Morgante reason'd : " Be, 

For their decease, I pray you, comforted ; 
And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me. 

A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred 
And our true Scripture soundeth openly, 

Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, 

Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 



" Because his love of justice unto all 
Is such, he wills his judgment should devoui 

All who have sin, however great or small ; 
But good he well remembers to restore. 

Nor without justice holy could we call 
Him, whom I now require you to adore. 

All men must make his will their wishes sway, 

And quickly and spontaneously obey. 

LI. 

"And here our doctors are of one accord 
Coming on this point to the same conclusion, — 

That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the Lord 
If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 

For their unfortunate relations stored 
In hell below, and damn'd in great confusion, — 

Their happiness would be reduced to nought, 

And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 

LII. 
"But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 

Which seems to him, to them too must appear 
Well done ; nor could it otherwise befall : 

He never can in any purpose err. 
If sire or mother suffer endless thrall, 

They don't disturb themselves for him or her ; 
What pleases God to them must joy inspire ; — 
Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 

LIII. 
"A word unto the wise," Morgante said, 

" Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 
How much I grieve about my brethren dead ; 

And if the will of God seem good to me, 
Just, as you tell me, 'tis in heaven obey'd — 

Ashes to ashes — merry let us be ! 
I will cut off the hands from both their trunks, 
And carry them unto the holy monks. 

LIV. 
" So that all persons may be sure and certain 

That they are dead, and have no further fear 
To wander solitary this desert in, 

And that they may perceive my spirit clear 
By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the curtain 

Of darkness, making his bright realm appear." 
He cut his brethren's hands off at these words, 
And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 

LV. 
Then to the abbey they went on together, 

Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 
The monks who knew not yet the fact, ran thither 

To their superior, all in breathless rout, 
Saying with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 

You wish to have this person in or out ? " 
The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 
Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be compliant. 



508 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LVI. 

Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 

Said quickly, "Abbot, be thou of good cheer; 
He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, 

And hath renounced his Macon false ; " which here 
Morgante with the hands corroborated, 

A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear 
Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
Saying, " Thou hast contented me, oh Lord ! " 

LVII. 

He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated, 
And more than once contemplated his size ; 

And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated ! 
Know that no more my wonder will arise, 

How could you tear and fling the trees you late did, 
When I behold your form with my own eyes, 

You now a true and perfect friend will show 

Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 

LVIII. 

" And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 
Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, ' 

Till one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 

' Why dost thou persecute me thus ! ' said Christ ; 

And then from his offence he was reclaim'd, 
And went for ever after preaching Christ, 

And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 

O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 

LIX. 

" So, my Morgante, you may do likewise ; 

He who repents — thus writes the Evangelist, 
Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 

Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
You may be sure, should each desire arise 

With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist 
Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
But you were lost and damn'd to hell before ! " 

LX. 

And thus great honor to Morgante paid 
The abbot : many days they did repose. 

One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd, 
And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose, 

The abbot show'd a chamber, where array'd 
Much armor was, and hung up certain bows ; 

And one of these Morgante for a whim 

Girt on, though useless, he believed to him. 

LXI. 

There being a want of water in the place, 

Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
" Morgante, I could wish you in this case 

To go for water." " You shall be obey'd, 
In all commands," was the reply, " straightways." 

Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid, 
And went out on his way unto a fountain, 
Where he was wont to drink below the mountain. 

LXII. 

Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, 
Which suddenly along the forest spread ; 

Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 

And lo ! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 
And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 

And to the fountain's brink precisely pours ; 

So that the giant's join'd by all the boars. 



LXIIL 

Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 

And pass'd unto the other side quite thorough ; 
So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near. 

Another, to revenge his fellow farrow, 
Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, 

And reach'd the passage with so s\^ft a foot, 

Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 

LXIV. 

Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
He gave him such a punch upon the head * 

As floor'd him so that he no more arose, 
Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 

Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 
The other pigs along the valley fled ; 

Morgante on his neck the bucket took 

Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor 
shook. 

LXV. 

The ton was on one shoulder, and there were 
The hogs on t'other, and he brush'd apace 

On to the abbey, though by no means near, 
Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 

Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 
With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 

Marvell'd to see his strength so very great ; 

So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 

LXVI. 

The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 
Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork ;— 

All animals are glad at sight of food : * 

They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 

With greedy' pleasure, and in such a mood, 
That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 

Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 

For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

LXVII. 

As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate ; 

And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 
In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat, 

Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 
The abbot, who to all did honor great, 

A few days after this convivial scene, 
Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd, 
Which he long time had for himself maintain'd. 

LXVIII. 

The horse Morgante to a meadow led, 
To gallop, and to put him to the proof, 

Thinking that he a back of iron had, 

Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 

But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof, 

Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur ! " 

And still continued pricking with the spur. 



• "Gil dette in su la testa un gran punzone." It is strange that Puld 
should have literally anticipated the technical terms of my old friend and mas- 
ter, Jackson, and the art which he has carried to its highest pftch. " Ajtunch 
on the head,' 1 or " a punch in the head" — " un punzone in su la testa," — is 
the exact and frequent phrase of our best pugilists, who little dream that they 
are talking the purest Tuscan. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



509 



LXIX. 

But finally he thought fit to dismount, 
And said, "lam as light as any feather, 

And he has burst ; — to this what say you, count ? " 
Orlando answer'd, " Like a ship's mast rather 

You seem to me, and with the truck for front : — 
Let him go ; Fortune wills that we together 

Should march, but you on foot Morgante still." 

To which the giant answer'd, " So I will. 

LXX. 

" When there shall be occasion, you will see 
How I approve my courage in the fight." 

Orlando said, " I really think you'll be, 
If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight ; 

Nor will you napping there discover me. 

Rut never mind your horse, though out of sight 

'Twere best to carry him»into some wood, 

If but the means or way I understood." 

LXXI. 

The giant said, " Then carry him I will, 
Since that to carry me he was so slack — 

lo render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 
But lend a hand to place him on my back." 

Orlando answer'd, " If my counsel still 
May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 

To lift or carry this dead courser, who, 

As you have done to him, will do to you. 

LXXII. 

" Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead, 
As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 

I don't know if the fact you've heard or read ; 
But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 

" But help him on my back," Morgante said, 
" And you shall see what weight I can endure. 

In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 

With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfry." 

LXXIII. 

The abbot said, " The steeple may do well, 
But, for the bells you've broken them, I wot." 

Morgante answer'd, " Let them pay in hell 
The penalty who lie dead'in yon grot ; " 

And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 
He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 

Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force ; " — 

And then he made two gambols with the horse. 

LXXIV 

Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 

So if he did this, 'tis no prodigy ; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 

Because he was one of his family ; 
And fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd, 

Once more he bade him lay his burden by : 
" Put down, nor bear him further the desert in." 
Morgante said, " I'll carry him for certain." 

LXXV. 

He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away, 
And to the abbey then return'd with speed. 

Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay ? 
Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." 

The abbot by the hand he took one day, 
And said", with great respect, he had agreed 

To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 

He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 



LXXVI. 

The honors they continued to receive 
Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd 

He said, " I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 
The lost days of time past, which may be blamed; 

Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 
Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 

And know not how to show my sentiment, 

So much I see you with our stay content. 

LXXVII. 

" But in my heart I bear through every clime 
The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 

So much I love you in so short a time ; 
For me, from heaven reward you with all good 

The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 
Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood. 

Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing, 

And recommend us to your prayers with pressing.*' 

LXXVIII. 

Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard, 
His heart grew soft with inner tenderness 

Such favor in his bosom bred each word ; 
And " Cavalier," he said, " if I have less 

Courteous and kind to your great worth appear'd, 
Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 

I know I've done too little in this case ; 

But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 

LXXIX. 

" We can indeed but honor you with masses, 
And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-uosters, 

Hot suppers, dinners, (fitting other places 
In verity much rather than the cloisters;) 

But such a love for you my heart embraces, 
For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, 

That wheresoe'er you go I too shall be, 

And, on the other part, you rest with me. 

LXXX. 

" This may involve a seeming contradiction ; 

But you I know are sage, and feel, and taste, 
And understand my speech with full conviction, 

For your just pious deeds may you be graced 
With the Lord's great reward and benediction, 

By whom you were directed to this waste : 
To his high mercy is our freedom due, 
For which we render thanks to him and you. 

LXXXI. 

" You saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
The giants caused us, that the way was lost 

By which we could pursue a fit career 
In search of Jesus and the saintly host ; 

And your departure breeds such sorrow here, 
That comfortless we all are to our cost : 

But months and years you could not stay in sloth 

Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth : 

LXXXII. 

" But to bear arms, and wield the lance ; indeed, 
With these as much is done as with this cowl : 

In proof of which the Scripture you may read. 
This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 

By your compassion : now in peace proceed. 
Your state and name I seek not to unroll ; 

But, if I'm ask'd, this answer shall be given, 

That here an angel was sent down from heaven. 



510 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXIII. 
" If you want armor or aught else, go in, 

Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you choose 
And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 

Orlando answer'd, " If there should lie loose 
Some armor, ere our journey we begin, 

Which might be turn'd to my companion's use, 
The gift would be acceptable to me." 
The abbot said to him, " Come in and see." 

LXXXIV. 

And in a certain closet, where the wall 
Was covered with old armor like a crust, 

The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 
Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust 

The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too small, 
And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 

They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly, 

Which ne'er had suited others so compactly. 



LXXXV. 

'Twas an immeasurable giant's, who 
By the great Milo of Agrante fell, 

Before the abbey many years ago. 
The story on the wall was figured well ; 

In the last moment of the abbey's foe, 
Who long had waged a war implacable : 

Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him, 

And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 

LXXXYI. 

Seeing this history, Count Orlando said 
In his own heart, " Oh God, who in the sky 

Know'st all things ! how was Milo hither led ? 
Who caused the giant in this place to die ? " 

And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 
So that he could not keep his visage dry, — 

As I will tell in the ensuing story. 

From evil keep you the high King of glory ! 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before.'* 

CAMPBELL. 



DEDICATION. 

Lady ! if for the cold and cloudy clime 
Where was I born, but where I would not die, 
Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy 
I dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 
Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 
Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 
Spak'st ; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
Are one ; but only in the sunny South 
Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms display'd, 
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 
Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade ? 
Ravenna, June 21, 1819. 



PREFACE. 

In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in 
the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author 
that having composed something on the subject of 
Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on 
Dante's exile — the tomb, of the poet forming one of 
the principal objects of interest in that city, both to 
the native and to the stranger. 



" On this hint I spake," and the result has been 
the following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered 
to the reader. If they are understood and approved, 
it is my purpose to continue the poem in various 
other cantos to its natural conclusion in the present 
age. The reader is requested to suppose that Dante 
addresses him in the interval between the conclusion 
of his Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly 
before the latter event, foretelling the fortunes of 
Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. In adopting 
this plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra of 
Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by Horace, 
as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The mea- 
sure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am 
not aware to have seen hitherto tried in our language, 
except it may be by Mr. Hayley, of whose transla- 
tion I never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes 
to Caliph Vathek ; so that — if I do not err — this 
poem may be considered as a metrical experiment. 
The cantos are short, and about the same length of 
those of the poet whose name I have borrowed, and 
most probably taken in vain. 

Among the inconveniences of authors in the 
present day, it is difficult for any who have a name, 
good or bad, to escape translation. I have had the 
fortune to see the fourth canto of Childe Harold 
translated into Italian versi sciolti that is, a poem 
written in Spenserean stanza into blank verse, with- 
out regard to the natural divisions of the stanza, or 
of the sense. If the present poem, being on a 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



511 



national topic should chance to undergo the same 
fate, 1 would request the Italian reader to remember 
that when I have failed in the imitation of his great 
"Padre Alighier," I have failed in imitating that 
which all study and few understand, since to this 
very day it is not yet settled what was the meaning 
of the allegory in the first canto of the Inferno, 
unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and probable 
conjecture may be considered as having decided 
the question. 

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am 
not quite sure that he would be pleased with my 
success, since the Italians, with a pardonable 
nationality, are particularly jealous of all that is 
left them as a nation — their literature ; and in the 
present bitterness of the classic and romantic war, 
are but ill disposed to permit a foreigner even to 
approve of imitate them without finding fault with 
his ultramontane presumption. I can easily, enter 
into all this, knowing what would be thought in 
England of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a 
translation of Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, 
should be held up to the rising generation as a 
model for their future poetical essays. But I per- 
ceive that I am deviating into an address to the 
Italian reader, when my business is with the English 
one, and be they few or many, I must take my leave 
of both. 



CANTO I. 

Once more in man's frail world ! which I had left 
So long that 'twas forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision which could heal * 
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 

Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pure from the fire to join the angelic race ; 
Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd 1 
My spirit with her light ; and to the base 

Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best, 

Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! 
Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 

Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 

From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 

So long hath prest, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, 
Love so ineffable, and so alone, 

That nought on earth could more my bosom move, 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, like thearkless dove, 

Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light 
My paradise had still been incomplete. 2 

Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, 
Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 

Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 

With the world's war, and years, and banishment, 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 

For mine is not a nature to be bent 



By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd ; 
And though the long, long conflict hath been spent 

In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 

Of me, can I return, though but to die, 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high 

But the sun, though not overcast, must set, 
And the night cometh ; I am old in days, 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 

Destruction face to face in all his ways. 

The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, 
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 

I sought it not by any baser lure ; 

Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
May form a monument not all obscure, 

Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, 
To add to the vain-glorious list of those 
Who dabble in the pettiness of fame, 

And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 

In bloody chronicles of ages past. 

I would have had my Florence great and free ; 3 
Oh Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast 

Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
Wept over, " but thou would'st not ; " as the bird 
Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee 

Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
Against the breast that cherished thee was stirr'd 

Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 

To him who for that country would expire, 
But did not merit to expire by her, 
And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 

The day may come when she will cease to err, 
The day may come she wquld be proud to have 
The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer* 

Of him whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 

Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 

Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom ; 

No, — she denied me what was mine — my roof, 
And shall not have, what is not hers — my tomb. 

Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof 

The breast which would have bled for her, the heart 
That beat, the mind that was temptation procf, 

The man who fought, toil'd, travelled, and each part 
Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw 
For his reward the Guelf's ascendant art 

Pass his destruction even into a law. 

These things are not made for forgetfulness 
Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw 

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress 
Of such endurance too prolong'd to make 
My pardon greater, her injustice less, 

Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 
I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine 
My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 

Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, 
And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, 
Which would protect the murderess like a shrine 

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn, 



512 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Though, like old Marius from Minturnae's marsh 
And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn 
At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, 
And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
"Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch 

My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 
Such are the last infirmities of those 
Who long have suffer'd more than mortal wo, 

And yet being mortal still, have no repose, 
But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows 

With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change, 
When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 

O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks Great God ! 

Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I yield 
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 

Will fall on those who smote me, — be my shield ! 
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, 
In turbulent cities, and the tented field — 

In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
For Florence, — I appeal from her to Thee ! 
Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 

Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
And live was never granted until now, 
And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 

Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 

The sense of earth and earthly things come back, 
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, 

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 
Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 
Of half a century bloody and black, 

And the frail few years I may yet expect 
Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear, 
For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 

On the lone rock of desolate Despair 
To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare, 

Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail ? 
I am not of this people, nor this age, 
And yet my harping^ will unfold a tale 

Which shall preserve these times when not a page 
Of their perturbed annals could attract 
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 

Did not my verse embalm full many an act 

Worthless as they who wrought it : 'tis the doom 
Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 

In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 
Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 
Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, 

And pilgrims come from climes where they have 
known 
The name of him — who now is but a name, 
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, 

Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — fame; 
And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 
Is nothing, but to wither thus — to tame 

My mind down from its own infinity — 
To live in narrow ways with little men, 
A common sight to every common eye, 

A wanderer, while even wolves. can find a den, 
Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 
That make communion sweet, and softer pain — 

To feel me in the solitude of kings 

Without the power that makes them bear a crown — 
To envy every dove his nest and wings 

Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 
On Arno, till he perches, it may be, 
Within my all inexorable town, 



Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,' 
Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 
Destruction for a dowry — this to see 

And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : • 
I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, 

They made an exile — not a slave of me. 



CANTO II. . 

The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, 
When words were things that came to pass, and 

thought 
Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men bahold 

Their children's children's doom already brought 
Forth from the abyss of time which is to be, 
The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 

Shapes that must undergo mortality ; 
What the great Seers of Israel wore within, 
That spirit was on them, and is on me, 

And if Cassandra-like, amidst the din 

Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed 
This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin 

Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 
The only guerdon I have ever known. 
Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed 

Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 
With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
In thine irreparable wrongs my own ; 

We can have but one country, and even yet 
Thou'rt mine — my bones shall be within thy 

breast, 
My soul within thy language, which once set 

With our old Roman sway in the wide West ; 
But I will make another tongue arise 
As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest 

The hero's ardor, or the lover's sighs, 
Shall find alike such sounds for every theme 
That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, 

Shall realize a poet's proudest dream, 
And make thee Europe's nightingale of song ; 
So that all present speech to thine shall seem 

The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 

Confess its barbarism, when compared with thine 
This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 

Thy Tuscan Bard, the banish'd Ghibelline. 
Wo ! wo ! the veil of coming centuries 
Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine 

Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, 
Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 
Float from eternity into these eyes ; 

The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their 
station, 
The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 
The bloody chaos yet expects creation, 

But all things are disposing for thy doom ; 
The elements await but for the word, 
"Let there be darkness!" and thou grow'st a 
tomb ! 

Yes ! thou so beautiful, shall feel the sword, 
Thou, Italy ! so fair that Paradise, 
Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored ; 

Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 
Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields, 
Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



513 



For the world's granary; thou, whose sky heaven 
gilds 
With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; 
Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds 

Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew, 
And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments 
From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew; 

Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints, 

Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, 

And finds her prior vision but portray'd 

In feeble colors, when the eye — from the Alp 
Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade 

Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 
Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee, 
And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help 

To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 
Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, 

Thou — Thou must wither to each tyrant's will ; 
The Goth hath been, — the German, Frank and 

Hun 
Are* yet to come, — and on the imperial hill 

Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, 
Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won 

Rome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue 
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter, 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 

And deepens into red the saffron water 

Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless priest, 
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, 

Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
Their ministry ; the nations take their prey, 
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 

And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
Of the departed, and then go their way ; 

But those, the human savages, explore 
All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, 
AVith Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 

Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set; 6 
The chiefless army of the dead, which late 
Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met, 

Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 
Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. 

Oh ! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, 
From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance 

But. Tiber shall become a mournful river. 

Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
Crush them, ye rocks ! floods whelm them, and 
for ever ! 

Why sleeps the idle avalanches so, 
To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head ? 
Why doth Eridanus but overflow 

The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 
Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey ? 
Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 

Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway 

Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — why 
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ? 

And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die, 
Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 

The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew, 
Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? 
Their passes more alluring to the view 
65 



Of an invader ? is it they, or ye, 
That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, 
And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? 

Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car, 
And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
Could be so ; but alone she will not war, 

Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 

In a soil where the mothers bring forth men : 
Not so with those whose souls are little worth ; 

For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 
Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 

The hearts of those within are quivering. 
Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts ta 
bring 

Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil, 
While still Division sows the seeds of wo 
And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil 

Oh ! my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, 
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, 
When there is but required a single blow 

To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger stops, 
And Doubt and Discord step 'twist thine and thee, 
And join their strength to that which with thee 
copes ; 

What is there wanting then to set thee free, 
And show thy beauty in its fullest light ? 
To make the Alps impassable ; and we, 

Her sons, may do this with one deed Unite. 



CANTO III. 

From out the mass of never-dying ill, 
The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and tht 

Sword, 
Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 

And flow again, I cannot all record 

That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 
And ocean written o'er would not afford 

Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 
Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, 
There where the farthest suns and stars have birth , 

Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, 
The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 

Athwart the sounds of archangelic songs, 
And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore, 
Will not in vain arise to where belongs 

Omnipotence and mercy evermore : 
Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind, 
The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 

The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
Earth's, dust by immortality refined 

To sense and suffering, though the vain may scon^ 
And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 
Before the storm because its breath is rough, 

To thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 
I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 
And melancholy gift high powers allow 

To read the future ; and if now my fire 
Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 
I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; 

Think not that I would look on them and live. 



514 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A spirit forces me to see and speak, 

And for my guerdon grants not to survive ; 

My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break : 
Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 

Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 
A softer glimpse ; some stars shine through thy 

night, 
And many meteors, and above thy tomb 

Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot 
blight ; 
And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise 
To give thee honor, and the earth delight ; 

Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, 
The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave, 
Native to thee as summer to thy skies, 

Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave, 7 
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name ; 8 
For thee alone they have no arm to save, 

And all thy recompense is in their fame, 
A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same ? 

Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall- be 
The being — and even yet he may be born — 
The mortal saviour who shall set thee free, 

And see thy diadem so changtjd and worn 
By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced; 
And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, 

Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced 
And noxious vapors from Avcrnus risen, 
Such as all they must breathe who are debased 

By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
Yet through this centuried eclipse of wo 
Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen ; 

Poets shall follow in the path I show, 

And make it broader ; the same brilliant sky 
Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them 
glow, 

And raise their notes as natural and high ; 

Tuneful shall be their numbers ; they shall sing 
Many of love, and some of liberty, 

But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing, 
And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze, 
All free and fearless as the feather'd king, 

But fly more near the earth ; how many a phrase 
Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince 
In all the prodigality of praise ! 

And language, eloquently false, evince 

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 
Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, 

And looks on prostitution as a duty. 
9 He who once enters in a tyrant's hall 
As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty, 

And the first day which sees the chain enthral 
A captive, sees his half of manhood gone — ,0 ' 
The soul's emasculation saddens all 

His spirit ; thus the Bard too near the throne 
Quails from his inspiration, bound to please, — 
How servile is the task to please alone ! 

To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 

Or force, or forge fit argument of song ? 

Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to Flattery's 

trebles, 
He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong : 
For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, 
Should rise up in high treason to his brain, 
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 



In's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his 
strain, 
But out of the long file of sonneteers 
There shall be some who will not sing in vain, 

And he, their prince shall rank among my peers, 11 
And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 
Shall make an immortality of tears, 

And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 
Of poet-lovers, and his higher song 
Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 

But in a farther age shall rise along 

The banks of Po two greater still than he ; 
The world which smiled on him shall do tnerc 
wrong 

Till they are ashes, and repose with me. 
The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 
And fill the earth with feats of chivalry ; 

His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire, 
Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought 
Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire : 

Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, 
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, 
And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 

By the transparency of his bright dream. — 
The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, 
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 

He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 
Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his high harp 
Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, 

Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 
Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 

Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 
The red-cross banners where the first red Cross 
Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save, 

Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 
Of years, of favor, freedom, even of fame 
Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 

Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, 
And call captivity a kindness, meant 
To shield him from insanity or shame, 

Such shall be his meet guerdon ! who was sent 
To be Christ's Laureat — they reward him well! 
Florence dooms me but death or banishment, 

Ferrara him a pittance and a cell, 

Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 

Had stung the factions which I strove to quell ; 

But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 

Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deign 
To embalm with his celestial flattery, 

As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, 
What will he do to merit such a doom ? 
Perhaps he'll love, — and is not love in vain, 

Torture enough without a living tomb ? 
Yet it will be so — he and his compeer, 
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 

In penury and pain too many a year, 
And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, 

A heritage enriching all who breathe 
With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, 
And to their country a redoubled wreath, 

Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unroll > 

Through her olympiads such names, though one 
Of hers be mighty ; — and is this the whole 

Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? 
Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, 
The electric blood with which their arteries run, 

Their body's self- tuned soul with the intense 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



515 



Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recompense 

Conduct ? shall their bright plumage on the rough 
Storm be still scattered ? Yes, and it must be ; 
For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff, 

These birds of Paradise but long to flee 

Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, 

And die or are degraded, for the mind 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair, 
And vulture passions flying close behind, 

Await the moment to assail and tear ; 

And when at length the winged wanderers stoop, 
Then is the prey-'jird's triumph, then they share 

The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. 
Yet some have been untouch'd who learn'd to bear, 
Some whom no power could ever force to droop, 

Who could resist themselves even, hardest care ! 
And task most hopeless ; but some such have been, 
And if my name among the number were, 

That destiny austere, and yet serene, 

"Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblest ; 
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen, 

Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest, 
Whose splendor from the black abyss is flung, 
While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burnin 

A temporary torturing flame is wrung, [breast 

Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 

The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO IV. 

Many are poets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 

Their thoughts to meaner beings ; they compress'd 
The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars 
Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest 

Than those who are degarded by the jars 
Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame, 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets, but without the name, 
For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate, 
And be the new Prometheus of new men, 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, 

Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower, 
Who having lavish'd his high gift in vain, 

Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore ? 
So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they 
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power 

Which still recoils from its incumbering clay, 
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The form which their creations may essay, 

Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
More poesy upon its speaking brow, 
Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear ; 

One noble stroke with a whole life may glow 
Or deify the canvass till it shine 
With beauty so surpassing all below, 

That they who kneel to idols so divine 
Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 
Transfused, transfigurated : and the line ' 



Of poesy, which peoples but the air 
With thought and beings of our thought reflected; 
Can do no more : then let the artist share 

The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected, , 
Faints o'er the labor unapproved — Alas ! 
Despair and Genius are too oft connected. 

Within the ages which before me pass, 
Art shall resume and equal even the sway, 
Which with Apelles and old Phidias, 

She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive 
The Grecian forms at least from their decay, 

And Roman souls at last again shall live 
In Roman works wrought by Italian hands, 
And temples, loftier than the old temples, give 

New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
A, dome, 12 its image, while the base expands 

Into a fame surpassing all before, 
Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 

As this, to which all nations shall repair, 
And lay their sins at this gate of heaven. 
And the bold Architect unto whose care 

The daring charge to raise it shall be given, 
Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord, 
Whether into the marble chaos driven 

His chisel bid the Hebrew, 13 at whose word 
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone, 
Or hues of Hell be by his pencil pour'd 

Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne, 14 
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, 
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 

The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from 
me, 15 
The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 
Which form the empire of eternity. 

Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, 
The age which I anticipate, no less 
Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms 

Calamity the nations with distress, 
The genius of my country shall arise, 
A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 

Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, 
Fragrant as fair, and recognized afar, 
Wafting its native incense through the skies. 

Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, 
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
On canvas or on stone ; and they who mar 

All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise, 

Shall feel the power of that which they destroy, 
And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants, who but take her for a toy, 
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
Her charms to pontiffs proud, 16 who but employ 

The man of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burden, and to serve a need, 
To sell his labors and his soul to boot. 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, 
But free ; who sweats for monarch is no more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and 
fee'd, 

Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. 
Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest ! how 

, Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
Least like to thee in attributes divine, 
Tread on the universal necks that bow, 

And then assure us that their right are thine? 



516 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And how is it that they, the sons of fame, 
"Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 

From high, they whom the nations oftest name, 
Musjt pass their days in penury or pain, 
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame, 

And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? 
Or if then- destiny be born aloof 
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 

In their own souls sustain a harder proof, 
The inner war of passions deep and fierce ? 
Florence ! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof, 

I loved thee ; but the vengeance of my verse, 
The hate of injuries which every year 
Makes greater, and accumulates my curse, 

Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear, 
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and eventhat, 
The most infernal of all evils here, 

The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; 
For such sway is not limited to kings, 
And demagogues yield to them but in date, 

As swept off sooner ; in all deadly things [other, 
Which make men hate themselves, and one an- 
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 

From Death the Sin-bom's incest with his mother, 
In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 
The faction Chief is but the Sultan's broliier, 

And the worst despot's far less human ape : 



Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long 

Yearn'd, as the captive toiling at escape, 
To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, 

An exile, saddest of all prisoners, 

Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, 
Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars, 

Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 

Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still were hers, 
His country's, and might die where he had birth — 

Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return 

To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth. 
And seek to honor with an empty urn 

The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain — Alas ! 

" What have I done to thee, my people ? " 17 St-,rn 
Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 

The limits of man's common malice, for 

All that a citizen could be I was ; 
Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war, 

And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'Tis done : 

I may not overleap the eternal bar 
Built up between us, and will die alone, 

Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 

The evil days to gifted souls foreshown, 
Foretelling them to those who will not hear. 

As in the old time, till the hour be come [a tear, 

When truth shall strike their eyes through many 
And make them own the Prophet in his tomb. 



NOTES TO THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



i. 

Midst whom my own sweet Beatrice bless'd. 
Page 511, line 39. 

The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pro- 
nunciation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. 

2. 
My paradise had still been incomplete. 

Page 511, line 55. 
,; Che sol per le belle opre 

Che fanno in Cielo il sole e 1' kltre stelle 
Dentro di lui' si crede il Paradiso, 
Cosi se guardi fiso 

Pensar ben d<'i ch' ogni terrcn' piacere. 
Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of 
Beatrice, Strophe third. 

. 3. 

I would have had my Florence great and free. 
Page 511, line 87. 

" L'Esilio che m' e dato onor mi tegno. 
******* 

Cader tra' buoni e pur di lode degno." 

Somiet of Dante, 
In which he represents Right, Generosity, and 
Temperance as banished from among men, and 
seeking refuge from Love, who inhabits his bosom 



The dust she dooms to scatter. 

Page 511, line 103. 
' Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam 
dicti : communis pervenerit, tallis perveniens iyne 
comburatur, sic quod moriatur." 

Second sentence of Florence against Dante, 
and the fourteen accused with him. — The Latin 
is worthy of the sentence. 

5. 
Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she. 

Page 512, line 69. 

This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from 
one of the most powerful Guelf families, named 
Donati. Corso Donati was the principal adversary 
of the Ghibellines. She^ described as being "Ad- 
modum morosa, id de Xmttippe Socratis philosophi 
conjuge scriptum esse legimus," according to Gian- 
nozzo Manetti. But Lionardo Aretino is scan- 
dalized with Boccace, in his life of Dante, for 
saying that literary men should not marry. "Qui 
il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le niogli esser 
contrarie agli studj ; e non si ricorda che Socrate 
il piii nobile filosofo che mai fosse, ebbe moglie e 
figliuoli e uflici della Repubblica nella sua Citta ; e 
Aristotele che, &c, &c, ebbe due mogli in varj 
tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai. — E Marcc 



NOTES TO THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



517 



Tullio — e Catone — e Varrone — e Seneca — ebbero 
moglie," &c, &c. It is odd that honest Leonardo's 
examples, with the exception of Seneca, ancl for 
any thing I know of Aristotle, are not the most 
felicitous. Tully's Terentia, and Socrates' Xan- 
tippe, by no means contributed to their husbands' 
happiness, whatever they might do to their philos- 
ophy — Cato gave away his wife — of Varro'swe know 
nothing — and of Seneca's, only that she was dis- 
posed to die with him, but recovered, and lived 
several years afterwards. But says Lionardo, 
"L' uomo e animald civile, secondo piace a tutti i 
filosofi." And thence concludes that the greatest 
proof of the animal's civism is "la prima congiun- 
zione, dalla quale multiplicata nasce la Citta." 



Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this ancl set. 
Page 513, line 40. 

See " Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to 
Guicciardini. There is another written by a Jacopo 
Buonaparte, Gentiluomo Samminiatese che vi si 
trovo presente. 

7. 
Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave. 
Page 514, line 15. 
Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene 
of Savoy, Montecucco. 

' 8. 

Discoverers of new toorlds, which take their name. 
Pago 514, line 16. 
Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Cabot. 



He who once enters in a tyrant's hall, 8$c. 

Page 514, line 49. 
A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which 
Pompey took leave of Cornelia on entering the 
boat in which he was slain. 

10. 

And the first day which sees the chain enthral, <f?c. 
Page 514, line 52. 
The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 

11. 
And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers. 
. ♦ Page 514, line 69. 

Petrarch. 

12. 
A dome, its imaqe. 

Page 515, line 81. 
The cupola of St. Peters. 



13. 



His chisel bid the Hebrew. 

Page 615, line 91. 

The statue of Moses on the monument of 
Julius II. 

SONETTO 
Di Giovanni Battista Zappi. 

Chi e costui, che in dura pietra scolto, 

Siede gigante ; e le piu illustre, e conte ' 
Prove delP arte avvanza, e ha vive,. e pronte 
Le labbia si, che le parole ascolto ? 

Quest' e Mose ; ben me '1 diceva il folto 

Onor del mento ; e '1 doppio raggio in fronte, 
Quest' e Mose, quando scendea del monte, 
E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto. 

Tal era allor, che le sonanti, e vaste 
Acque ei sospese a se d' intorno, e tale 
Quando il mar chiuse, e ne fe tomba altrui 

E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzate ? 
Alzata aveste imago a questa eguale ! 
Ch' era men fallo 1' adorar costui. 

14. 
Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne. 
Page 515, line 94. 
The Last Judgment, in the Sistine chapel. 

15. 

The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me 
Page 515, line 97. 
I have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I can- 
not recollect where) that Dante was so great a 
favorite of Michael Angelo's, that.he had designed 
the whole of the Divina Commedi'a ; but that the 
volume containing these studies was lost by sea. 

16. 
Her charms to pontiff' s proud, who but employ, l$c. 
Page 515, line 117. 
See the treatment of Michael Angelo by Julius 
II. , and his neglect by Leo X. 

17. 
" What have I done to thee, my people? " 

Page 516, line 41. 
"E scrisse piu volte non solamente a particolari 
cittydini del reggimento, ma ancora al popolo, e 
intra l'altre una Epistola assai lunga che comincia: 
— ' Popule mi, quid feci tibit ' " 

Vita di Dante, seritta da Lionardo Aretino. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The subsequent poems were written at the request 
of my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a selection of 
Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, with the 
music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair' d the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent '. 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL 
SWEPT. 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept, 
The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 

Which music hallow'd while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven ! 

It soften'd men of iron mould, 
It gave them virtues not their own ; 

No ear so dull, no soul so cold, 
That felt not, fired not to the tone, 
Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne ! 



It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode ! 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion, and her daughter, Love, 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above, 

In dreams that day's broad light can not remove 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears; 
If there the cherish'd heart be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

It must be so : 'tis not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
With them the immortal waters drink, 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound, 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground ; 
Its airy step and glorious eye 
May glance in tameless transport by : 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 
Hath Judah witness'd there ; 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



519 



And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone. 

More blest each palm that shades those plains 

Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace : 
It cannot quit its place of birth, 
It will not live in other earth. 

But we must wander witheringly, 

In other lands to die ; 
And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 

Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 
Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the Godless 
- dwell ! 

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet ? 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 
The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 



ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 

On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, 

On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 

The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 

Yet there — even there — Oh God ! thy thunders sleep : 

There — where thy finger scorched the tablet stone ! 
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone ! 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
Thyself — none living see and not expire ! , 

Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear ! 
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear : 
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God ! 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 

Since our Country, our God — Oh, my Sire ! 
Demand that thy Daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now; 



And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no more : 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

And of this, oh, my Father ! be sure — 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 
And the last thought that soothes me below 

Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my Father and Country are free ! 

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
Let my memory still be thy pride, 
And forget not I smiled as I died ! 



OH 



SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 



Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream, 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause and lightly tread; 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead 

Away ! we know that tears are vain, 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 

Will this unteach us to complain ? 
Or make one mourner weep the less ? 

And thou — who tell's$ me to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



MY SOUL IS DARK. _ 

My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear, 

That sound shall charm it forth again : 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. 

But bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 

Or else this heavy heart will burst ; 
For it hath been by sorrow nurst, 

And ached in sleepless silence long ; 
And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, 

And break at once — or yield to song. 



520 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 



I saw thee -weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
And then raethought it did appear 

A violet'dropping dew : 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
It could not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles upon the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart ; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen Son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 

The freedom he restored ! 

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
Thou shalt not taste of death ! 

The generous blood that flow'd from thee 
Disdain'd to sink beneath : 

Within our veins its currents be, 
Thy spirit on our breath ! 

Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd ! ■ 
To weep would do thy glory wrong ; 

Thou shalt not be deplored. 



SAUL. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
BATTLE. 

Warriors, and Chiefs ! should the shaft or the 

sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 

Farewell to others, but never we part, 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day ! 



Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the prophet's form appear. 

" Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer ! " 
Earth yawn'd ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry ; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
From lips that moved not, and unbreathing frame, 
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 

" Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
Who is he that calls the dead ? 
Is it thou, king ? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
Such are mine^ and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow, when with me ; 
Ere the coming day is done, 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day ; 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul ! " 



"ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE 
PREACHER." 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 
And health and youth possess'd me ; 

My goblets blush'd from every vine, 
And lovely forms caress'd me ; 

I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 
And felt my soul grow tender ; 

All earth can give, or mortal prize, 
Was mine of regal splendor. 

I strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover, 
Which all of life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 

There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 

Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
And not a trapping deck'd my power 

That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 

The serpent of the field, by art 
And spells, is won from harming ; 

But that which coils around the heart, 
Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 

It will not list to wisdom's lore, 

Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
But there it stings for evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



521 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFER- 
ING CLAY. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
All, all in earth, or skies display'd, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all, that was, at once appears. 

Before Creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the furthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly; 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 

The king was on his throne, 
The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 

A thousand bright lamps shone 
O'er that high festival. 

A thousand cups of gold, 
In Judah deem'd divine — 

Jehovah's vessels hold 

. The godless Heathen's wine . 

In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand: 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran, 

And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw, and shook, 

And bade no more rejoice ; 
All bloodless wax'd his look, 

And tremulous his voice. 
" Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear, 

Which mar our royal mirth." 
66 



Chaldea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

"Belshazzar's grave is made, 

His kingdom pass'd away, 
He, in the balance weigh'd, 

Is light and worthless clay. 
The shroud, his robe of state, 

His canopy the stone ; 
The Mede is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throne." 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! 

Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 
How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 
So gleams the past, the light of other days, 
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless raysj 
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 
Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how cold ! 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 

I need not have wander' d from far Galilee ; 

It was but'abjuring my creed to efface 

The curse which, thou say 'st, is the crime of my race. 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ' 
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, 
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst Detow, 
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know; 
In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
The land and the life which for him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 

Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ; 
Revenge is lost in agony, 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 



522 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading ; 
Ah, couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 

And is she dead ? — and did they dare 

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving ? 
My wrath but doom'd my own despair ; 

The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving. — 
But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above, 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

She's gone, who shared my diadem ; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing ; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming, 
And mine's the guilt and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well, 

Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 
JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome, 
I beheld thee, Oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome : 
'Twas the last sun went down, and the flames of 

thy fall 
Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come; 
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in 



On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline, 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy 
shrine. 

And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away ; 
Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its 

stead, 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head! 

But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign : 
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be, 
Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. 



While sadly we gazed on the river 
Which roll'd on in freedom below, 

They demanded the song ; but, oh never 
That triumph the stranger shall know ! 

May this right hand be wither'd for ever, 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

On the willow that harp is suspended, 
Oh Salem ! its sound should be free ; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that token of thee : 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath 

blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings oh the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew 
still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his 

pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by th« 

sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ' 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
DOWN AND WEPT. 

We sat down and wept by the waters 
Of Babel, and thought of the day 

When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 
Made Salem's high places his prey ; 

And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
Were scatter'd all weeping away. 



FROM JOB. 

A spirit pass'd before me : I beheld 

The face of Immortality unveil'd — 

Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine— 

And there it stood, — all formless — but divine : 

Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 

And as my damp hair stirfen'd, thus it spake : 

" Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure 
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure ? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light ! " 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

At Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the 
original MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of 
Guarini's Pastor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one 
from Titian to Ariosto ; and the inkstand and chair, 
the tomb and the house of the latter. But as mis- 
fortune has a greater interest for posterity, and lit- 
tle or none for the contemporary, the cell where 
Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna 
attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or 
the monument of Ariosto — at least it had this effect 
on me. There are two inscriptions, one on the outer 
gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unne- 
cessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the 
spectator. Ferrara is much decayed, and depop- 
ulated ; the castle still exists entire ; and I saw the 
court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, 
according to the annal of Gibbon. 



Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song — 
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude, 
And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 
When the impatient thirst of light and air 
Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, 
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
And bare, at once, Captivity display'd 
Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate, 
Which nothing through its bars admits, save day 
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 
For I have battled with mine agony, 
And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 



And revell'd among men and things divine, 

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 

In honor of the sacred war for him, 

The God who was on earth and is in heaven, 

For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 

I have employ'd my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. 

II. 
But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done ; — 
My long sustaining friend of many years ! 
If I do blot thy final page with tears, 
Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none 
But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 
Which ever playing round me came and smiled, 
And woo'd me from myself with fliy sweet sight, 
Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 
And therefore do I weep and ir.ly bleed 
With this last bruise upon a broken reed, 
Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 
For I have anguish yet to bear — and how ? 
I know not that — but in the innate force 
Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, 
Nor cause for such : they call'd me mad — and why 
Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 
I was indeed delirious in my heart 
To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 
But still my frenzy was not of the mind; 
I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 
Not less because I suffer it unbent. 
That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 
Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind . 
But let them go, or torture as they will, 
My heart can multiply thine image still; 
Successful love may sate itself away, 
The wretched are the faithful ; 'tis their fate 
To have all feeling save the one decay, 
And every passion into one dilate, 
As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 
But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore 

III. 
Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 
Of minds and bodies in captivity. 
And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 
And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 
There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, 



524 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Some who do still goad on the o'er-labor'd mind, 

And dim the little light that's left behind 

With needless torture, as their tyrants will 

Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 

With these and with their victims am I class'd, 

'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have 

pass'd ; 

'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close : 
So let it be — for then I shall repose. 

IV. 
I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 
I had forgotten half I would forget, 
But it revives — oh ! would it were my lot 
To be forgetful as I am forgot ! — 
Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 
In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, 
Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind ; 
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 
And each is tortured in his scperate hell — 
For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
Many, but each divided by the wall, 
■ Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ; — 
While all can hear, none heed his neighbor's call — 
None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, 
Who was not made to be the mate of these, 
Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here ? 
Who have debased me in the minds of men, 
Debarring me the usage of my own, 
Blighting my life in best of its career, 
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear ? 
Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 
And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan ? 
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 
Which undermines our Stoical success ? 
No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 
Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 
Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 
I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
It hath no business where thou art a guest ; 
Thy brother hates — but I can not detest ; 
Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 

V. 

Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
But all unquench'd is still my better part, 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, 
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 
Till struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart ! 
And thus at the collision of thy name 
The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
Were punish'd by the silcntness of thine, 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground ; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
Hath robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 



Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above ; 

And in that sweet severity there was 

A something which all softness did surpass — 

I know not how — thy genius master'd mine — 

My star stood still before thee : — if it were 

Presumptuous thus to love without design, 

That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 

But thou art dearest still, and I should be 

Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thee 

The very love which lock'd me to my chain 

Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the rest, 

Though heavy, lent me vigor to sustain, 

And look to thee with undivided breast, 

And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 

VI. 

It is no marvel — from my very birth 

My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 

And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 

Of objects all inanimate I made 

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 

And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 

Where I did lay me down within the shade 

Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, 

Though I was chid for wandering ; and the wise 

Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 

Of such materials wretched men were made, 

And such a truant boy would end in wo, 

And that the only lesson was a blow ; 

And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 

But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 

Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 

The visions which arise without a sleep. 

And with my years my soul began to pant 

With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 

And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, 

But undefined and wandering, till the day 

I found the thing I sought, and that was thee ; 

And then I lost my being all to be 

Absorb'd in thine — the world was pass'd away— 

Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 

VII. 

I loved all solitude — but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
From all communion with existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant ; had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, 
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
Percnance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
The world is all before him — mine is here, 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift his eye, 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof 

VIII. 

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
But much to One, who long hath suffer'd so, 
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, 
And all that may be borne, or can debase. 



MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN. 



52^ 



I thought mine enemies had been but man, 
But spirits may be leagued with them — all Earth 
Abandons — Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 
It may be, tempt me further, and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assail. 
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
Like steel in tempering fire ? because I loved ? 
Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 

IX. 

"I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er : — 
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 
My brain against these bars as the sun fiash'd 
In mockery through them ; — if I bear and bore 
The much I have recounted, and the more 
Which hath no words, 'tis that I would not die 
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 
Which snared me here, and with a brand of shame 
Stamp madness deep into my memory, 
And woo compassion to a blighted name, 
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 
A future temple of my present cell, 
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 



While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, 
And nrumbling piecemeal view thy heartless hall, 
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, 
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 
While stranger's wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls ! 
And thou, Leonora ! thou— who wert ashamed 
That such as I could love— who blush'd to hear 
To less than monarchs that thou could'st be dear, 
Go ! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed 
By grief, years, weariness— and it may be 
A taint of that he would impute to me — 
From long infection of a den like this, 
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, 
Adores thee still ; — and add — that when the towers 
And battlements, which guard his joyous hours 
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, 
Or left untendcd in a dull repose, 
This — this shall be a consecrated spot ! 
But Thou — when all that Birth and Beauty throws 
Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
No power in death can tear our names apart, 
As none in life could rend thee from my heart. 
Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
To be entwined for ever — but too late ! 



MONODY 



ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. 



SPOKEN AT DIUJRY-LANE THEATRE. 



When the last sunshine of expiring day 
In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes, 
While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, 
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, 
The voiceless thought which would not speak but 

weep, 
A holy concord — and a bright regret, 
A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 
'Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tender wo, 
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 
Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 
A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 
Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils, 
When Summer's day declines along the hills, 



So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes, 

When all of Genius which can perish dies. 

A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power 

Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose 

hour 
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, 
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 
The flash of Wit— the bright Intelligence, 
The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 
Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 
The enduring produce of immortal Mind; 
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
These sparkling segments of that circling soul, 
Which all embraced — and lighten'd over all, 
To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 
From the charm'd council to the festive board, 
Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, 
The praised — the proud — who made his praise their 

pride. 



526 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan* 
Arose to heaven in her appeal from man, 
His was the thunder — his the avenging rod, 
The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! [blazed 
Which shook the nations through his lips — and 
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 

And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warm, 
The gay creations of his spirit charm, 
The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit, 
Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring ; 
These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought 
To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 
Here in their first abode you still may meet, 
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat, 
A halo of the light of other days, 
Which still the splendor of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight, 
Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, 
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
Jar in the music which was born their own, 
Still let them pause — Ah ! little do they know 
That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo. 
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is fix'd forever to detract or praise ; 
Repose denies her requiem to his name, 
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 
Stands sentinel — accuser — judge — and spy, 
The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain, 
The*bnvious who but breathe in others' pain, 
Behold the host ! delighting to deprave, 
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, 
Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
Half to the ardor which his birth bestows, 
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 
And pile the pyramid of Calumny ! 



* See Fox, Burke, and Fitt'n eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's speech on the 
lhargea exhibited ag.iinst Mr. Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr. 
fstt entre.ited the House to adjourn, to give time for a calmer consideration 
of the question than could then occur after the immediate effect of that 
oration. 



These are his portion — but if join'd to these 
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 
If the high Spirit must forget to soar, 
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 
To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
Meet sordid Rage — and wrestle with Disgrace, 
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress, 
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness, — 
If such may be the ills which men assail, 
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from Heaven, 
Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder — scorch— 
and burst. 

But far from us and from our mimic scene 

Such things should be — if such have ever been ; 

Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 

To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 

To mourn the vanquish'd beam — and add our mite 

Of praise in payment of a long delight. 

Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield, 

Mourn for the veteran Hero of our field ! 

The worthy rival of the wondrous Three!* 

Whose words were sparks of Immortality ! 

Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, 

He was your Master — emulate him here ! 

Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 

He was your brother bear his ashes hence ! 

While Powers of mind, almost of boundless range, 

Complete in kind — as various in their change, 

While eloquence — Wit — Poesy — and Mirth, 

That humble Harmonist of care on Earth, 

Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 

Of pride in Merit's proud preeminence, 

Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain, 

And turn to all of him which may remain, 

Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man, 

And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 



' Fox— Pitt— Burke. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 



" Expende Anuibalem : — quot libras in duce stimmo 
Invenies?" JUVENAL, Satire jc. 

" The Emperor Nepos wa acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul ; his moral virtues, and military taleuts, wew 
oudly celebrated J and those who derived any private benefit from his government, announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. 



By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, 
Veeiine and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220. 



t a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till 



"Tis done — but yesterday a King ! 

And arm'd with Kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing : 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive ? 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind, 

"Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
"With might unquestion'd, — power to save 
Thine only gift hath been the grave, 

To those that worshipp'd thee ; 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness ! 

Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after- warriors more 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men. 
Breaks never to unite again, 

That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre-sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 

The triumph, and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife — • 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway, 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quell'd ! — Dark spirit ! what must be 
The madness of thy memory ! 



The Desolator desolate ! 

The Victor overthrown ! 
The Arbiter of others' fate, 

A Suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope, 
That with such change can calmly cope ? 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

He 2 who of old would rend the oak, 

Dream'd not of the rebound ; 
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke- 
Alone — how look'd he round ? 
Thou in the sternness of thy strength, 
An equal deed has done at length, 

And darker fate has found ; 
He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey, 
But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

The Roman, 3 when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 

In savage grandeur, home. — 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour, 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 

The Spaniard, 4 when the lust of sway 
Had lost its quickening spell, 

Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
An empire for a cell ; 

A strict accountant of his beads, 

A subtle disputant on creeds, 
His dotage trifled well : 

Yet better had he neither known 

A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 



528 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But thou — from thy reluctant hand, 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leav'st the high command, 

To which thy weakness clung ; 
All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to grieve the heart, 

To see thy own unstrung ; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ! 

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can hoard his own ! 
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 

And thank'd him for a throne ! 
Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear, 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind ! 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every strain — 
If thou hadst died as honor dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar^the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 
• To all that pass away ; 
But yet methought the living great, 
Some higher sparks should animate, 

To dazzle and dismay ; 
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 



And she, proud Austria's Tnournful flower, 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hoiir ? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless Homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem ! 

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That element may meet thy smile, 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand, 
In loitering mood upon the sand, 

That earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
Transferred his by-word to thy brow. 

Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage, 5 
What thoughts will there be thine, 
While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 
But one — " The world xoas mine ! " 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forth— 
So long obey'd — so little worth ! 

Or like the thief of fire from heaven, 6 

Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
And share with him, the unforgiven, 

His vulture and his rock ! 
Foredoom'd by God — a man accurst, 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 

The very Fiend's arch mock ; 7 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 



NOTES TO THE ODE TO NAPOLEON. 



i. 

The rapture of the strife. 

Page 527, line 29. 
Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila in his 
harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Cha- 
lons, given in Cassiodorus. 



Milo. 



He who of old icould rend the oak. 

Page 527, line 46. 



Sylla. 



The Roman, when his burning heart. 

Page 527, line 55. 



The Spaniard, when the lust of sway. 



Charles V. 



Page 527, line 64. 



Thou Timour! in his captive's cage. 

Page 528, line 55 
The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 

6. 
Or like the thief of fire from heaven. 

Page 528, line 64. 
Prometheus. 

7. ' 
The very fiend's arch mock. 

Page 528, line 70. 
" The fiend's arch mock- 
To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." — 

Shakspeare. 



ODE ON VENICE. 



Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 

A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
What should thy sons do ? — any thing but weep : 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep, 
Is with the dashing of the springtide foam 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 
Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep, 
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping 

streets. 
Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears ; 
And every monument the stranger meets, 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; 
And even the Lion all subdued appears, 
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
The soft waves, once all musical to song, 
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 
Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
Were but the overbeating of the heart, 
And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 
But these are better than the gloomy errors, 
The weeds of nations in their last decay, 
When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, 
And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 
And Hope is nothing but a false delay, 
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 
When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away, 
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay, 
To him appears renewal of his breath, 
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; — 
And then he talks of life, and how again 
He feels his spirit soaring — albeit weak, 
And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; 
67 



And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, 
And so the film comes o'er him — and the dizzy 
Chamber swims round and round — and shadows busy, 
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, 
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled stream. 
And all is ice and blackness — and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 



II. 

There is no hope for nations ! — Search the page 

Of many thousand years — the daily scene, 
The flow and ebb of each recurring age, 
The everlasting to be which hath been, 
Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean 
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with the air ; 
For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts 
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
Are of as high an order — they must go 
Even where their driver goads them, though to 

slaughter. 
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, 
What have they given your children in return I 
A heritage of servitude and woes, 
A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. 
What ! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, 
And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; 
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, 
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? 
All that your sires have left you, all that Time 
Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, 
Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and read, 
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! 
Save the few spirits, who, despite of all, 
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd 
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, 
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, 
Gushing from Freedom's fountains — when the crowd, 
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, 
And trample on each other to obtain, 
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they plough'd 
The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow grain, 
'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bow'd, 
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : — 
Yes ! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds, 



530 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Which they abhor, confound not with the cause, 
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, 
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth, 
With all her seasons to repair the blight 
With a few summers, and again put forth 
Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 

III. 

Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers, 

With Freedom — godlike Triad ! how ye sate ! 
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 
When Venice was an envy, might abate, 
But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate 
All were enwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew 

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 
She was the voyager's worship ; — even her crimes 
Were of the softer order — born of Love, 
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, 
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread ; 
For these restored the Cross, that from above 
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant 
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
Yet she but shares with them a common wo, 
And call'd the " kingdom" of a conquering foe, — 
But knows what all — and, most of all, we know — 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 

IV. 

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone, 
O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 



Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time, 
For tyranny of late is cunning grown, 
And in its own good season tramples down 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean, 
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and. 
Bequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand, 
And proud distinction from each other land, 
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand, 
Full of the magic of exploded science — 
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 
Yet rears her crest, unconqucr'd and sublime, 
Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, 
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 
May strike to those whose red right hands have 

bought 
Blights cheaply earn'd with blood. — Still, still, for 

ever 
Better, though each man's life blood were a river, 
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 
Three paces, and then faltering : — better be 
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
In their proud charncl of Thermopylae 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
One freeman more, America, to thee ! 



THE DREAM. 



I. 
Our life is twofold ; Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality, 
And dreams in their development have breath, 
And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
They do divide our being ; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity ; 
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what we were not — what they will, 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so ? 
Is not the past all shadow ? "What are they ? 



Creations of the mind ? — The mind can mak 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

II. 
I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 



THE DREAM. 



531 



Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 

Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 

Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 

These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 

Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 

Fair as herself— but the boy gazed on her ; 

And both were young, and one was beautiful : 

And both were young— yet not alike in youth. 

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge 

The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 

The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 

There was but one beloved face on earth, 

And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 

Upon it till it could not pass away ; 

He had no breath, nor being, but in hers ; 

She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 

But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 

For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, 

"Which color'd all his objects : — he had ceased 

To live within himself; she was his life, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 

Which terminated all : upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 

Even as a brothers— but no more ; 'twas much, 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honor'd race. — It was a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and 

why ? 
Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 
Another ; even now she loved another, 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy,, and flew. 

III. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake ; he was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
With a convulsion — then arose again, 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet; as he paused, 
The Lady of his love rei ! nter'd there; 
She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
Was darken 'd with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 
For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 



From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all : and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
We're fasten'dnear a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Lady of his love was wed with One 

Who did not love her better : in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 

Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye 

As if its lids were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved, 

And he who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 

Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not, 

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 

Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 

Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 

VI. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wanderer was return'd ; I saw him stand 
Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 
Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The Starlight of his Boyhood ; — as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique Oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face, 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, — and then it faded as it came, 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 
Not that which was, nor that which should have 

been — 
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 
And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade. 
All things pertaining to that place and hour, 



532 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And her who was his destiny, came back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light : 

"What business had they there at such a time ? 

VII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love ; — Oh ! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind 
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of other's sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
"Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 

VIII. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, 



The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 

For blight and desolation, compass'd round 

With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 

In all which was served up to him, until, 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,* 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men, 

And made him friends of mountains : with the stars. 

And the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 

Ahd voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel and a secret — be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 



MilhridiUes of Foutns. 



THE BLUES: 



A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 



" Ninimum ne crede colon." 

VIRGIL. 
Oh trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue, 
Though your hair weio aa red as your stockings are blue. 



ECLOGUE FIRST. 

London — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 

Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. 
Ink. You're too late. » 

Tra. Is it over ? 

Ink. Nor will be this hour. 

But the benches are cramm'd, like a garden in 

flower, 
With the pride of our belles, who have made it the 

fashion ; 
So instead of "beaux arts," we may say "la belle 

passion " 
For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 
Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my 
patience 
With studying to study your new publications. 
There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Words- 
words and Co 



With their damnable — 

Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 

Whom you speak to ? 

Tra. Right well, boy, and so does " the Row: " 
You're an author — a poet — 

Ink. And think you that I 

Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
The Muses ? 

Tra. Excuse me ; I meant no offence 

To the Nine ; though the number who make some 
pretence 

To their favors is such but the subject to drop, 

I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, 
(Next door to the pastry-cook's ; so that when I 
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces, 
As one finds every author in one of those places,) 
Where I just had been skimming a charming 

critique, 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with 
Greek ! 



THE BLUES. 



Where your friend — you know who — has just go 

such a threshing, 
That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely "refresh 

ing." 
What a beautiful word ! 

Ink. Very true ; 'tis so soft 

And so cooling — they use it a little too oft ; 
And the papers have got it at last — but no matter. 
So they've cut up our friend then ? 

Tra. Not left him a tatter — 

Not a rag'of his present or past reputation, 

Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. 

Ink. I'm sorry to hear this ; for friendship, you 

know — 

Our poor friend ! — but I thought it would terminate 

so. 
Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. 
You do'nt happen to have the Review in your 
pocket ? 
Tra. No ; I left a round dozen of authors and 
others 
(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) 
All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, 
And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 
Ink. Let us join them. 

Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture ? 

Ink. Why, the place is so cramm'd there's not 
room for a spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 
Tra. How can you tell that till you hear him ? 
Ink. I heard 

Quite enough; and to tell you the truth, my retreat 
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 
Tra. I have had no great loss then ! 
Ink. Loss ! — such a palaver ! 

I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, 
Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such 
labor, 

That come — do not make me speak ill of one's 

neighbor. 
Tra. I make you ! 
Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 

You compall'd me, by speaking the truth — 

Tra. To speak ill? 

Is that your deduction ? 

Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, 

I certainly folloxc, not set an example. 
The fellow's a fool, an imposter, a zany. 

Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one 
fool makes many. 
But we two will be wise. 
Ink. Pray, then, let us retire. 

Tra. I would, but 

Ink. There must be attraction much higher 

Than Scamp, or the Jews' harp he nicknames his lyre, 
To call yon to this hot-bed. 

Tra. I own it — 'tis true — 

A fair lady — 
Ink. A spinster ? 

Tra. Miss Lilac ! 

Ink. The Blue ! 

The heiress ? 

Tra. The angel ! 

Ink. The devil ! why, man ! 

Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
Tom wed with Miss Lilac! 'twould be your perdition. 
She's a poet, a chymist, a mathematician. 



533 

Tra. I say she's an angel. 
Ink. Say rather an angle. 

If you and she marry, you'll certainly wrangle, 
I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 

Tra. And is that any cause for not coming 

together ? 
Ink. Humph ! I can't say I know any happy 
alliance 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with 

science. 
She's so learned in all things, and fond of concerning 
Herself in all matters connected with learning, 

That 

Tra. What ? 

Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my tongue, 

But there's five hundred people can tell you you're 
wrong. 
Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a Jew. 
Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue ? 
Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you — some- 
think of both. 
The girl's a fine girl. 

Ink. And you feel nothing loth 

To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and yet 
Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 

Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes ; I 
demand 
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and 
hand. 
Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand — that 

hand on the pen. 
Tra. Apropos — Will you write me a song now 

and then ? 
Ink. To what purpose ? 

Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose 
My tafent is decent, as far as it goes ; 

But in rhyme 

Ink. You're a terrible stick, to be sure. 

Tra. I own it ; and yet, in these times, there's 
no lure 
For the heart of a fair like a stanza or two ; 
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 
Ink. In your name ? 

Tra. In my name. I will copy them out, 

To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 
Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this ? 
Tra. Why, 

Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, 
So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
What I've told her in prose, at the least as sublime ? 
Ink. As sublime ! If it be so, no need of my Muse 
Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of the 

"Blues." 
Ink. As sublime! — Mr. Tracy— I've nothing to 
say. 
Stick to prose — as sublime ! ! — but I wish you good 
day. 
Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow— consider— I'm 
wrong ; 
I own it ; but, prithee, compose me the song. 
Ink. As sublime ! ! 

Tra. I but used the expression in haste. 

Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd 

bad taste. 
Tra. I own it — I know it — acknowledge it — what 
Can I say to you more ? 

Ink. I see what you'd be at : 

You disparage my parts with insiduous abuse, [use. 
Till you think you can turn them best to youi own 



534 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tra. And is not that a sign I respect them ? 

Ink. Why that 

To be sure makes a difference. 

Tra. I know what is what : 

And you, who're a man of the gay world, no less 
Than a poet of t' other, may easily guess 
That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
A genius like you, and moreover my friend. 

Ink. No doubt ; you by this time should know, 
what is due 
To a man of but come — let us shake hands. 

Tra. You knew, 

And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. 

Ink. That's my bookseller's business ; I care not 
for sale ; 
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays, 
And my own grand romance — 

Tra. Had its full share of praise. 

I myself saw it puff'd in the " Old Girl's Review." 

Ink. What Review ? 

Tra. 'Tis the English " Journal de Trevoux ; " 
A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
Have you never yet seen it ? 

Ink. That pleasure's to come. 

Tra. Make haste then. 

Ink. Why so ? 

Tra. I have heard people say 

That it threatened to give up the (/host t' other day. 

Ink. Well, that is a sign of some sj)irit. 

Tra. No doubt. 

Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout ? 

Ink. I've a card, and shall go ; but at present, as 
soon 
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from 

the moon, 
(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits,) 
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, 
To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation : 
'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and 

praise, 
And I own, for my own part, that 'tis not unpleasant. 
Will you go ? There's Miss Lilac will also be present. 

Tra. That "metal's attractive." 

Ink. No doubt — to the pocket. 

Tra. You should rather encourage my passion 
than shock it. 
But let us proceed ; for I think, by the hum 

Ink. Very true ; let us go, then, before they can 

come, 

Or else we'll be kept here an hour at their levy, 

On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue bevy. 

Hark ! Zounds, they'll be on us ; I know by the 

drone 
Of oH Botherby's spouting, ex-cathedra tone, 
Ay ! there he is at it. Poor Scamp ! better join 
Your friends, or he'll pay you back in your own coin. 

Tra. All fair ; 'tis but lecture for lecture. 

Ink. That's clear. 

But fov God's sake let's go, or the bore will be here. 
Cc me, \iome : nay, I'm off. [Exit Inkel. 

Tra. You are right, and I'll follow; 

'Tis high time for a " Sic me servavit Apollo." 
And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, 
Bluet, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand 
scribes, 



All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 

[Exit Tracy 



ECLOGUE SECOND. 

An Apartment in the House of Lady Bluebottle 
A Table prepared. 

Sir Richard Bluebottle, solus 

Was there ever a man who was married so sorry ? 
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. 
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd ; 
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void, 
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd : 
The twelve do I say ? — of the whole twenty-four, • 

Is there one which I dare call my own any more ? 
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining 
What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling, 

and shining, 
In science and art, I'll be cflrst if I know 
Myself from my wife ; for although we are two, . 

Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be 

done 
In a style that proclaims us eternally one. 
But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me 

sore) 
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew 
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, 
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost 
— For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host — 
No pleasure ! no leisure ! no thought for my pains, 
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains ; 
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews, 
By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call 

"Blues; " 

A rabble who know not But soft, here they come ! 

Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll be dumb 

Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady 

Bluejiount, Mr. Botherby, Ixkel, Tracy, 

Miss Mazarine, and others, with Scamp, the 

Lecturer, Ac. 

Lady Blueb. Ah ! Sir Richard, good morning ; I've 
brought you some friends. 

Sir Rich, (bows, and afterwards aside.) If friends, 
they're the first. 

Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends. 

I pray ye be seated, " sans cercmonie." 
Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued ; take your chair there, 
next me. [They all sit. 

Sir Rich, (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to come. 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Tracy- 

Lady Bluemount — Miss Lilac — be pleased, pray, to 

place ye ; 
And you, Mr. Botherby — 

Both. Oh, my dear Lady, 

I obey. 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye : 
You were not at the lecture. 

Ink. Excuse me, I was ; 

But the heat forced me out in the best part — alas ! 
And when 

Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling ; but then 
You have lost such a lecture ! 



. THE BLUES. 



535 



jgo^j. The best of the ten. 

Tra. How can you know that ? there are two more. 

Both. Because 

I defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
The very walls shook. 

j w £ # Oh, if that be the test, 

I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best. 
Miss Lilac, permit me to help you ;— a wing ? 

Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Who lec- 
tures next spring ? 

Both. Dick Dunder. 

Ink. That is, if he lives. 

Miss Lil. And why not ? 

Ink. No reason whatever, save that he's a sot. 
Lady Bluemount ! a glass of Maderia ? 

Lady Bluem. With pleasure. 

Ink. How does your friend Wordswords, that 
Windermere treasure ? 
Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sings, 
And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and 
kings ? 

Lady Blueb. He has just got a place. 

Ink. As a footman ? 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! 

Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 

Ink. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his 
master ; 
For the poet of pedlars 'twere, sure, no disaster 
To wear a new livery ; the more, as 'tis not 
The first time he has turn'd both his creed and his 
coat. 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! I repeat. If Sir George 
could but hear 

Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend Inkel ; we all 
know, my dear, 
'Tis his way. 

Sir Rich. But this place 

Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 

A lecturer's. 

Lady Blueb. Excuse me — 'tis one in the "the 
Stamps ; " 
He is made a collector. 

Tra. Collector ! 

Sir Rich. How ? 

Miss Lil. What ? 

Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat : 
There his works will appear 

Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 

Ink. I shant go so far — I can have them at 
Grange's.* 

Lady Blueb. Oh fie ! 

Miss Lil. And for shame ! 

Lady Bluem. You're too bad. 

Both. Very good ! 

Lady Bluem. How good ? 

Lady Blueb. He means nought — 'tis his phrase. 

Lady Bluem. He grows rude. 

Lady Blueb. He means nothing ; nay, ask him. 

Lady Bluem. Pray, sir ! did you mean 

What you say ? 

Ink. Never mind if he did : 'twill be seen 

That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. 

Both. Sir! 

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise ; 
'Twas in your defence. 

Both. If you please, with submission, 

T can make out my own. 



Ink. It would be your perdition. 

While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
Yourself or your works, but leave both to a friend. 
Apropos — is your play then accepted at last ? 
Both. At last? 

Ink. Why I thought — that's to say — there had 
past 
A few green-room whispers, which hinted — you 

know 
That the taste of the actors at best is so so. 
Both. Sir, the green-room's in rapture and so's the 

committee. 
Ink. Ay — yours are the plays for exciting our 
" pity 
And fear," as the Greek says: for "purging the 

mind," 
I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behind. 
Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to 
have pray'd 
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 
Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play's to 
be play'd. 
Is it cast yet ? 

Both. The actors are fighting for parts, 

As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 
Lady Blueb. We'll all make a party and go the 

Jirst night. 
Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 
Ink. Not quite. 

However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
I'll do what I can, though my pains must be double. 
Tra. Why so ? 

Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 

Both. Sir, I am happy to say, I've no fears on 
that score. 

Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are 

Ink. Never mind mine ; 

Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own 
line. 
Lady Bluem. You're a fugitive writer I think, sir ; 

of rhymes ? 
Ink. Yes, ma'am ; and a fugitive reader sometimes. 
On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight, 
Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight. 
Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common ; but 
Time and posterity 
Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
Become its reproach. 

Ink. I've no sort of objection, 

So I'm not of the party to take the infection. 
Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they 

ever will take f 
Ink. Not at all ; on the contrary, those of the lake 
Have taken already, and still will continue 
To take — what they can, from a groat to a guinea, 
Of pension or place ; — but the subject's a bore ! 
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time's coming. 
Ink. Scamp ! don't you feel sore ? 

What say you to this ? 

Scamp. They have merit, I own ; 

Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. 
Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your 

lectures ? 
Scamp. It is only time past which comes under 

my strictures. 
Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness : — 
the joy of my heart 
Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
Wild Nature ! — Grand Shakspeare ! 



536 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Both. And down Aristotle ! 

Lady Bluem. Sir George thinks exactly with 

Lady Bluebottle ; 

And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our dear 

Bard, 
And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard 
For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses, 
Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 
Tra. And you, Scamp, — 

Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embarrass'd. 
Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already so 
harrass'd 
With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, 
and all schools. 
Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must 
be fools. 
I should like to know who. 

Ink. And I should not be sorry 

To know who are not : — it would save us some 
worry. 
Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let noth- 
ing control 
This "feast of our reason, and flow of the soul." 
Oh, my dear Mr. Botherby ! sympathise ! — I 
Now feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly, 
I feel so elastic — " so buoyant — so buoyant ! " * 
Ink. Tracy ! open the window. 
Tra. I wish her much joy on't. 

Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check 
not 
This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
Upon earth. Give it way ; 'tis an impulse which 

lifts 
Our spirits from earth ; the sublimest of gifts ; 
For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his 

mountain. 
"lis the source of all sentiment — feeling's true 

fountain : 
'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth : 'tis the gas 
Of the soul : 'tis the seizing of shades as they pass, 



* Fact Irons .ife, with the wordt. 



And making- them substance : 'tis something 
divine : — 
Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more 

wine ? 
Both. I thank you ; not any more, sir, till I dine. 
Ink. Apropos — do you dine with Sir Humphrey 

to-day ? 
Tra. I should think with Duke Humphrey was 

more in your way. 
Ink. It might be of yore ; but we authors now look 
To the knight, as a landlord, much more than the 

Duke. 
The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is, 
And (except with his publisher) dines where he 

pleases. 

But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 
Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there till 'tis 
dark. 
And you, Scamp — 

Sca?np. Excuse me ; I must to my notes, 

For my lecture next week. 

Ink. He must mind when he quotes 

Out of " Elegant Extracts." 

Lady Blueb. Well, now we break up ; 

But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup. 
Ink. Then at two hours past midnight we all 
meet again, 
For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champagne ! 
Tra. And the sweet lobster salad ! 
Both. I honor that meal ; 

For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely — feel. 
Ink. True ; feeling is truest then, far beyond 
question ; 
I wish to the gods 'twas the same with digestion ! 
Lady Blueb. Pshaw ! — never mind that ; for one 
moment of feeling 
Is worth — God knows what. 
Ink. 'Tis at least worth concealing 

For itself, or what follows But here comes your 

carriage. 
Sir Rich, (aside.) I wish all these people were 
d d with my marriage. [Exeunt. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone, 
Some name arrests the passer-by ; 

Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 
May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 

And when by thee that name is read, 
Perchance in some succeeding year, 

Reflect on me as on the dead, 
And think my heart is buried here. 

September, Uth, 1809. 



TO * ** 

Oh, Lady ! when I left the shore, 
N The distant shore, which gave me birth, 
I hardly thought to grieve once more, 
To quit another spot on earth : 

Yec here, amidst this barren isle, 
Where panting Nature droops the head, 

Where only thou art seen to smile, 
I view my parting hour with dread. 

Though far from Albin's craggy shore, 

Divided by the dark-blue main, 
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, 

Perchance I view her cliffs again : 

But wheresoe'er I now may roam, 

Through scorching clime, and varied sea, 

Though Time restore me to my home, 
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 

On thee, in whom at once conspire 
All charms which heedless hearts can move, 

Whom but to see is to admire, 
And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
With such a word can more offend ; 

And since thy heart I cannot share, 
Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 
68 



And who so cold as look on thee, 
Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ? 

Nor be, what man should ever be, 
The friend of Beauty in distress ? 

Ah ! who would think that form had past 
Through Danger's most destructive path, 

Hath braved the Death-wing'd tempest's blast, 
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ? 

Lady ! when I shall view the walls 
Where free Byzantium once arose; 

And Stamboul's Oriental halls, 
The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 

Thou mightiest in the lists of fame, 

That glorious city still shall be ; 
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, 

As spots of thy nativity : 

And though I bid thee now farewell, 
When I behold that wond'rous scene, 

Since where thou art I may not dwell, 
'Twill sooth to be where thou hast been. 

September, 1809. 



* STANZAS, 

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF. 

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast, 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
The ancient world was won and lost. 

And now upon the scene I look, 
The Uzure grave of many a Roman ; 

Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 

Florence ! whom I will love as well 

As ever yet was said or sung, 
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell,) 

Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 



538 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times, 
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes,^ 
Thy charms might raise new Anthonies. 

Though Fate forbids such things to be, 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 

I cannot lose a world for thee, 
But would not lose thee for a world. 

November Uth, 1809. 



STANZAS, 

COMPOSED DURING THE NIGHT, IN A THUNDER- 
STORM, WHEN THE GUIDES HAD LOST THE ROAD 
TO ZITZA, NEAR THE RANGE OP MOUNTAINS FOR- 
MERLY CALLED PINDUS, IN ALBANIA. 

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 

Where Pindus' mountains rise, 
And angry clouds are pouring fast, 

The vengeance of the skies. 

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 

And lightnings, as they play, 
But show where rocks our path have crost, 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 

Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 

When lightning broke the gloom — 
How welcome were its shade ! — ah, no ! 

'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 

On distant England's name. 

A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 

Another — 'tis to tell . 
The mountain-peasants to descend, 

And lead us where they dwell. 

Oh ! who in such a night will dare 

To tempt the wilderness ? 
And who 'mid thunder peals can hear 

Our signal of distress ? 

And who that heard our shouts would rise 

To try the dubious road ? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws were abroad. 

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! 

More fiercely pours the storm ! 
Yet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm. 

While wand'ring through each broken path, 

O'er brake and craggy brow ; 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 

Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea, 

Thy bark hath long been gone : 
Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 

Bow down my head alone ! 



Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When last I press'd thy lip ; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 

Impell'd thy gallant ship. 

Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now, 

Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 

Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee, 

In darkness and in dread, 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped ; 

Do thou amidst the fair white walls, 

If Cadiz yet be free, 
At times from out her latticed halls, 

Look o'er the dark -blue sea ; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endear'd by days gone by ; 
To others give a thousand smiles, 

To me a single sigh. 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-forna'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace, 

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun 

Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
Nor own for once thou thought'st of one, 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When sever'd hearts repine, 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 

And mourns in search of thine. 

October Uth, 1809. 



WRITTEN AT ATHENS. 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever : 
We madly smile when we should groan ; 

Delirium is our best deceiver. 
Each lucid interval of thought, 

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, 
And he that acts as wise men ought, 

But Jives, as saints have died, a martyr. 

January 16th, 1810. 



WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM 
SESTOS TO ABYDOS.* 

If, in the month of dark December, 
Leander, who was nightly wont 

(What maid will not the tale remember ?) 
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 



• On the third of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Bathuret), wai 
lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate, and the writei 
of these rhymes, swam from the European shore to the Asiatic — by-the-by, 
from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. The whole distance, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



539 



If, when the wintry tempest roo.r'd, 

He sped to Hero, nothing loth, 
And thus of old thy current pour'd, 

Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 

For me, degenerate modern wretch, 
Though in the genial month of May, 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, 
And think I've done a feat to-day. 

But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 

According to the doubtful story, 
To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, 

AndfSwam for Love, as I for Glory ; 

'Twere hard to say who fared the best : 
Sad mortals ! thus the Gods still plague you 

He lost his labor, I my jest ; 
For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. 

May 9, 1810. 



SONG. 



Zojr/ yiov cas d> ottoo.* 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh, give me back my heart! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 

Zojr; fxuv rrdc dyonroj. 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each iEgean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zuir] jiov crdc ayaTrai, 

By that lip I long to taste ; 

By that zone-encircled waist ; 

By all the token-flowersf that tell 

What words can never speak so well ; 

By Love's alternate joy and wo, 

Zo;r/ ituv aa% ayavd. 



from the place whence we started to our landing on the other side, includii 
the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those on board 
the frigate at upwards of four English miles ; though the actoal breadth is 
barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly 
across, and it may in some measure be estimated from the circumstance of the 
whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, 
and by the other in an hour and ten, minutes. The water was extremely 
cold from the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in 
April, we had made an attempt ; but having ridden all the way from the Troad 
the same morning, and the water being of an icy dullness, we found it neces- 
sary to postpone the completion till the frigate anchored below the castles, 
when we swam the straits, as just stated ; enteringa considerable way above 
the European, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says that a 
young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress, and Oliver mentions its 
having been done by a Neapolitan ; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered 
neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. ' A 
number of the Salsette's crew were known to have accomplished a greater 
distance ; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been 
entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavored 
to ascertain its practicability. 

• Zoe mou, sas agapo, a Romaic expression of tenderness : if I translate 
it, 1 shall offend the gentlemen, as it may seem that I suppose they could not ; 
and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on 
the part of the latter, 1 shall do so, begging pardon oflhe learned. It means, 
" My life, I love you I " which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is as 
much in fashion in Greece at this day as, Juvenal tells us, the two first words 
were among the Roman ladies, whose exotic expressions were all Hellenized. 

1 In the East, (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scrib- 
ble assignations,) floweis, cinders, pebbles, &c, convey the sentiments of the 
parties by that universal deputy of Mercury — an old woman. A cinder says, 
" 1 burn for thee ; " a bunch of flowers tied with hair, " Take me and fly ; " 
but % pebble declares — what nothing else can. ' 



Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol,* 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
Ztj>/ )jov r/iij a; (ztcj. 

Athens, 1810 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK 
"WAR SONG, 

Asvtc iraTScs tojv 'EAAiifwi', 

WRITTEN BY RIGA, WHO PERISHED IN THE AT- 
TEMPT TO REVOLUTIONIZE GREECE. THE POL- 
LOWING TRANSLATION IS AS LITERAL AS THE 
AUTHOR COULD MAKE IT IN VERSE ; IT IS OF THE 
SAME MEASURE AS THAT OF THE ORIGINAL 

Sons of the Greeks, arise! 

The glorious hour's gone forth, 
And, worthy of such ties, 

Display who gave us birth. 



Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 

Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
Let your country see you rising, 

And all her chains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh start again to life ! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
And the seven-hill'd city seeking, f 

Fight, conquer, till we're free. 

Sons of Greeks, &c. 

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou lie ? 
Awake, and join thy numbers 

With Athens, old ally! 
Leonidas recalling, 

That chief of ancient song, 
Who saved ye once from falling, 

The terrible ! the strong ! 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free ; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood, 
And like a lion raging, 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sons of Greeks, &c. 



• Constantinople. 

t Constantinople. " EirrdAooloc.'" 



540 BYRON'S WORKS. 

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, 



" M7T£i/£o /i£; 'ra' Tr£pi06yi 
J iljOO((5rarr/ XarjSfi." 

THE SONG FROM WHICH THIS IS TAKEN IS A GREAT 
FAVORITE WITH THE YOUNG GIRLS OF ATHENS, 
OF ALL CLASSES. THEIR MANNER OF SINGING 
IT IS BY VERSES IN ROTATION, THE WHOLE 
NUMBER PRESENT JOINING IN THE CHORUS. I 
HAVE HEARD IT FREQUENTLY AT OUR "x<5/)0(" 
IN THE WINTER OF 1810-11. THE AIR IS PLAIN- 
TIVE AND PRETTY. 

I enter thy garden of roses, 

Beloved and fair Haidee, 
Each morning where Flora reposes, 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely !. thus low I implore thee, 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
Which utters its song to adore thee, 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; I 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
Through her eyes, through her every feature, 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful, 

When Love has abandon'd the bowers ; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, 

Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save: 
Will nought to my bosom restore thee ? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances, 

Secure of his conquest before, 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, 

For torture repay me too well ? 
Now sad is the garden of roses, 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all wither'd reposes, 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



ON PARTING. 



WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 

Dear object of defeated care ! 

Though not of love and thee bereft, 
To reconcile me with despair 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope ^ 
But this I feel can ne'er be true : 

For by the death-blow of my Hope 
My Memory immortal grew. 



The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left, 

Shall never part from mine, 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

"Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast, 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh ! what can idle words avail, 

Unless the heart could speak ? 

By day or night, in weal or wo, 

That heart no longer free, 
Must bear the love it cannot show 

And silent ache for thee. 



TO THYRZA. 

Without a stone to mark the spot, 
And say, what truth might well have said» 

By all, save one, perchance forgot, 
Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 

By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past, the future fled to thee x 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 

Could this have been — a word, a look 
That softly said " We part in peace," 

Had taught my bosom how to brook, 
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 

And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
Prepared a light and pangless dart, 

Once long for him thou ne'er shall see, 
Who held, and holds thee in his heart ? 

Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee here ? 

Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, 
In that dread hour ere death appear, 

When silent sorrow fears to sigh, 

Till all was past ! But when no more 
'Twas thine to reck of human wo, 

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 
Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow. 

Shall they not flow, when many a day 
In these, to me, deserted towers, 

Ere call'd but for a time away, 
Affection's mingling tears were ours ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



541 



Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else might understand ; 
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied, 

The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 

The kiss, so guiltless and refined 
That Love each warmer wish forebore, 

Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, 
Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 

The tone that taught me to rejoice, 
When prone, unlike thee to repine ; 

The song, celestial from thy voice, 
But sweet to me from none but thine, 

The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 
But where is thine ? — ah, where art thou ? 

Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 
But never bent beneath till now ! 

"Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 

The cup of wo for me to drain, 
If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again ; 

But if in worlds more blest than this 
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 

Impart some portion of thy bliss, 
To wean me from mine anguish here, 

Teach me — too early taught by thee ! 

To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
On earth thy love was such to me ; 
• It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 



STANZAS. 

Away, away ye notes of wo ! 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
Or I must flee from hence, for oh ! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
I must not think, I may not gaze 

On what I am — on what I was. 

The voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; 
And all that once was harmony 

Is Avorse than discord to my heart ! 

'Tis silent all ! — but on my ear 

The well-remember'd echoes thrill ; 
I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice that now might well be still : 
Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake ; 

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
Till consciousness will vainly wake 

To listen, though the dream be flown. 



Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep, 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
A star that trembled o'er the deep, 

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam ; 
But, he, who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, 
Will long lament the vanish'd ray 

That scattered gladness o'er his path. 



TO THYRZA. 

One struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
One last long sigh to love and thee, 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 

With things that never pleased before ; 
Though every joy is fled below, 

What future grief can touch me more ? 

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring, 

Man was not form'd to live alone : 
I'll be that light unmeaning thing 

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
It was not thus in days more dear, 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 

Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 

The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
But mocks the wo that lurks beneath, 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 

On many a lone and lovely night 

It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky ; 
For then I d^em'd the heavenly light 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 

When sailing o'er the iEgean wave, 
" Now Thyrza gazes on that moon " — 

Alas, it gleam' d upon her grave ! 

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, 

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
" 'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 

" That Thyrza cannot know my pains : " 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 

A boon 'tis idle then to give, 
Relenting Nature vainly gave, 

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 

My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 

When love and life alike were new ! 
How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 

How ting'd by time with sorrow's hue ! 
The heart that gave itself With thee, 

Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! 
Though cold as e'en the dead can be, 

It feels, it sickens with the chill. 



542 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 

Or break the heart to which thou'rt prest ! 
Time tempers love, but not removes, 

More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
Oh ! what are thousand living loves, 

To that which cannot quit the dead ? 



EUTHANASIA.. 

"When Time, or soon or late", shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 

Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 

No band of friends or heirs be there, 
To weep, or wish, the coming blow : 

No maiden, with dishevell'd hair, 
To feel, or feign, decorous wo. 

But silent let me sink to Earth, 
With no officious mourners near: 

I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs, 

Might then exert its latest power, 
In her who lives and him who dies. 

'Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
Thy features still serene to see : 

Forgetful of its struggles past, 
E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 

But vain the wish — for Beauty still 

AVill shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath, 

And woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour, 
Without regret, without a groan ! 

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

"Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go ! 
To be the nothing that I was, 

Ere born to life or living wo ! 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'Tis something better not to be. 



STANZAS. 

" HEU QUANTO MINUS EST CUM RELIQUIS VERSAB.I 
QUAM TUI MEMINI3SE." 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon return'd to Earth ! 



Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread, 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low, 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will maj grow, 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove, 
That what I loved and long must love, 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change through all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep, 

Nor need I to repine, 
That all those charms have pass'd away ; 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd, 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 

The leaves must drop away : 
And yet it were a greater grief, 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow'd such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extinguish'd, not decay'd; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep, 

My tears might well be shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain 
Though thou hast left me free, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



543 



The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 



STANZAS. 

If sometimes in the haunts of men, 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely hour presents again, 

The semblance of thy gentle shade - 
And now that sad and silent hour, 

Thus much of thee can still restore, 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile, 

I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile, 

Unfaithful to thy Memory ! 
Nor deem that memory less dear, 

That then I seem not to repine ; 
I would not fools should overhear. 

One sigh that should be wholly thine. 

If not the goblet pass unquaff 'd, 

It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
The cup must hold a deadlier draught, 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 

That drown'd a single thought of thee. 

For wert thou vanish'd from my mind, 

Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
And who would then remain behind, 

To honor thine abandon'd Urn ? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
Though all the world forget beside, 

'Tis meet that I remember still. 

For well I know, that such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 

Where none regarded him, but thou ; 
And, oh ! I feel in that was given, 

A blessing never meant for me ; 
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 

For earthly love to merit thee. 

March Uth, 1812. 



ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 
BROKEN. 

Ill-fated Heart : and can it be, 

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? 

Have years of care for thine and thee 
Alike been all employ'd in vain ? 



Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 
And every fragment dearer grown, 

Since he who wears thee, feels thou art 
A fitter emblem of his own. 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND, 

Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
Were firmest friends, at least, in name, 

And childhood's gay sincerity 

Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou know'st 
What trifles oft the heart recall ; 

And those who once have lov'd the most, 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 

And such the change the heart displays, 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 

A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
Will view thy mind estranged again. 

If so, it never shall be mine 
To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
Which made thee fickle as thou art. 

As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
So human feelings ebb and flow; 

And who would in a breast confide 
Where stormy passions ever glow? 

It boots not, that together bred, 
Our childish days were days of joy : 

My spring of life has quickly fled ; 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 

And when we bid adieu to youth, 

Slaves to the specious world's control, 

We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 
Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 

When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in man's maturer years, 
When man himself is but a tool, 

When interest sways our hopes and fears, 
And all must love and hate by rule. 

With fools in kindred vice the same, 
We learn at length our faults to blend ; 

And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man : 
Can we then 'scape from folly free ? 

Can we reverse the general plan, 
Nor be what all in turn must be ? 

No, for myself, so dark my fate 

Through every turn of life hath been, 

Man and the world I so much hate, 
I care not when I quit the scene. 



544 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But thou, with spirit frail and light, 
Wilt shine awhile and pass away ; 

As glowworms sparkle through the night, 
And dare not stand the test of day. 

Alas ! whenever folly calls 
Where parasites and princes meet, 

(For cherish'd first in royal halls, 
The welcome vices kindly greet,) 

Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add 
One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 

And still thy trifling heart is glad 

To join the vain, and court the proud. 

There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 
Still simpering on with eager haste, 

As flies along the gay parterre, 
That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 

But say, what nymph will prize the flame 
Which seems, as marshy vapors move, 

To flit along from dame to dame, 
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ? 

What friend for thee, howe'er inclin'd, 
Will deign to own a kindred care ? 

Who will debase his manly mind, 
For friendship every fool may share ? 

In time forbear ; amidst the throng, 
No more so base a thing be seen ; 

No more so idly pass along ; 

Be something, anything, but — mean. 



TO ****** 

Well ! thou art happy, and I fe'el 
That I should thus be happy too ; 

For still my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do. 

Thy husband's blest — and 'twill impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot : 

But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 

When late I saw thy favorite child, 

I thought my jealous heart would break, 

But when th' unconscious infant smiled, 
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 

I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs, 

Its father in its face to see ; 
But then it had its mother's eyes, 

And they were all to love and me. 

Mary, adieu ! I must away : 

While thou art blest I'll not repine, 

But near thee I can never stay ; 
My heart would soon again be thine. 

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame, 

Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 
My heart in all, save hope, the same. 



Yet was I calm : I knew the time 
My breast would thrill before thy look, 

But now to tremble were a crime — 
We met, and not a nerve was shook. 

I saw thee gaze upon my face, 
Yet meet with no confusion there, 

One only feeling could'st thou trace, 
The sullen calmness of despair. 

Away ! away ! my early dream, 
Remembrance never must awake, 

Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 
My foolish heart be still, or break. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 

In moments to delight devoted, 

" My life ! " with tend'rest tone, you cry, 
Dear words ! on which my heart had doted, 

If youth could neither fade nor die. 
To death even hours like these must roll, 

Ah ! then repeat those accents never, 
Or change " my life ! " into " my soul ! " 

Which, like my love, exists for ever. 



IMPROMTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND 

When from the heart where Sorrow sits, 
Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 

And o'er the changing aspect flits, 
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye, 

Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 
My thoughts their dungeon know too well ; 

Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, 
And droop within their silent cell. 



ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEA- 
TRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. 

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ; 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld, (oh ! sight admired and mourn'd, 
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) 
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven;* 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, 
Shrank back appall' d, and trembled for their home, 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, 
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



54d 



Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
Know the same favor which the former knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare— worthy him and you? 

Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
And bids the Drama be where she hath been. 
This fabric's birth attest the potent spell — 
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! 

As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past, 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. - 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : 
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom 
That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
With garlands deck your own Menander's head ! 
Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead ! 

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 
Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs, 
Yain of our ancestry, as they of theirs ; 
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's gla^s 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazoned on our line, 
Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 



Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and Plays 

Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise, 

Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 

The boundless power to cherish or reject ; 

If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 

And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 

If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 

To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, 

All past reproach may present scenes refute, 

And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 

Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 

Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 

So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 

And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid, 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, 
Still may we please — long, long may you preside ! 
69 



TO TIME. 



Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 
The varying hours must flag or fly, 

Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, 
But drag or drive us on to die — 

Hail thou ! who on my mirth bestow'd 

Those boons to all that know thee known ; 

Yet better I sustain thy load, 
For now I bear the weight alone. 

I would not one fond heart should share 
The bitter moments thou hast given ; 

And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare 
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 

To them be joy. or rest, on me 

Thy future ills shalfpress in vain ; 

I nothing owe but years to thee, 
A debt already paid in pain. 

Yet even that pain was some relief ; 

It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
The active agony of grief 

Retards, but never counts the hour. 

In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight 
Would soon subside from swift to slow : 

Thy cloud could overcast the light, 
But could not add a night to wo. 

For then, however drear and dark, 

My soul was suited to thy sky ; 
One star alone shot forth a spark 

To prove thee — not Eternity. * 

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
A blank ; a thing to count and curse 

Through each dull, tedious, trifling part, 
Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 

One scene even thou canst not deform ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed, 
When future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed. 

And I can smile to think how weak 
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, • 

When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 



TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. 

Ah ! Love was never yet without 
The pang, the agony, the doubt, 
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
While day and night roll darkling by. 

Without one friend to hear my wo, 
I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
That Love had arrows, well I knew; 
Alas ! I find them poison'd too. 



546 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
Which Love around your haunts hath set ; 
Or circled by his fatal fire, 
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 

A bird of free and careless wing 
Was I, through many a smiling spring; 
But caught within the subtle snare, 
I burn, and feebly flutter there. 

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 
Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
The cold repulse, the look askance, 
The lightning of Love's angry glance. 

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ; 
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
I feel my passion, and fliy power. 

My light of life ! ah, tell me why 

That pouting lip, and alter'd eye ? 

My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 

And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: 
What wretch with me would barter wo ? 
My bird ! relent : one note could give 
A charm, to bid thy lover live. 

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain. 
In silent anguish I sustain ; 
And still thy heart, without partaking 
One pang, exults — while mine is breaking. 

Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
Thou canst not murder more than now; 
I've lived to curse my natal day, 
And love, that thus can lingering slay. 

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
Can patience preach thee into rest ? 
Alas ! too late, I dearly know, 
That joy is harbinger of wo. 



A SONG. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
To those thyself so fondly sought ; 

The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
Are doubly bitter from that thought : 

'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 

Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 

The wholly false the heart despises, 

And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 
But she who not a thought disguises, 

Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
When she can chango who loved so truly, 
It feels what mine has felt so newly. 

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow, 
Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 

And if, when conscious on the morrow, 
We scarce our fancy can forgive, 

Tha* cheated us in slumber only, 

To leave the waking soul more lonely, 



What must they feel whom no false vision, 
But truest, tenderest passions warm'd ? 

Sincere, but swift in sad transition, 
As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 

Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 

And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
"ORIGIN OF LOVE." 

The " Origin of Love ! "—Ah, why 

That cruel question ask of me, 
When thou may'st read in many an eye 

He starts to life on seeing thee ? 
And should'st thou seek his end to know ; 

My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 
He'll linger long in silent wo ; 

But live — until I cease to be. 



REMEMBER HIM, &c. 

Remember him, whom passion's power 
Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 

Remember thou that dangerous hour 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 

That yielding breast, that melting eye, 

Too much invited to be blest : 
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 

The wilder wish reproved, reprcst. 

Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 

But saved thee all that conscience fears, 
And blush for every pang it cost 

To spare the vain remorse of years. 

Yet think of this when many a tongue, 
Whose busy accents whisper blame, 

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 
And brand a nearly blighted name. 

Think that, whate'er to others, thou 

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: 

I bless thy purer soul even now, 
Even now, in midnight solitude. 

Oh, God ! that we had met in time, 

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free, 

When thou hadst loved without a crime, 
And I been less unworthy thee ! 

Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
From this our gaudy world be past ! 

And, that too bitter moment o'er, 
Oh ! may such trial be thy last ! 

This heart, alas ! perverted long, 
Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; 

To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 

Then to the things whose bliss or wo, 
Like mine is wild and worthless all, 

That world resign — such scenes forego, 
Where those who feel must surely fall. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



547 



Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 

From what even here hath past, may guess 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear, 
Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear ; 
For me they shall not weep again. 

Though long and mournful must it be, 
The thought that we no more may meet ; 

Yet I deserve the stern decree, 
And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
Had then less sacrificed to thine; 

It felt not half so much to part, 
As if its euilt had made thee mine. 



LINES 



INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. 

Start not — nor deem my spirit fled : 

In me behold the only skull, 
From which, unlike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quaff 'd, like thee ; 

I died ; let earth my bones resign : 
Fill up — thou canst not injure me ; 

The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape, 

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; 

And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of gods, than reptile's food. 

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In aid of others' let me shine ; 
And when, alas ! our brains are gone, 

What nobler substitute than wine ? 

Quaff while thou canst — another race,. 

When thou and thine like me are sped, 
May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 

And rhyme and revel with the dead. 

Why not ? since through life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce ; 

Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
This chance'is theirs, to be of use. 

■ Newstead Abbey, 1808. 



ON THE DEA1H OF SIR PETER PARKER, 
BART. 

There is a tear for all that die, 

A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 

But nations swell the funeral cry, 
And Triumph weeps above the brave. 



For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent: 

In vain their bones unburied lie, 
All earth becomes their monument ! 

A tomb is theirs on every page, 

An epitaph on every tongue : 
The present hours, the future age, 

For them bewail, to them belong. 

For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound ; 

While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not, 

Lamented by admiring foes, 
Who would not share their glorious lot ? 

Who would not die the death they chose ? 

And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 

And early valor, glowing, find 
A model in thy memory. 

But there are breasts that bleed with thee 

In wo, that glory cannot quell, 
And shuddering hear of victor}', 

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name ? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness, , 

While Grief's full heart is fed by fame. 

Alas ! for them, though not for thee, 
They cannot choose but weep the more 

Deep for the dead the grief must be, 
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 



TO A LADY WEEPING. 

Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay: 

Ah, happy ! if each tear of thine 
Could wash a father's fault away ! 

Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 

And be each drop in future years 
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 

March, 1812. 



FROM THE TURKISH. 

The chain I gave was fair to view, 
The lute I added sweet in sound ; 

The heart that offer'd both was true, 
And ill deserved the fate it found. 

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell, 
Thy truth in absence to divine ; 

And they have done their duty well, 
Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 



548 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That chain was firm in every link, 
But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 

That lute was sweet — till thou could'st think, 
In other hands its notes were such. 

Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, 

"Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restrihg the chords, renew the clasp. 

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too, 
The chain is broke, the music mute. 

'Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



SONNET. 



TO GEXEVRA. 



Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — where serenely wrought, 

Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 

I should have dcem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 

With such an aspect, by his colors blent, 

When from his bcauty-brcathing pencil born, 

(Except that t/iou hast nothing to repent,) 
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 

Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent ! 
With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue 
scorn. 



SONNET. 



TO GENKVUA. 



Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo, 
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but oh ! 
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow, 

For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, 
The soul of melancholy Gentleness 

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 

At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 



INSCRIPTION 

OX THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. 

" Near this spot 

Are deposited tlie Remains of one 

Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, 

Strength without Insolence, 

Courage without Ferocity, 

And all the Virtues of Man, without his Vices. 



This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery 

If inscribed over human ashes, 

Is but a just tribute to the Memory of 

BOATSWAIN, a Dog, 

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, 

And died at Newstcad Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808." 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo, 

And storied urns record who rests below ; 

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 

Not what he was, but what he should have been ; 

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 

The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 

Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 

Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 

Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 

While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven, 

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 

Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 

Degraded mass of animated dust ! 

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 

By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame 

Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 

Pass on — it honors none you wish to mourn ; 

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 

I never knew but one, and here he lies. 

Newstcad Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. 



FAREWELL. 

Faki.wj;ll ! if ever fondest prayer 

For others' weal avail'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

Put waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh; 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that won! — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

These lips arc mute, these eyes are dry ; 

Put in my breast, and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs thai pass not by, 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel ; 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 



BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL, 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er- burst from its mortal control, 

In the orbs «f the blessed to shine. 

On earth thou wert all but divine, 
As thy soul shall immortally be ; 

And our sorrow may cease to repine, 
When we know that thy God is with thee. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



549 



Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be : 
There should not be the shadow of gloom, 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 

Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of thy rest : 

But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 
For why should we mourn for the blest ? 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A kri'ell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee ? — 

With silence and tears. 



'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone 

which fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth 

itself be past. 



Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 

happiness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of 

excess: 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points 

in vain 
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never 

stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death 

itself comes down ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream 

it» own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 

tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where 

the ice appears. 



Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth 

distract the breast, 
Through midnight hours that yield no more their 

former hope of rest ; 
'Tis but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret 

wreath, 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and 

gray beneath. 



Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have 

been, 
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a 

vanish'd scene: 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 

though they be, 
So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears 

would flow to me. 

1815. 



STANZAS FOR. MUSIC* 

" Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo : quater 
I-Vlix I in [mo qui Bcatentem 
Fectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 

Gray's Poemata. 

There's not a joy the world can give like tliat it 
takes away, 

When the glow of early thought declines in feel- 
ing's dull decay ; 



* These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, of the Strand, 
ftiio has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming, 
And the midnight moon is weaving 

Her bright chain o'er the deep : 
Whose breast is gently heaving, ' 

As an infant's asleep : 
So the spirit bows before thee, 
To listen and adore thee ; 
With a full but soft emotion, 
Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



550 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



FARE THEE WELL. 

" Alas I they bad been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison troth : 
And constancy lives in realms above : 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain : 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain : 

But never either found another 

To free the hollow heart from paining — 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining 1 , 

Like clilfs, which hud been rent asunder; 

A dreary sea now Hows between. 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 

Shall wholly do away, 1 ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been." 

CoLervlge's Christahel. 

Fake thee well ! and if for eser, 

Still for ever, fare thee well : 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain, 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again : 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show ! 

Then thou would'st at last discover 
'Twas not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee — 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Even its praises must offend thee, 
Founded on another's wo — 

Though my many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found, 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound ? 

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 

Love may sink by slow decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away : 

Still thine own its life retaineth — 
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 

Than the wail above the dead ; 
Both shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widow'd bed. 

And when thou would'st solace gather, 
When our child's first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 

When her lip to thine is prest, 
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 

Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more may'st see 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 



All my faults perchance thou knowest, 
All my madness none can know ; 

All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 
Wither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forsakes me now. 

But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
Words from me are vainer still ; 

But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their way without the will. — 

Fare thee well ! — thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, 

More than this I scarce can die. 

March 17, 1816. 



A SKETCH.* 

11 Honest — honest Iago t 
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." 

Shakapt&t. 

Bonx in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 

Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head; 

Next — for some gracious service unexprest, 

And from its wages only to be guess'd — 

Raised from the toilet to the table, — where 

Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. 

With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 

She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 

Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie — 

The genial confidante, and general spy — 

Who could, ye gods ! her next employment guess— 

An only infant's earliest governess ! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 

That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell. 

An adept next in penmanship she grows, 

As many a nameless slander deftly shows : 

What she had made the pupil of her art, 

None know — but that high Soul secured the heart, 

And panted for the truth it could not hear, 

With longing breast and undeluded ear. 

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, 

Which Flattery fool'd not — Baseness could not blind. 

Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 

Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 

Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down 

On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 

Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain— 

Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain — 

Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion bow, 

Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 

Serenely purest of her sex that live, 

But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive, 

Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 

She deems that all could be like her below : 

Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 

For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme ': — now laid aside too long, 
The baleful burden of this honest song — 



' Mrs. Charlraont. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



551 



Though all her former functions are no more, 

She rules the circle which she served before. 

If mothers — none know why — before her quake ; 

If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake ; 

If early habits — those false links, which bind 

At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 

Have given her power too deeply to instil 

The angry essence of her deadly will ; 

If like a snake she steal within your walls, 

Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ; 

If like a viper to the heart she wind, 

And leave the venom there she did not find ; 

What marvel that this hag of hatred works 

Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ? 

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 

With all the kind mendacity of hints, 

While mingling truth with falsehood — sneers with 

smiles — 
A thread of candor with a web of wiles ; 
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, 
To hide her bloodless heart's soul harden'd scheming; 
A lip of lies — a face form'd to conceal ; 
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel : 
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown ; 
A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 
Ooze through her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — 
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
Congenial colors in that soul or face) — 
Look on her features ! and behold her mind 
As in a mirror of itself defined : 
Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 
There is no trait which might not be enlarged : 
Yet true to " Nature's journeymen," who made 
This monster when their mistress left off trade — 
This female dog-star of her little sky, 
Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh ! wretch without a tear — without a thought, 

Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 

The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 

Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now ; 

Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 

And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 

May the strong curse of crush'd affections light 

Back on thy bosom with reflected blight ! 

And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 

As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 

Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 

Black — as thy will for others would create : 

Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 

And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 

Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, — 

The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread ! 

Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with 

prayer, 
Look on thine earthly victims — and despair ! 
Down to the dust ! — and, as thou«rott'st away, 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear, 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high; 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers — 
And festering in the infamy of years. 



TO 



When all around grew drear and dark, 
And reason half withheld her ray— 

And hope but shed a dying spark 
Which more misled my lonely way ; 

In that deep midnight of the mind, 
And that internal strife of heart, 

When dreading to be deem'd too kind, 
The weak despair — the cold depart ; 

When fortune changed — and love fled far, 
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast. 
Thou wert the solitary star 

Which rose and set not to the last. 

« 

Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, 
And stood between me and the night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 

And when the cloud upon us came, 

Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 

Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 
And teach it what to brave or brook— 

There's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, 
That still unbroke, though gently bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

The winds might rend — the skies might poui , 
But there thou wert — and still would'st be 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 

But thou and thine shall know no blight, 

Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
For heaven in sunshine will requite 

The kind — and thee the most of all. 

Then let the tics of baffled love 
Be broken — thine will never break ; 

Thy heart can feel — but will not move ; 
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 

And these, when all was lost beside, 
Were found and still are fix'd in thee— 

And bearing still a breast so tried, 
Earth is no desert — ev'n to me. 



ODE. 



[FROM THE FRENCH.] 
I. 

We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew ; 
There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 
Rising from each gory trunk, 



His sister. Mrs. Leigh. 



£552 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Like the water-spout from ocean, 

With a strong and growing motion — 

It soars, and mingles in the air, 

With that of lost Labedoyere — 

With that of him whose honor'd grave 

Contains the " bravest of the brave." 

A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 

But shall return to whence it rose ; 

When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 

Never yet was heard such thunder 

As then sharl shake the world with wonder-*— 

Never yet was seen such lightning 

As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning ! 

Like the Wormwood Star foretold 

By the sainted Seer of old, 

Show'ring down a fiery flood, 

Turning rivers into blood.* 

II. 

The Chief has fallen, but not by you, 

Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 

When the soldier citizen 

Sway'd not o'er his fellow men — 

Save in deeds that led them on 

Where glory smiled on Freedom's son — 

Who, of all the despot's banded, 

With that youthful chief competed ? 

Who could boast o'er France defeated, 
Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 
Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
The Hero sunk into the King ? 
Then he fell : — So perish all, 
Who would men by man enthral ! 

III. 

And thou too of the snow-white plume ! 
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ;+ 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name ; 
Such as he of Naples wears, 
Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
Little didst thou deem, when dashing 
On thy war-horse through the ranks, 
Like a stream which burst its banks, 
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, 
■Bhone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
Of the fate at last which found thee : 
Was that haughty plume laid low 
By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
Once — as the moon sways o'er the tide, 
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; 
Through the smoke-created night 
Of the black and sulphurous fight, 
The soldier raised his seeking eye 
To catch that crest's ascendancy, — 



«e Rev. chap. viii. verse 7, &c. " The first angel sounded, and there 
**e ed hail and fire mingled with blood,'* &c. 

*.■ .se S. "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain 
*»nn «ig with fixe was cast into the sea ; and the third part of the sea became 

V-rse 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from 
lear-Jn, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon the third part of the 
Pivett, and apon the fountains of waters." 

Verse 11. "And the name of the star is called Wormwood : and the third 
part of the waters became wormwood ; and many men died of the waters, 
because they were made bitter." 

t Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt. 



And, as it onward rolling rose, 

So moved his heart upon our foes, 

There, where death's brief pang was quickest, 

And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 

Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crests — 
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her, 

IV/m could then her wing arrest — 

Victory beaming from her breast :) 
While the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
There be sure was Murat charging ! 

There he ne'er shall charge again ' 

IV. 
O'er glories gone the invaders march, 
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch- 
But let Freedom rejoice, 
With her heart in her voice ; 
But, her hand on her sword, 
Doubly shall she be adored; 
France has twice too well been taught 
The "moral lesson" dearly bought — 
Her safety sits not on a throne, 
With Capet or Napoleon ! 
But in equal rights and laws, 
Hearts and hands in one great cause — 
Freedom, such as God hath given 
Unto all beneath his heaven, 
With their breath, and from their birth, 
Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth ; 
With a fierce and lavish hand 
Scattering nations' wealth like sand ; 
Pouring nations' blood like water, 
In imperial seas of slaughter ! 

V. 

But the heart and the mind, 
And the voice of mankind, 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud union ? 
The time is past when swords subdued — 
Man may die — the soul's renew'd: 
v Even in this low world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir ; 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her for ever bounding spirit — 
When once more her hosts assemble, 
Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
Smile they at this idle threat ? 
Crimson tears will follow yet. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

' ALL WEPT, BUT PARTICULARLY SAVARY, AND A 
POLISH OFFICER WHO HAD BEEN EXALTED FROM 
THE RANKS BY BONAPARTE. HE CLUNG TO HIS 
MASTER'S KNEES ; WROTE A LETTER TO LORD 
KEITH, ENTREATING PERMISSION TO ACCOMPANY 
HIM, IN THE MOST MENIAL CAPACITY, WHICH 
COULD NOT BE ADMITTED." 

Must thou go, my glorious Chief, 

Sever'd from thy faithful few ? 
Who can tell thy warrior's grief, 

Maddening o'er that long adieu ? 









MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



55 c < 



Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 
Dear as both has been to me — 

What are they to all I feel, 
With a soldier's faith for thee ? 

Idol of the soldier's soul ! 

First in fight, but mightiest now : 
Many could a world control ; 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 
By thy side for years I dared 

Death ; and envied those who fell, 
When their dying shout was heard, 

Blessing him they served so well.* 

Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to see; 
When the doubts of coward foes, 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 
Dreading each should set thee free ! 

Oh ! although in dungeons pent, 
All their chains were light to me, 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 

Would the sycophants of him, 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
Were his borrow'd glories dim, 

In his native darkness share ? 
Were that world this hour his own, 

All thou calmly dost resign, 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thine ? 

4 
My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 

Never did I droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue, 

As his foes I now implore : 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave : 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 



ON THE STAB. OF "THE LEGION OF 
HONOR." 

[from the frexch.] 

Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed 

Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 

Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 

Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,— 

Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 

Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
Eternity fiash'd through thy blaze ; 
The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honor here, 
And thy light broke on human eyes, 
Like a Volcano of the skies. 



• At Waterloo one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a can- 
non ball, to wrench it off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, ex- 
claimed to his comrades ' Vive 1'Empereur, jusqu'a la mort ! ' There were 
many other instances of the like ; this you may, however, depend on as 
true." — A Private Letter from Brussels. 

70 



Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood, 
And swept down empire* with its flood ; 
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
As thou didst lighten through all space ; 
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 

A rainbow of the loveliest hue, 

Of three bright colors,* each divine, 

And fit for that celestial sign ; 

For Freedom's hand had bknded them, 

Like tints in an immortal gem. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes ; 
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light : 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free ! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead ; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her array ; 
And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be 
For evermore with them or thee ! 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 

[FROM THE FRENCH.] 

Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my 

Glory 

Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 
She abandons me now — but the page of her story, 
The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. 
I have warr'd with a word which vanquished me only 
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; 
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus 

lonely, 
The last single Captive to millions in war. 

Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown i 

me, 

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found 

thee, 

Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 
Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 
In strife with the storm, when their battles were 

won — 
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was 

blasted, 
Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ! 



554 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Farewell to thee, Fiance ! — but when Liberty rallies 
Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again — 
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 
There are links which must break in the chain that 

has bound us, 
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice. 



WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF "THE 
PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 

Absent or present, still to thee, 

My friend, what magic spells belong ! 
As all can tell, who share, like me, 

In turn thy converse, and thy song. 
But when the dreaded hour shall come 

By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, 
And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb 

Shall weep that aught of thee can die, 
How fondly will she then repay 

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, 
And blend, while ages roll away, 

Her name immortally with thine ! 

April 19th, 1812. 



SONNET. 

Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and de Stafil — 
*Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore, 
Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou no more, 

Their memory thy remembrance would recall ; 

To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 

Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
Where dwelt the wise and wond'rous ; but by thee 

How much more, Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 

The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 
Which of the heirs of immortality 

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 



STANZAS TO 



•t 



Though the day of my destiny's over, 

And the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 

It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit hath painted, 

It never hath found but in thee. 



* Geneva, Ferner, Coppet, Lausanne, 
f His sisler, Mis. Leigh. 



Then when nature around me is smiling, 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion, 

It is that they bear me from thee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn—* 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 

'Tis of thee that I think — not of them. 

Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,— 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 

Though parted, it was not to fly, 
Though watchful, it was not to defame me, 

Nor mute, that the world might belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 
Nor the war of the many with one — 

If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 
• 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 

And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
And more than I once could foresee, 

I have found that, whatever it lost me, 
It could not deprive me of thee. 

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish' d, 

Thus much I at least may recall, 
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wide waste there still is a tree, 
And a bird in the solitude singing, 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 



DARKNESS. 

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. 

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 

Morn came, and went — and came, and brought nc 

day, 
And men forgot their passions in the dread 
Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light : 
And they did live by watch-fires — and the thrones, 
The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
The habitations of all things which dwell, 
Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



555 



To look once more into each other's face : 

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 

Of, the volcanos, and their mountain-torch : 

A fearful hope was all the world contain' d ; 

Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 

Tley fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 

Extinguished with a crash — and all was black. 

The brows of men by the despairing light 

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 

The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 

And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled, 

And others hurried to and fro, and fed 

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 

With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 

The pall of a past world ; and then again 

With curses cast them down upon the dust, 

And guash'd their teeth and howled : the wild birds 

shriek 'd, 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
And War, which for a moment was no more, 
Did glut himself again ; — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
All earth was but one thought — andithat was death, 
Immediate and inglorious ; and fce pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the drooping dead 
Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
Of an enormous city did survive, 
And they were enemies ; they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place 
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 
Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, 
The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
Scasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 
A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still. 
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd 
They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, 
The moon, their mistress, had expired before; 
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, 
And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no need 
Of aid from them — She was the universe. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 

A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. 

I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 

The comet of a season, and I saw 

The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 

On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 

With name no clearer than the names unknown, 

Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 

The Gardener of that ground, why it might be 

That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 

Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 

And thus he answer'd — " Well, I do no* know 

Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 

He died before my day of Sextonship, 

And I had not the digging of this grave ' 

And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of Immortality ? and crave 

I know not what of honor and of light 

Through unborn ages, to endure this blight i 

So soon and so successless ? As I said, 

The Architect of all on which we tread, 

For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 

To extricate remembrance from the clay, 

Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought 

Were it not that all life must end in one, 

Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 

As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 

Thus spoke he, — " I believe the man of whom 

You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 

Was a most famous writer in his day, 

And therefore travellers step from out their way 

To pay him honor,-^and myself whate'er 

Your honor pleases," — then most pleased I shook 

From out my pocket's avaricious nook 

Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 

Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 

So much but inconveniently ; — Ye smile, 

I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, 

Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 

You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 

With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, 

On that Old Sexton's natural homily, 

In which there was Obscurity and Fame, 

The Glory and the Nothing of a NameJ# 



PROMETHEUS. 

I. 

Titian ! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality, 

Seen in their sad reality, 
Were not as things that gods despise ; 
What was thy pity's recompense ? 
A silent suffering, and intense ; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show, 
The suffocating sense of wo, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is echoless. 



556 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



II. 



Titian ! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will, 
Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
And the inexorable Heaven, 
And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
The ruling principle of Hate, 
Which for its pleasure doth create 
The things it may annihilate, 
Refused thee even the boon to die : 
The wretched gift eternity 
Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee, 
Was but the menace which flung back 
On him the torments of thy rack ; 
The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
But would not to appease him tell ; 
And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
And in his Soul a vain repentance, 
And evil dread so ill dissembled 
That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 

III. 

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness, 
And strengthen man with his own mind; 
But baffled as thou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy, 
In the endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 
A mighty lesson we inherit : 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To mortals of their fate and force ; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
And his sad unallied existence : 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — an equal to all woes, 

And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concenter'd recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy, 
And making Death a Victory. 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 

Father of Light ! great God of Heaven ! 

Hear'st thou the accents of despair ? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer ? 

Father of Light, on thee I call ! 

Thou see'st my soul is dark within ; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 

No shrine I seek to sects unknown ; 

Oh point to me the path of truth ! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 



Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, 

Let superstition hail the pile, 
Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 

With tales of mystic rites beguile. 

Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone ? 

Thy temple is the face of day ; 
Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne. 

Shall man condemn his race to hell 
Unless they bend in pompous form ; 

Tell us that all, for one who fell, 
Must perish in the mingling storm ? 

Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 

Yet doom his brother to expire, 
Whose soul a different hope supplies, 

Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, 

Prepare a fancied bliss or wo ? 
Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground, 

Their great Creator's purpose know ? 

Shall those, who live for self alone, 
Whose years float on in daily crime — 

Shall they by Faith for guilt atone, 
And live beythid the bounds of Time ? 

Father ! no prophet's laws I seek, — 
Thy laws in Nature's works appear ; — 

I own myself corrupt and weak, 
Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear ! 

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 
Through trackless realms of ether's space ; 

Who calm'st the elemental war, 
AVhose hand from pole to pole I trace : — 

Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 
'Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, 

Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 
Extend to me thy wide defence. 

To Thee, my God, to Thee I call ! 

Whatever weal or wo betide, 
By thy command I rise or full, 

In thy protection I confide. 

If, when this dust to dust restored, 

My soul shall float on airy wing, 
How shall thy glorious name adored 

Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 

But, if this fleeting spirit share 
With clay the grave's eternal bed, 

While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, 
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 

To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 
Grateful for all thy mercies past, 

And hope, my God, to thee again 
This erring life may fly at last. 

2S//« Dec. 1806. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 557 

ROMANCE MUY DOLOItOSO A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD 



DEL 
SITIO T TOMA DE ALHAMA. 

El aual dezia en Aravigo assi. 

Passeavase el Rey Moro 
Por la ciudad de Granada, 
Desde las puertas de Elvira 
Hasta las de Bivarambla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Cartas le fueron venidas 
Que Alhama era ganada. 
Las cartas echo en el fuego, 

Y ai mensagero matava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Descavalga de una mula, 

Y en un cavallo cavalga. 
Por el Zacatin arriba 
Subido se avia al Alhambra. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Como en el Alhambra estuvo, 
Al mismo punto mandava 
Que se toquen las trompetas 
Con anafiles de plata. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Y que atambores de guerra 
Apriessa toquen alarma ; 
Por que lo oygan sus Moros, 
Los de la Vega y Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Los Moros que el son oyeron, 
Que al sangriento Marte llama, 
Uno a uno, y dos a dos, 
Un gran esquadron formavan. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Alii hablo un Moro viejo ; 
Desta manera hablava : — 
Para que nos llamas, Rey ? 
Para que es este Uamada ? 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Aveys de saber, amigos, 
Una nueva desdichada : 
Que Christianos, con braveza, 
Ya nos han tornado Alhama. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Alii hablo un viejo Alfaqui, 
De barba crecida y cana : — 
Bien se te emplea, buen Rey, 
Buen Rey ; bien se te empleava. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Mataste los Bencerrages, 
Que era la flor de Granada ; 
Cogiste los tornadizos 
De Cordova la nombrada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



ox the siege and conquest op alhama, 

Winch, in Vie Arabic language, is to the following purport : 

[The effect of the original lallad (which existed both in Spanish and Ara- 
bic) was such that it was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on pain ot 
death, within Granada.] 

The Moorish King rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell ; 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
And through the street directs his course 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

When the Alhambra walls he gain'd. 
On the moment he ordain'd 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain, 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Then the Moors by this awaro* 
That bloody Mars recall'd them there, 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
" Wherefore call on us, oh King ? 
What may mean this gathering ? " 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 
• 
" Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow, 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." 

Wo, is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see, 
" Good King ! thou art justly served, 
Good King ! this thou hast deserved. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the Chivalry. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 



558 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Por esso mereces, Rev, 
Una pene bien doblada; 
Que te pierdas tu y el reyno, 

Y que se pierda Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Si no se respetan leyes, 
Es ley que todo se pierda ; 

Y que se pierda Granada, 

Y que te pierdas en ella. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Fuego por los ojos vierte, 
El Rey que esto oyera. 

Y como el otro de leyes 
De leyes tambien hablava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes 
De darle a Reyes disgusto. — 
Esso dize el Rey Moro 
Relinchando de colera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
El de la velida barba, 
El Rey te manda premier, 
Por la perdida de Alhama. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Y cortarte la cabeza, 

Y ponerla en el Alhambra, 
Por que a ti castigo sea, 

Y otros tiemblen en miralla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Cavelleros, hombrcs buenos, 
Dezid de mi parte al Rey, 
Al Rey Moro de Granada, 
Como no le devo nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

De averse Alhama perdido 
A mi me pesa en el alma. 
Que si el Rey perdio su tierra, 
Otrb mucho mas perdiera. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Perdieran hijos padres, 

Y casados las casadas : 
Las cosas que mas amara 
Perdio 1' un y el otro fama. 

Ay de mi, Alhanaa ! 

Perdi una hija donzella 
Que era la flor d' esta tierra, 
Cien doblas dava por ella, 
No rne las estimo en nada. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui, 
Le cotaron la cabeca, 

Y la elevan al Alhambra, 
Assi come el Rey lo manda. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



" And for this, oh King, is sent 
On thee a double chastisement : 
Thee and thine, thy -crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be won, 
And thyself with her undone." 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes, 
The Monarch's wrath began to rise, 
Because he answer'd, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings : " — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be, 
The King hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Albania's loss displeased. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law, 
And others tremble when they saw. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth ; 
Let the Moorish Monarch know, 
That to him I nothing owe ; 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

"But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the King his land hath lost, 
Yet Others may have lost the most. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" I lost a damsel in that hour, 
Of all the land the loveliest flower ; p 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 
And think her ransom cheap that day." 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And as these things the old Moor said, 
They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
'Twas carried, as the King decreed 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



559 



Hombres, nifios y mugeres, 
Lloran tan grande perdida. 
Lloravan todas las damas 
Quantas en Granada avia. 

Ay de mi, Alliama ! 

Por las calles y ventanas 
Mucho luto parecia ; 
Llora el Rey como fembra, 
Qu' es mucho lo que perdia. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



SONETTO DI VITTORELLI. 

PER MOX.VC.V. 

Sounetto composto in nome di un genitor*, a cui era morta poco innann ana 
figlia appena marilata ; e diretto al genitore della sacra sposa. 

Di due vague ddnzelle, oneste, accorte 

Lieti miseri padri il ciel ne feo, 

II ciel, die degne di piii nobil sorte 

L' una e 1' altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo. 
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte 

A le fumanti tede d' imeneo ; 

La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte 

Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo. 
Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa 

Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde, 

La sua tenera udir voce pietosa. 
Io verso un flume d' amarissim' onda, 

Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa, 

Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde. 



And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep • 
Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls ; 
The king weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 



TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI. 

ON A NUN. 

I 

Sonnet composed in the name of a father whose daughter had recently died 
shortly after her marriage ; and addressed to the father of her who had 
lately taken the veil. 

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, 

Heaven made us happy ; and now, wretched sires, 
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, 
And gazing upon either, both required. 

Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 
Becomes extinguish'd, soon — too soon — expires : 
But thine, within the closing grate retired, 
Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 

But thou at least from out the jealous door, 
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, 
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more : 

I to the marble where my daughter lies, 
Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, [p'ies. 
And knock, and knock, and knock — but none re- 



TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE. 

[the following lines are the earliest writ- 
ten BY LORD BYRON. THEY WERE ADDRESSED 
TO MISS CHA WORTH, AFTERWARDS MRS. MUSTERS, 
IN 1894, ABOUT A YEAR BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.] 

Adieu to sweet Mary for ever ! 

From her I must quickly depart ; 
Though the fates us from each other sever, 

Still her image will dwell in my heart. 

The flame tha* within my heart burns 
If unlike what in lovers' hearts glows ; 

The love which for Mary I feel I 
Is far purer then Cupid bestows. 

I wish not your peace to disturb, 

I wish not your joys to molest ; 
Mistake not my passion for love, 

'Tis your friendship alone I request. 

Not ten thousand lovers could feel 
The friendship my bosom contains ; 

It will ever within my heart dwell, 

While the warm blood flows through my veins. 



May the Ruler of Heaven look down, 
And my Mary from evil defend ! 

May she ne'er know adversity's frown, 
May her happiness ne'er have an end ! 

Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu ! 

Farewell ! I with anguish repeat, 
For ever I'll think upon you * 

While this heart in my bosom shall beat. 



TO MISS CHAWORTH. 

Oh Memory, torture me no more, 

The present's all o'ercast ; 
My hopes of future bliss are o'er, 

In mercy veil the past. 

What bring those images to view 

I henceforth must resign ? 
Ah ! why those happy hours renew, 

That never can be mine ? 

Past pleasure doubles present pain, 

To sorrow adds regret, 
Regret and hope are both in vain, 

'I ask but to— forcet. 1804. 



560 



FRAGMENT. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

L'AMITIE EST L' AMOUR SANS AILES 



Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren, 
Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, 

How the northern tempests, warring, 
Howl above thy tufted shade ! 

Now no more, the hours beguiling, 

Former favorite haunts I see ; 
Now no more my Mary smilyig 

Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 1805. 



FRAGMENT. 

[When Lord Byron first went to Newstead on his arrival from Aberdeen, 
lie planted a young oak in some part of the grounds, and had an idea that 
as it flourished, so should he. Some six or seven years after, on revisiting 
the spot, he found his oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed. The 
following opening lines are a specimen of the poem lie wrote on the occasion.] 

Young Oak, when I planted thee deep in the 
ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 
That thy dark-waving branches would nourish 
around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with 
pride ; 
They are past, and I water the stem with my 

tears, 

Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can 
hide. 

I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire, &c. 



ON REVISITING HARROW. 

[Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a 
particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memo- 
rial. Afterwards, ou receiving some real or imagined injury, the author 
destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 
1807, he wrote under it the following stanzas.] 

Here once engaged the stranger's view 
Young Friendship's record simply traced ; 

Few were her words, — but yet though few, 
Resentment's hand the line defaced. 

Deeply she cut — but, not erased, 
The characters were still so plain, 

That Friendship once return'd, and gazed, — 
Till Memory hail'd the words again. 

Repentance placed them as before ; 

Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; 
So fair the inscription seem'd once more, 

That Friendship thought it still the same. 

Thus might the Record now have been ; 

But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavor, 
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, 

And blotted out the line for ever ! 



Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled ? 
Days of delight may still be mine ; 

Affection is not dead. 
In tracing back the years of youth, 
One firm record, one lasting truth 

Celestial consolation brings ; 
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, 
Where first my heTtrt reponsive beat, — 

"Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Through few, but deeply checker'd years, 

What moments have been mine ! 
Now, half obscured by clouds of tears, 

Now, bright in rays divine ; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast, 
My soul, enraptured with the past, 

To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendship ! that thought is all thine own, 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale, 
Unheeded heaves a simple grave, 

Which tells the common tale ; 
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 
Till the dull knell of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rings ; 
But here whene'er my footsteps move, 
My silent tears too plainly prove, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Oh Love ! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, 

But these are now decay'd ; 
For thine are pinions like the wind, 
No trace of thee remains behind, 

Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 
Away, away ! delusive power, 
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour ; 

" Unless, indeed, without thy wings ! " 

Scat of my youth ! thy distant sp ; re 

Recalls each scene of joy ; 
My bosom glows with former fire, — 

In mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
Thy every path delights me still, 

Each flower a double fragrance flings ; 
Again, as once, in converse gay, 
Each dear associate seems to say 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

My Lycus ! wherefore dost thou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But oh, 'twill wake again. 
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, 
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rapture springs ; 
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



561 



In one, and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn ? 
No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wretch to scorn. 
I turn'd to those my childhood knew, 
"With feelings warm, with bosoms true, 

Twined with my heart's according strings ; 
And till those vital chords shall break, 
For none but these my breast shall wake, 

" Friendship, the power deprived of wings ! " 

Ye few ! my soul, my life is yours, 

My memory and my hope ; 
Your worth a lasting love ensures, 

Unfetter'd in its scope ; 
From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, 

Let Adulation wait on kings. 
With joy elate, by snares beset, 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Who rolls the epic song ; 
Friendship and Truth be my reward, 

To me no bays belong ; 
If laurell'd fame but dwells with lies, 
Me the enchantress ever flies, 

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings ; 
Simple and young, I dare not feign, 
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain 

"Friendship is love without his wings ! " 

December, 1806. 



TO MY SON.* 

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 
Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
And smiie to steal the heart away, 
Recall a scene of former joy, 
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy ! 

And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
Ah, William, were thine own the same,- 
No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
My care for the£ shall purchase peace ; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
And pardon all the past, my Boy ! 



Her lowly grave the turf has press'd, 
And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 
Derision sneers upon thy birth, 
And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 
Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — 
A father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 

Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown ? 
Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy— 
A father guards thy birth, my Boy ! 

Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother and a son ; 
Andfcll my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy ! 

Although so young thy heedless sire, 
Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
And, wert thou still less dear to me, 
While Helen's form revives in thee, 
The breast, which beat to former joy, 
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ! 



EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, 
SOUTHWELL, 



OF 



A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS 

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell 
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well ; 
He carried so much, and he carried so fast, 
He could cany no mure — so was carried at last ; 
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one, 
He could not carry off, — so he's now carri-on. 

Sept. 1807. 



* "The only circumstance I know, that bears even remotely on the subject 
of this poem, is the following. About a year or two before the date affixed to 
it, he wrote to his mother, from Harrow, (as I have been told by a person, to 
whom Mrs. Byron herself communicated the circumstance,) to say, that he 
had lately a good deal of uneasiness on account of a young woman, whom 
he knew to have been a favorite of his latj friend, Curzon, and who, finding 
herself after his death in a state of progress towards maternity, had declared 
Lord Byron was the father of hpr child. This, he positively assured his 
mother was not the case ; but believing, as he did firmly, that the child 
belonged to Curzon, it was his wish that it should be brought up with all pos- 
sible care, and he therefore entreated that his mother would have the kindness 
to take charge of it. Though such a request might well (as my informant 
expresses it) have discomposed a temper more mild than Mrs. Byron's, she 
notwithstanding answered her son in the kindest terms, saying that she 
would willingly receive the child as soon as it was born, and bring it up in 
whatever manner he desired. Happily, however, the infant died almost 
i thus snared the being a lax on the good nature of any 



immediately, and i 
body. — Moore. 



71 



FRAGMENT. 

[The following lines form the conclusion of a poem written by Lord Byroa 
under the melancholy impression that he should soon die.] 

Forget this world, my restless sprite, 
Turn, turn thy thoughts to heaven : 

There must thou soon direct thy flight, 
If errors are forgiven. 

To bigots and to sects unknown, 

Bow down beneath th' Almighty Throne, — 
* To him address thy trembling prayer, 

He, who is merciful and just, 

Will not reject a child of dust, 
Although his meanest care. 

Father of light ! to thee I call, 

My soul is dark within ; 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall, 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star. 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 



562 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 
And, since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 1807- 



* TO MRS. * * *, 

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOE. QUITTING ENG- 
LAND IN THE SPRING. 

When man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
A moment linger'd near the gate, 

Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, 
And bade him curse his future fate. 

But, wandering on through distant climes, 
He learnt to bear his load of grief ; • 

Just gave a sigh to other times, 
And found in busier scenes relief. 

Thus, Mary, will it be with me, 

And I must view thy charms no more ; 

For, while I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise, 

Escaping from temptation's snare ; 

I cannot view my paradise 

Without the wish of dwelling there.-f 

Dec. 2, 1808. 



A LOVE-SONG. 



******* 



Remind me not, remind me not, 

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours 
When all my soul was given to thee; 
Hours that may never be forgot, 
Till time unnerves our vital powers, 
And thou and I shall cease to be. 

Can I forget — canst thou forget, 

When playing with thy golden hair, 

How quick thy fluttering heart did move ? 
Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet, 
With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
And lips, though silent, breathing lore. 

When thus reclining on my breast, 

Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
As half reproach'd yet raised desire, 
And still we near and nearer prest, 
And still our glowing lips would meet, 
As if in kisses to expire. 

And then those pensive eyes would close, 
And bid their lids each other seek, 
Veiling the azure orbs below ; 
While their long lashes' darkening gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow. 



• This and the five following poems were first published in Hobl 
Miscellany. 

t In Ihe original this line stands, " Without a wish to enter there." 
reading given above is from a MS. correction by Lord Byron. 



I dreamt last night our love return'd, 
And, sooth to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its phantasy 
Than if for other hearts I burn'd, 
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not, 

Of hours which, though for ever gone, 
Can still a pleasing dream restore, 
Till thou and I shall be forgot, 

And senseless as the mouldering stone 
Which tells that we shall be no more. 



STANZAS 



******* 



There was a time, I need not name, 

Since it will ne'er forgotten be, 
When all our feelings were the same 

As still my soul hath been to thee. 

And from that hour when first thy tongue 
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine, 

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
"Unknown and thus unfelt by thine, 

None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
To think how all that love hath flown ; 

Transient as every faithless kiss, 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew, 
"When late I heard thy lips declare, 

In accents once imagined true, 
Remembrance of the days that were. 

Yes ! my adored, yet most unkind ! 

Though thou wilt never love again, 
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes ! 'tis a glorious thought to me, 
Nor longer shall my soul repine, 

Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be, 
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine ! 



TO THE SAME. 

And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again : 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 
My blood runs coldly through my breast ; 

And when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine ; 

And for awhile my sorrows cease, 
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



563 



Oh lady ! blessed be that tear — 
It falls for one that cannot weep : 

Such precious drops are doubly dear 
To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine ; 

But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



SONG. 



Fill the goblet again, for I never before 

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its 

core; 
Let us drink ! — who would not ? — since, through 

life's varied round, 
In the goblet alone no deception is fond. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 
I have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling eye ; 
I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can 

declare 
That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its 

spring, 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had friends ! — who has not ? — but what tongue will 

avow, 
That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never 

canst change : 
Thou grow'st old — who does not ? — but on earth 

what appears, 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its 

years ? 

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 

Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 

We are jealous ! — who's not ? — thou hast no such 

alloy 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last : 
Then we find- — do we not ? — in the flow of the soul, 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left, was she not ? — but the goblet we kiss, 
And care not for hope, who are certain of bliss. 

Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown, 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own ; 
We must die — who shall not ? — May our sins be for- 
given, 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 



STANZAS. 



TO * * *, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. 

'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
The bark mifurls her snowy sail ; 
And, whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast ; 
And I must from this land be gone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be what I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen — 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blest, 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
And I have striven, but in vain, 
Never to think of it again ; 
For though I fly from Albion , 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate, 
My weary heart is desolate ; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile or welcome face, 
And even in crowds am still alone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam, 
And I will seek a foreign home ; 
Till I forget a false fair face, 
I ne'er shall find a resting-place ; 
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
But ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds some hospitable hearth, 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or sooth in wo ; 
But friend or leman I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee, 
There's not an eye will weep for me ; 
There's not a kind congenial heart, 
Where I can claim the meanest part ; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene, 

Of what we are, and what we've been, 

Would whelm some softer hearts with wo — 

But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ; 

Yet still beats, on as it begun, 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear loved one may be 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see, 
And why that early love was crost, 
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most ; 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 



564 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I've tried another's fetters too, 
With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
And I would fain have loved as well, 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'Twould soothe to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last adieu; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.* 



LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 

Huzza ! Hodgson, we are going, 

Our embargo's off at last ; 
Favorable breezes blowing 

Bend the canvas o'er the mast. 
From aloft the signal's streaming, 
Hark ! the farewell gun is fired ; 
Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
Tell us that our time's expired. 
Here's a rascal 
Come to task all, 
Prying from the custom-house ; 
Trunks unpacking, 
Cases cracking, 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, 
Ere we sail on board the Packet. 

Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 

And all hands must ply the oar ; 
Baggage from the quay is lowering, 

We're impatient — push from shore. 
" Have a care ! that case holds liquor — 
Stop the boat — I'm sick — oh Lord ! " 
" Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker 
Ere you've been an hour on board." 
Thus are screaming 
Men and women, 
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks ; 
Here entangling, 
All are wrangling, 
Stuck together close as wax. — 
Such the general noise and racket, 
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 

Now we've reach'd her, lo ! the captain, 

Gallant Kid, commands the crew ; 
Passengers their births are clapt in, 

Some to grumble, some to spew. 
" Hey day ! call you that a cabin ? 

Why, 'tis hardly three feet square ; 
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — 

Who the deuce can harbor there ? " 
" Who, sir ? plenty — 
Nobles twenty 



• Thus corrected by himself in 
King, originally, as follows : — 



l copy of the Miscellany — the two last lines 



" Though wheresoe'er my bark may run, 
1 love but thee, 1 love but one." 



Did at once my vessel fill." — 

" Did they ? Jesus, 

How you squeeze us ! 

Would to God they did so still : 

Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket 

Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 



Fletcher ! Murray ! Bob ! where are you ? 

Stretch'd along the deck like logs — 
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! 

Here's a rope's end for the dogs. 
Hobhouse, muttering fearful curses, 

As the hatchway down he rolls, 
Now his breakfast, now his verses, 
Vomits forth — and damns our souls 
" Here's a stanza 
On Braganza — 
Help ! " — " a couplet ? " — " No, a cup 
Of warm water — " 
" What's the matter ? " 
" Zounds ! my liver's coming up ; 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 



Now at length we're off for Turkey, 

Lord knows when we shall come back ! 
Breezes foul and tempests murky 

May imship us in a crack. 
But, since life at most a jest is, 

As philosophers allow, 
Still to laugh by far the best is, 
Then laugh on — as I do now. 
Laugh at all things, 
Great and small things, 
Sick or well, at sea or shore; 
While we're quaffing, 
Let's have laughing — 
Who the devil cares for more ? — 
Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
Even on board the Lisbon Packet ? 

Falmouth Roads, June 30th, -1809. 



LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT 
ORCHOMENUS. 

IX THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER. HAD "WRITTEN : — 

"Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace the birth and nursery of art : 
Noble his object, glorious is his aim : 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 



BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE 
FOLLOWING REPLY: — 

The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse, 
His name would bring more credit than his verse. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



565 



ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE. 

A EARCICAL EPIGRAM 

Good plays are scarce, 

So Moore writes farce : 
The poet's fame grows brittle — 

We knew before 

That Little's Moore, 
But now 'tis Moore that's Little. 

Sept. 14, 1811. 



EPISTLE TO MR. HODGSON, 

tN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING HIM TO BE 
CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH CARE." 

" Oh ! banish care " — such ever be 
The motto of thy revelry ! 
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
Renew those riotous delights, 
Wherewith the children of Despair 
Lull the lone heart, and " banish care." 
But not in morn's reflecting hour, 
When present, past, and future lower, 
When all I loved is changed or gone, 
Mock with such taunts the woes of one, 
Whose every thought — but let them pass — 
Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
By all the powers that men revere, 
By all unto thy bosom dear, 
Thy joys below, thy hopes above, 
Speak — speak of any thing but love. 

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear, 
The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
And there is little in that tale 
Which better bosoms would bewail. 
But mine has suffer'd more than well 
'Twould suit philosophy to tell. 
I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Have seen her seated by his side, — 
Have seen the infant, which she bore, 
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, 
When she and I in youth have smiled 
As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
Ask if I felt no secret pain, 
And / have acted well my part, 
And made my cheek belie my heart, 
Return'd the freezing glance she gave, 
Yet felt the while that woman's slave ; — 
Have kiss'd, as if without design, 
The babe which ought to have been mine, 
And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
Time had not made me love the less. 

But let this pass — I'll whine no more, 
Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
The world befits a busy brain, — 
I'll hie me to its haunts again. 
But if, in some succeeding year, 
When Britain's " May is in the sere," 
Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes 
Suit with the sablest of the times, 



Of one, whom love nor pity sways, 
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, 
One, who in stern ambition's pride, 
Perchance not blood shall turn aside, 
One rank'd in some recording page 
With the worst anarchs of the age, 
Him wilt thou knoio — and knowing pause, 
Nor with the effect forget the cause. 

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11th, 1811 



ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 

DEDICATED TO MR. ROGERS. 

When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, 

(I hope I am not violent,) 

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise — 
To common sense his thoughts could raise- 
Why would they let him print his lays ? 



To me, divine Apollo, grant — O ! 
Hermilda's first and second canto, 
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 

And thus to furnish decent lining, 

My own and others' bays I'm twining — 

So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 

May, 1813. 



TO LORD THURLOW. 

" I lay my branch of laurel down, 
Then thus to form Apollo's crown, 
Let every other bring his own." 

Lord Tlturlow's Lines to Mr. Rogers. 

" I lay my branch of laurel down." 
Thou " lay thy branch of law-el down ! " 

Why, what thou'st stole is not enow ; 
And, were it lawfully thine own, 

Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough, 

Or send it back to Doctor Donne — 
Were justice done to both, I trow, 

He'd have but little, and thou — none. 

" Then thus to form Apollo's crown." 
A crown ! why, twist it how you will, 
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
When next you visit Delphi's town, 

Inquire among your fellow-lodgers, 
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown, 

Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 

"Let every other briny his oivn." 
When coals to Newcastle are carried, 

And owls sent to Athens as wonders, 
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried, 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, 

When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, 
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, 

And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 



566 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 



WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT, IN COM- 
PANY "WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIGH HUNT 
IN HORSEMONGER-LANE JAIL, MAY 19, 1813. 

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, — 
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, 
four Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post 



But now to my letter — to yours 'tis an answer — 
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, 
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice 
May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 
I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some 

codgers, 
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers ; 
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, 
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote, 
But to-morrow, at four, we wMl both play the Scurra, 
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO 
THOMAS MOORE. 

* What say I? " — not a syllable further in prose ; 
I'm your man " of all measures," dear Tom, — so 

here goes ! 
Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, 
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. 
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in 

the flood, 
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, 
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, 
And Southey's last Paean has pillow'd his sleep ; — 
That "Felo de se," who, half drunk with his 

malmsey, 
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, 
Singing " Glory to God " in a spick and span stanza, 
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never 

man saw. 

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, 
The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes, — 
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het- 

man, — 
And what dignity decks the flat face of the great 

man. 
I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — 
For a prince, his demeanor was rather too hearty. 
You know, we are used to quite different graces, 



The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and 

brisker, 
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker ; 
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey- 
-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the 

Jersey, 
Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
With majesty's presence as those she invited. 
******* 

June, 1814. 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE. 

[Of lliis 6trange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred and filly 
lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, 1 bebere, ever wrote, he presented lo 
Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigor and imagination, it u 
for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and condei* 
bation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge which Lord Byron, adopting 
a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson. There are, 
however, some of the stanzas of "The Devil's Drive " well worth pre- 
serving.] — Moore. 

The Devil return'd to hell by two, 

And he staid at home till five ; 
When he dined on some homicides done in ragout, 

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, 
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew, 
And bethought himself what next to do, 

" And," quoth he, " I'll take a drive, 
I walk'd iu the morning, I'll ride to-night : 
In darkness my children take most delight, 

And I'll see how my favorites thrive. 

" And what shall I ride in ? " quoth Lucifer then — 

"If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men, 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will be furnish'd again and again, 

And at present my purpose is speed ; 
To see my manor as much as I may, 
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 

" I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A chariot in Seymour Place ; 
But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends 

By driving my favorite pace : 
And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
I have something for both at the end of their race. 

" So now for the earth to take my chance." < 

Then up to the earth sprung he ; 
And making a jump from Moscow to France, 

He stepp'd across the sea, 
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road, 
No very great way from a bishop's abode. 

But first as he flew, I forgot to say, 
That he hover'd a moment upon his way 

To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, 
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair, 

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain ; 
And he gazed with delight from its growing height, 
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, 

Nor his work done half as well : 
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, 

That it blushed like the waves of hell ! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he ; 

Methinks thev have here little need of -me!'' 



But the softest note that soothed his ear 

Was the sound of a widow sighing : 
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, 
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying — 
As round her fell her long fair hair ; 
And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air, 
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there ! 
And, streteh'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut, 
With his hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



567 



A child >f famine dying ; 
And the c -image begun when resistance is done, 
And the fall of the vainly flying ! 



But the Devil has reach'd Our cliffs so white, 

And what did he there, I pray ? 
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 

What we see every day : 
But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal, 
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Roto, 
Who bid pretty well— but they cheated him, though. 

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, 

Its coachman and his coat ; 
So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail, 

And seized him by the throat : 
"Aha," quoth he, " what have we here ? 
•Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer ! " 

So he sat him on his box again, 

And bade him have no fear, 
But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein, 

His brothel, and his beer ; 
"Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 

I would rather see him here." 



The Devil gat next to Westminster, 

And he turn'd " to the room " of the Commons ; 
But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, 

That " the Lords " had received a summons ; 
And he thought as a " quondam aristocrat," 
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them 

were flat ; 
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, 
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, 
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, 

And Johnny of Norfolk— a man of some size- 
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy ; 

And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
Because the Catholics would not rise, 
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies ; 

And he heard— which set Satan himself a staring— 

A certain chief justice say something like swearing. 

And the Devil was shock'd— and quoth he, "I 
must go, 

For I find we have much better manners below. 

If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 

I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order." 
December, 1813. 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

Lines composed on the occasion of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent 
being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VUl. and Charles I. in 
the royal vault at Windsor. 

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, 
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies ; 
Between them stands another sceptered thing- 
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king : 



Charles to his people, Henry to nis wife, 
— In him the double tyrant starts to life : 
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain, 
Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
Ah, what can tombs avail ! — since these disgorge 
The blood and dust of both— to mould a G— ge. 

March, 1814. 



ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TC 
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 



There was a day— there was an hour, 

While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine — 
When that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name 

And gilded thy decline, 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 

But thou forsooth must be a king 

And don the purple vest, 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that fated garment ? where 

The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 

The star— the string— the crest ? 
Vain froward child of empire ! say, 
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 

Where may the wearied eye repose 

When gazing on the great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes— one— the first— the last— the best— 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 

To make man blush there was but one. 

April, 1814. 



TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 

And say'st thou that I have not felt, 

Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me ? 
Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt 

On one unbroken dream of thee ? 
But love like ours must never be, 

And I will learn to prize thee less ; 
As thou hast fled, so let me flee, 

And change the heart thou mayest not bless. 

They'll tell thee, Clara ! I have scem'd, 

Of late, another's charms to woo, 
Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd 

That thou wert banish'd from my view. 
Clara ! this struggle — to undo 

What thou hast done too well, for me 
This mask before the babbling crew— 

This treachery— was truth to thee. 

I have not wept while thou wert gone, 
Nor worn one look of sullen wo ; 

But sought, in many, all that one 

(Ah ! "need I name her ?) could bestow. 



568 

It is a duty which I owe 

To thine — to thee — to man — to God, 
To crush, to quench this guilty glow, 

Ere yet the path of crime be trod. 

But since my breast is not so pure, 

Since still the vulture teais my heart, 
Let me this agony endure, 

Not thee — oh ! dearest as thou art ! 
In mercy, Clara ! let us part, 

And I will seek, yet know not how, 
To shun, in time, the threatening dart 

Guilt must not aim at such as thou. 

But thou must aid me in the task, 

And nobly thus exert thy power : 
Then spurn me hence — 'tis all I ask — 

Ere time mature a guiltier hour ; 
Ere wrath's impending vials shower 

Remorse redoubled on my head ; 
Ere fires unquenchably devour 

A heart, whose hope has long been dead. 

Deceive no more thyself and me, 

Deceive not better hearts than mine ; 
Ah ! shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, 

From wo like ours, from shame like thine ? 
And, if there be a wrath divine, 

A pang beyond this fleeting breath, 
E'en now all future hope resign, 

Such thoughts are guilt — such guilt is death. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, 
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the 

fame, 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may 

impart 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of 

heart. 

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, 
Were those hours — fcan their joy or their bitterness 

cease ? 
We repent — we abjure — we will break from our 

chain, — 
We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again ! 

Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
Forgive me, adored one ! — forsake, if thou wilt ; — 
But. the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
And man shall not break it — whatever thou may'st. 

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, 
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ; 
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more 

sweet, 
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign — 
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 

May, 1814. 



ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT 
THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. 

Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name ; 
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain, 
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, 
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 
No foe could tame — no tyrant could command ? 
That race is gone — but still their children breathe, 
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : 
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, 
And England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. 
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free. 
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee ! 
Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, 
But give support — the world hath given him fame ! 

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following where the mighty led, 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
To us bequeath —'tis all their fate allows — 
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye m melancholy gaze, 
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
While sad, she chants the solitary song, 
The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave. 

'Tis Heaven — not man — must charm away the wo 

Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow ; 

Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 

Of half its bitterness for one so dear ; 

A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 

A thornless pillow for the widow'd head ; 

May lighten well her heart's maternal care, 

And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 

May, 1814. 



ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING 
THE PICTURE OF SARAH, COUNTESS OF 
JERSEY, TO MRS. MEE. 

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
"Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd, 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
That left a likeness of the brave or just ; 
What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry ? 
What spread from face to face the wondering air ? 
The thought of Brutus — for his was not there ! 
That absence proved his worth — that absence fix'd 
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd ; 
And more decreed his glory to endure, 
Than all a gold Colossus could see\ire. 

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



569 



If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
Heir of his father's throne and shatter'd wits, 
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart 
Could with thy gentle image bear depart, 
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief, 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? 
A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; 
A fount that only wants its living stream ; 
And night with every star, save Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be, 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee ; 
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, 
Than all he shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than 

fair, 
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
A spell which will not let our looks repose, 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright, 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And these must wait till every charm is gone 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none, 
That dull, cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine. 

July, 1814. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



TO BELSHAZZAR. 

Belshazzau ! from the banquet turn^ 

Nor in thy sensual fulness fall : 
Behold ! while yet before thee burn 

The graven words, the glowing wall. 
Many a despot men miscall 

Crown'd and anointed from on high ; 
But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 

Is it not written, thou must die ? 

Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 

Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them : 
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 

More than thy very diadem, 
Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem : — 

Then throw the worthless bauble by, 
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn: 

And learn like better men to die. 

Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd, 

And ever light of word and worth, 
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, 

And left thee but a mass of earth. 
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 

But tears in Hope's averted eye 
Lament that even thou hadst birth — 

Unfit to govern, live, or die. 
72 



In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day 
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey ; 
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, 
And our hearts were so full of the land far away. 

The song they demanded in vain — it lay still 

In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill ; 

They called for the harp, but our blood they shall 

spill, 
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of 

their skill. 

All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree, 
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be, 
Our hands may be fettered, our tears still are free ; 
For our God and our glory, arr4 Sion ! for thee. 

October, 1814. 



They say that Hope is happiness, 
But genuine Love must prize the past ; 

And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless- 
They rose the first, they set the last. 

And all that Memory loves the most 

Was once our only hope to be ; 
And all that hope adored and lost 

Hath melted into memory. 

Alas ! it is delusion all, 

The future cheats us from afai, 
Nor can we be what we recall, 

Nor dare we think on what we are. 

October, 1S14. 



LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF 
"THE SIEGE OF CORINTH." 

In the year since Jesus died for men, 

Eighteen hundred years and ten, 

We were a gallant company, 

Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 

Oh ! but we went merrily ! 

We forded the river and clomb the high hill, 

Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 

Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 

Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 

Whether we couch'd in our rough capote, I 

On the rougher plank of our gliding beat, 

Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread 

As a pillow beneath the resting head, 

Fresh we woke upon the morrow : 

All our thoughts and our words had scope, 

We had health, and we had hope, 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds ; — 
Some were those who counted beads, 
Some of mosque, and some of church, 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither; 
Yet through the wide world might ye search, 

Nor find a motlier crew nor blither. 



570 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But some are dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scatter'd and alone, 
And some are rebels on the hills* 

That look along Epirus' valleys, 

Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
And pays in blood oppression's ills : 

And some are in a far countree, 
And some all restlessly at home : 

But never more, oh ! never we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily, 

And when they now fall drearily, 

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 

And bear my spirit back again 

Over the earth and through the air, 

A wild bird, and a wanderer. 

'Tis this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my lay, 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — wilt thou follow now, 

And sit with me on Aero-Corinth's brow ? 

December, 1815. 



EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED 
POEM. 

Could I remount the river of my years, 
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 
I would not trace again the stream of hours, 
Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers, 
But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
Into the number of the nameless tides. 



What is this death ? — a quiet of the heart ? 
The whole of that which\ve are a part ? 
For life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
And being so — the absent are the dead, 
Who haunt us from tranquility, and spread 
A dreaay shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget, 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
It may be both — but one day end it must 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants — are they 

But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 

The ashes of a thousand ages spread 

Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ?' 

Or do they in their silent cities dwell 

Each in his incommunicative cell ? 

Or have they their own language ? and a sense 

Of breathless being ? — darken'd and intense 

As midnight in her solitude ? — Oh Earth ! 

Where are the past ? — and wherefore had they birth i 



* The Inst tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of the Arnaouts who 
followed i..e) state him to be in revolt upon the mountains, at the head of 
some of the bands common in that country in times of trouble. 



The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave, 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold, 
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. 



October, 1816. 



TO AUGUSTA. 



My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 
Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my destiny, — 
A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 

II. 
The first were nothing — had I still the last, 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire's* fate of yore,— • 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 

III. 
If my inheritance of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, 
The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
The careful pilot of my proper wo. 

IV. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their rewa**d. 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which mait'd 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray ; 
And at times have found the struggle hard, 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay 
But now I fain would for a time survive, 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 

V. 

Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
A spirit of light patience ; — not in vain, 
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 



• Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage without a 
tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetious name of " Foul- weather 

Jack." 

" But though it were tempest -tost, 

Still his bark could not be lost." 
He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in Anson's voyage,) and 
subsequently circumnavigated the world many years after, as commander a 
a similar expedition. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



571 



VI. 



Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul refer, 
And with light armor we may learn to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

VII. 

I feel almos^t times as I have felt 
In happy chiranood : trees, and flowers, and brooks, 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 

VIII. 
Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But sometimes worthier do suclFscenes inspire : 
Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
For much I view which I could most desire, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

IX. 
Oh that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
There may be others which I less may show; 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 

X. 

I did remind thee of our own dear lake,* 
By the old hall which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
The havoc Time must with my memory make, 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 

XL 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply — 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister — till I look again on thee. 

XII. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one : 
And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun 
The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which'have torn me would have slept, 
*I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 



* The lake of Newstead Abbey. 



XIII. 

With false ambition what had I to do ? 
Little with love, and least of all with fame ; 
And yet they came unsought;, and with me grew, 
And made me all which they can make — a name. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

XIV. 
And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
Having survived so many things that were ; 
My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 

XV. 

And for the remnant which may be to come 
I am content ; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
And for the present I would not benumb 
My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this I still can look around, 
And worship Nature with a thought profound. 

XVI. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I knew myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
It is the same, together or apart, 
From life's commencement to its slow decline 
We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, 
The tie which bound the first endures the last ! 

October, 1816. 



ON THE BUST OF HELEN, BY CANOVA 

In this beloved marble view, 

Above the works and thoughts of man, 
What Nature could, but would not, do, 

And beauty and Canova can I 

Beyond imagination's power, 
Beyond the bard's defeated art, 

With immortality her dower, 
Behold the Helen of the heart ! 

November, 1816. 



FRAGMENT OF A POEM ON HEARING 
THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.— 1816. 

And thou wert sad — yet was I not with thee ; 

And thou wert sick — and yet I was not near. 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was not, and pain and sorrow here. 
And is it thus ? — It is as I foretold, 

And shall be more so : — &c, &c. 



572 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

Mi boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here's a double health to thee ! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above me, 
Here's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be won. 

Were't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

"With that water as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

July, 1817. 



STANZAS TO THE RIVER PO. 

River, that rollest by the ancient walls, 
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 

Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 
A faint and fleeting memory of me ; 

What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
A mirror of my heart, where she may read 

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ! 

What do I say — a mirror of my heart ? 

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong ? 
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 

And such as thou art were my passions long. 

Time may have somewhat tamed them, — not for ever, 
Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 

Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away, 

But left long wrecks behind, and now again 
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; 

Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, 
And I — to loving one I should not love. 

The current I behold will sweep beneath 
*Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; 

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 

She will look on thee, — I have look'd on thee, 
Full of that thought ; and, from that moment, ne'er 

Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
Without the inseparable sigh for her ; 



' The Countesi Guiccioli. 



Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, — 
Yes ! they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 

Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, 
That happy wave repass me in its flow ! 

The wave that bears my tears returns no more ; 

Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep ? 
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 

I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 

/ 

But that which keepeth us apart is not 
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor OKice of earth, 

But the distraction of a various lot, 
As various as the climates of our birth. 

A stranger loves the lady of the land, 
Born far beyond 1 the mountains, but his blood 

Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 
By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. 

My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 
I had not left my clime, nor should I be, 

In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 
A slave again oJMove, — at least of thee. 

'Tis vain to struggle — let me perish young — 
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 

And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. 

June, 1819. 



SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 

ON THE REPEAL OF LOUD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S 
FORFEITURE. 

To be the father of the fatherless, 

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and 
raise 

His offspring, who expired in other days 
To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, — 
This is to be a monarch, and express 

Envy into unutterable praise. 

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, 
For who would lift a hand, except to bless ? 

Were it not easy, sire ? and is't not sweet 

To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
Omnipotent by mercy's means ? for thus 

Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete ; 
A despot thou, and yet thy people free, 

And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 

August, 1819. 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE. 
CANTO FIFTH. 

" The land where I was born sits by the seas, 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 
With all his followers, in search of peace. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 

Love, who to none beloved to love again 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



573 



Is to 



Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong. 
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 
Love to one death conducted us along, 
But Caina waits for him our life who ended : " 

These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. 

Since first I listen'd to these soul's offended, 

I bow'd my visage and so kept it till — 
m ( then I T 

" What think'st thou ?" said the bard ; ( when $ 
unbended, 
And recommenced : " Alas ! unto such ill 

How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies, 
Led these their evil fortune to fulfil ! " 
And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, 
And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 
By what and how thy love to passion rose, 
So as his dim desires to recognize ? " 
Then she to me: " The greatest of all woes 
recall to mind ) 

remind us of ) our happy days 
5 this ) 
In misery, and ( that \ thy teacher knows. 
But if to learn our passion's first root preys 
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
( relate ) 

I will ( do* even ) as he who weeps and says 

We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 
Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 
All o'er discolor'd by that reading were ; 

5 overthrew ) 
But one point only wholly ( us o'erthrew ; £ 
{ desired ) 
When we read the ( long-sighed for ) smile of her, 
< a fervent \ 
To be thus kiss'd by such \ devoted 5 lover, 
He who from me can be divided ne'er 
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. 
Accursed was the book and he who wrote ! 

That day no further leaf we did uncover. 

While thus one spirit told us of their lot, 
The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote, 
And fell down even as a dead body falls." 

March, 1820 



THE IRISH AVATAR.f 

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, 
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, 

Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, 
To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like 

his — bride. 

* 

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, 
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could 
pause 
For the few little years, out of centuries won, 
Which bctray'd not,, or crush'd not, or wept not 
her cause. 



* In some of the editions it is, " diro," in others, " faro; " — an essential 
difference between " saying " and " doing," which 1 know not how to de- 
cide. Ask Fnscolo. The d — d editions drive me mad. 

t On the King's visit to Ireland, in 1821. 



True, the chains of the Catholic olank o'er his rags, 
The castle still stands, and the senate's no more, 

And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags 
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 

To her desolate shore— where the emigrant stands 
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth, 

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his 
hands, 
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. 

But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves ! 
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, 

With a legion of cooks and an army of slaves ' 

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, 
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 

But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er ! 
Could the green in his hat be transferee! to his 
heart ! 

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, 

And a new ^ring of noble affections arise — 
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy 
chain, 
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the 
skies. 

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now ? 

Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay, 
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow — 

Such servile devotion might shame him away. 

Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride — 

Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 

His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 

Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good ! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest ! 
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, 

And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, 
Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun — 

But Grattan sprung up like a God from the tomb 
Of ages, the first, last, the savior, the one! 

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind ; 
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, 

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance 
of his mind. 

But back to our theme ! Back to despots and slaves ! 

Feasts furnish'd by Famine ! rejoicings by Pain ! 
True Freedom but ivelcomcs, while slavery still raves, 

When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. 

Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford 
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 

Gild over the palace. Lo ! Erin, thy lord ! 
Kiss his foot with thy blessing for blessings denied. 

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, 

Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 
With what monarch's ne'er give, but as wolvea 
yield their prey ? 



574 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign, — 
To reign ! in that word see, ye ages, comprised 

The cause of the curses the all annals contain, 
From Caesar the dreaded to George the despised. 

Wear, Fingal, thy trappings ! O'Connell proclaim 
His accomplishments ! His ! ! ! and thy country 
convince 
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, 
And that " Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young 
prince ! " 

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ? 

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with 
hymns ? 

Ay ! " build him a dwelling ! " let each give his mite ! 

Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen ! 
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — 

And a palace bestow for a poorhouse and prison ! 

Spread — spread, for Vitellius the ro^H repast, 
Till the gluttonous despot be stuff d to the gorge ! 

And the roar of his drunkards proclaims him at last 
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors, call'd 
" George ! " 

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 

Till they groan like thy people, through ages of wo ! 
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, 

Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet 
has to flow. 

But let not his name be thine idol alone — 
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears ! 

Thine own Castlereagh ! let him still be thine own ! 
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers ! 

Till now, when the isle which should blush for his 
birth, 
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her 
soil, 
Seems proud of the reptile which crawl' d from her 
earth, 
And for murder repays him with shouts and a 
smile. 

Without one single ray of her genius, without 
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race — 

The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt 
If she ever gave birth to a being so base. 

If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, 
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can 
spring- 
See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full 
flush'd, 
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king ! 

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Oh ! Erin, how low 
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 

Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below 
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy 
right, 
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, 



This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy 
fight, 
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still 
for thee ! 

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not 
my land, 
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy 
sons, 
And I w T ept with the world o'er the patriot band 
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as 



For happy are they now reposing afar, — 
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 

Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, 
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. 

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! 

Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day — 
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. 

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, 
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties 
fled; 

There was something so warm and sublime in the core 
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy dead. 

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 
Which though trod like the worm will not turn 
upon power, 
'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore ! 
September, 1821. 



STANZAS 

TO HEE. WHO CAN BEST UNDERSTAND THEM. 

Be it so ! we part for ever ! 

Let the past as nothing be ; — 
Had I only loved thee, never 

Hadst thou been thus dear to me. 

Had I loved, and thus been slighted, 
That I better could have borne ; — 

Love is quell'd, when unrequited, 
By the rising pulse of scorn. 

Pride may cool what passion heated, 
Time will tame the wayward will ; 

But the heart in friendship cheated 

Throbs with wo's most maddening thrill. 

Had I loved, I now might hate thee, 

In that hatred solace seek, 
Might exult to execrate thee, 

And, in words, my vengeance wreak. 

But there is a silent sorrow, 

Which can find no vent in speech, 

Which disdains relief to borrow 
From the heights that song can reach. 

Like a clankless chain enthralling, — 
Like the sleepless dreams that mock,— 

Like the frigid ice-drops falling 
From the surf-surrounded rock. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



575 



Such the cold and sickening feeling 
Thou hast caused this heart to knew 

Stabbed the deeper by concealing 
From the world its bitter wo. 

Once it fondly, proudly, deemed thee 
All that fancy's self could paint, 

Once it honored and esteemed thee 
As its idol and its saint ! 

More than woman thou wast to me ; 

Not as man I looked on thee ; — 
Why like woman then undo me ? 

Why " heap man's worst curse on me ? " 

Wast thou but a fiend, assuming 
Friendship's smile, and woman's art, 

And, in borrow'd beauty blooming, 
Trifling with a trusted heart ? 

By that eye which once could listen 

With opposing glance to me ; 
By that ear which once could listen 

To each tale I told to thee ; — 

By that lip, its smile bestowing, 

Which could soften sorrow's gush ; — 

By that cheek, once brightly glowing 

With pure friendship's well-feigned blush ; 

By all those false charms united, — 
Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, 

And, without compunction, blighted 
What " thou would'st not kindly kill." 

Yet I curse thee not in sadness, 
Still, I feel how dear thou wert ; 

Oh ! I could not — e'en in madness — 
Doom thee to thy just desert ! 

Live ! and when my life is over, 

Should thine own be lengthened long, 

Thou may'st then, too late, discover, 
By thy feelings, all my wrong. 

When thy beauties all are faded, 

When thy flatterers fawn no more, — 

Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded 
Some regardless reptile's store,— 

Ere that hour, false syren, hear me ! 

Thou may'st feel what I do now, 
While my spirit, hovering near thee, 

Whispers friendship's broken vow. 

But 'tis useless to upbraid thee 

With thy past or present state ; 
What thou wast, my fancy made thee, 

What thou art, I know too late. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE 
AND PISA. 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 



What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 

wrinkled ? 
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! 
What care I far the wreaths that can only give glory ? 

Oh Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
AVhen it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my 

story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

December, 1821. 



IMPROMPTU, 

ON LADY BLESSINGTON EXPRESSING HER INTEN- 
TION OF TAKING THE VILLA CALLED " IL PARA- 
DISO," NEAR GENOA. 

Beneath Blessington's eyes 

The reclaim'd Paradise 
Should be free as the former from evil; 

But if the new Eve 

For an apple should grieve, 
What mortal would not play the Devil ?* 
April, 1823 



TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

You have ask'd for averse : — the request 
In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny ; 

But my Hippocrenc was but my breast, 
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 

Were 1 now as I was, I had sung 
What Lawrence had painted so well ; 

But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
And the theme is too soft for my shell. 

1 am ashes where once I was fire, 
And the bard in my bosom is dead ; 

What 1 loved I now merely admire, 
And my heart is as gray as my head. 

My life is not dated by years — 

There are moments which act as a plough, 
And there is not a furrow appears 

But is deep in my soul as my brow. 

Let the young and the brilliant aspire 

To sing what I gaze on in vain ; 
For sorrow has torn from my lyre 

The string which was worthy the strain. 

April, 1823. 



The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare Jest to hhnsK 
Taking into their heads that the villa had heen fixed on for his own residence, 
they said, *' 11 Diavolo e ancroa entrano in Paradise" — Moort. 



576 



BYRON S WORKS. 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 


Oh ! I will wear it next my heart, 


SIXTH YEAR. 


'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee ; 




From me again 'twill ne'er depart, 


'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 


But mingle in the grave with me. 


Since others it hath ceased to move ! 




Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 


The dew I gather from thy lip 


Still let me love ! 


Is not so dear to me at this ; 




That I but for a moment sip, 


My days are in the yellow leaf; 


And banquet on a transient bliss : 


The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 




The worm, the canker, and the grief 


This will recall each youthful scene, 


Axe mine alone ! 


E'en when our lives are on the wane ; 




The leaves of Love will still be green 


The fire that on my bosom preys 


When Memory bids them bud again. 


Is lone as some volcanic isle : 




No torch is kindled at its blaze — 


Oh ! little lock (*f golden hue, 


A funeral pite 


In gently waving ringlet curl'd, 




By the dear head on which you grew, 


The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 


I would not lose you for a world. 


The exalted portion of the pain 




And power of love, I cannot share, 


Not though a thousand more adorn 


But wear the chain. 


The polish'd brow where once you shone, 




Like rays which gild a cloudless morn, 


But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 


Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 


Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor now, 


1806 


Where glory decks the hero's bier, 




Or binds his brow. 




The sword, the banner, and the field, 


REMEMBRANCE. 


Glory and Greece around me see ! 




The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 


'Tis done ! — I saw it in my dreams ; 


Was not more free. 


No more with Hope the future beams ; 




My days of happiness are few : 


Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 


Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, 


Awake, my spirit ! Think through lohom 


My dawn of life is overcast ; 


Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 


Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu: — 


And then strike home ! 


Would I could add Remembrance too. 




1806. 


Tread those reviving passions down, 




Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 




Indifferent should th% smile or frown 




Of beauty be. 


THE ADIEU. 


If thou regret'st thy youth, why live ? 


WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE 
AUTHOR "WOULD SOON DIE. 


The land of honorable death 


Is here : — up to the field, and give 




Away thy breath ! 


Adieu, thou Hill ! * where early joy 




Spread roses o'er my brow 


Seek out — less often sought than found — 


Where Science seeks each loitering boy 


A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 


With knowledge to endow. 


Then look around, and choose thy ground, 


Adieu my youthful friends or foes, 


And take thy rest. 


Partners of former bliss or woes ; 


Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824. 


No more through Ida's paths we stray ; 




Soon must I share the gloomy cell, 




Whose ever slumbering inmates dwell, 




Unconscious of the day. 
Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 




TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED THE 


Ye spires of Granta's vale, 


AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND 


Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 


WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES.* 


And Melancholy pale. 




Ye comrades of the jovial hour, 


This Band, which bound thy yellow hair, 


Ye tenants of the classic bower, 


Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love ; 


On Cama's verdant margin placed, 


It claims my warmest, dearest care, 


Adieu ! while memory still is mine, 


Like relics left of saints above. 


For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine, 




These scenes must be effaced. 






• This and the following poems from manuscripts collected after the death 




of Lord Byron were first published in London in 1833. 


• Harrow. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



577 



Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 

Where grew my youthful years ; 
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime 

His giant summit rears. 
Why did my childhood wander forth 
From you, ye regions of the North, 

With sons of pride to roam ? 
Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, 

To seek a Sotheron home ? 

Hall of my Sires ! * a long farewell — 

Yet why to thee adieu ? 
Thy vaults will echo back my knell, 

Thy towers my tomb will view : 
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, 
And former glories of thy Hall, 

Forgets its wonted simple note — 
But yet the Lyre retains the strings, 
And sometimes on iEolian wings 

In dying strains may float. 

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 

While yet I linger here, 
Adieu ! you are not now forgot, 

To retrospection dear. 
Streamlet ! f along whose rippling surge, 
My youthful limbs were wont to urge, 

At noontide heat their pliant course ; 
Plunging with ardor from the shore, 
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, 

Deprived of active force. 

And shall I here forget the scene, 

Still nearest to my breast ? 
Rocks rise, and rivers roll between 

The spot which passion blest ; 
Yet, Mary, J all thy beauties seem 
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, 

To me in smiles display'd ; 
Till slow disease resigns his prey 
To Death, the parent of decay, 

Thine image cannot fade. 

And thou ! my Friend ! § whose gentle love 

Yet thrills my bosom's chords, 
How much thy friendship was above 

Description's power of words ! 
Still near my breast thy gift I wear, 
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear 

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; 
Our souls were equal, and our lot 
In that dear moment quite forgot ; 

Let pride alone condemn ! 

All, all, is dark and cheerless now ? 

No smile of Love's deceit, 
Can warm my veins with wonted glow, 

Can bid Life's pulses beat : 
Not e'en the hope of future fame 
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, 

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
Mine is a short inglorious race, — 
To humble in the dust my face, 

And mingle with the dead. 



73 



• Newstead. 
t The river Grele. 
t Mary Duff. 
§ Eddlertone. 



Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart ; 

On him who gains thy praise, 
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, 

Consumed in Glory's blaze, 
But me she beckons from the earth, 
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, 

My life a short and vulgar dream : 
Lost in the 'dull, ignoble crowd, 
My hopes recline within a shroud, 

My fate is Lethe's stream. 

When I repose beneath the sod, 

Unheeded in the clay, 
Where once my playful footsteps trod, 

Where now my head must lay ; 
The meed of pity will be shed 
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, 

By nightly skies and storms alone ; 
No mortal eye will deign to steep 
With tears the dark sepulchral deep, 

Which hides a name unknown. 

Forget this world, my restless sprite, 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven : 
There must thou soon direct thy flight, 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown, 
Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne ; 

To Him address thy trembling prayer : 
He, who is merciful and just, 
Will not reject a child of dust, 

Although his meanest care. 

Father of Light ! to Thee I call,* 

My soul is dark within : 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive, 
And since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 

1807. 



TO A VAIN LADY. 

Ah, heedless girl, why thus disclose 
What ne'er was meant for other ears ? 

Why thus destroy thine own repose, 
And dig the source of future tears ? 

Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, 
While lurking envious foes will smile, 

For all the follies thou hast said 
Of those who spoke but to beguile. 

Vain girl ! thy ling'ririg woes are nigh, 
If thou believ'st what striplings say : 

Oh, from the deep temptation fly, 
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 

Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, 
The words man utters to deceive ? 

Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost 
If thou canst venture to believe. 



See Prayer of Nature, page 556. 



578 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



While now amongst thy female peers, 
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, 

Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
Duplicity in vain would veil ? 

These tales in secret silence hush, 
Nor make thyself the public gaze : 

What modest maid without a blush 
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? 

Will not the laughing boy despise 
Her who relates each fond conceit — 

Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, 
Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? 

For she who takes a soft delight, 
These amorous nothings in revealing, 

Must credit all we say or write, 
While vanity prevents concealing. 

Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 

No jealousy bids me reprove : 
One, who is thus from nature vain, 

I pity, but I cannot love. 

January 15, 1807. 



TO ANNE. 

Oh, Anne ? your offences to me have been grievous ; 

I thought from my wrath no atonement could 
save you ; 
But woman is made to command and deceive us — 

I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 

I vowed I could ne'er for a moment respect you, 
Yet thought that a day's separation was long : 

When we met, I determined again to suspect you — 
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was 
wrong. 

I swore, in a transport of young indignation, 
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you : 

I saw you — my anger became admiration ; 
And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. 

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention! 

Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness'ljefore you ; — 
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, 

Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore 
you ! January 16, 1807. 



TO THE SAME. 

Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed 
The heart which adores you should wish to dis- 
sever ; 

Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed, — 
To bear me from love and from duty for ever. 

Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone 
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; 

By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown, 
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. 



As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, 
The rage of the tempest united must weather, 

My love and my life were by nature design'd 
To flourish alike, or to perish together. 

Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have de» 
creed, 
Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu ; 
Till Fate can ordain that this bosom shall bleed, 
His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 

1807. 



TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGIN- 
NING 

"'sad is my verse,' you say, 'and yet no teak.'" 

Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt; 

A devilish deal more sad than witty ! 
Why we should weep, I can't find out, 

Unless for thee we weep in pity. 

Yet there is one I pity more ; 

And much, alas ! I think he needs it ; 
For he, I'm sure will suffer sore, 

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 

The rhymes, without the aid of magic, 
May once be read — but never after ; 

Yet their effect's by no means tragic, 
Although by far too dull for laughter. 

. But would you make our bosoms bleed, 
And of no common pang complain — 
If you would make us weep indeed, 
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. 

March 8, 1807. 



ON FINDING A FAN. 

In one who felt as once he felt, 

This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame, 
But now no more his heart will melt, 

Because that heart is not the same. 

As when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved the light, 

And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 
Now quenches all their blaze in night. 

Thus has it been with passion's fires — 
As many a boy and girl remembers — 

While every hope of love expires, 
Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 

Theirs;, though not a spark survive, 
Some careful hand may teach to burn ; 

The last, alas ! can ne'er survive ; 
No touch can bid its warmth return. 

Or, if it chance to wake again, 
Not always doomed its heat to smother, 

It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 
Its former warmth around another. 

1807 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



579 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 

Thou Power ! who hast ruled me through infancy's 
days, 
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should 
part; 
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, 
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. 

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, 

Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing ; 

The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, 
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, 
Yet even those themes are departed for ever ; 

No more beam the eyes which my dream could in- 
spire, 
My visions are flown, to return, — alas, never ! 

"When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, 
How vain is the effort delight to prolong ! 

When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, 
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song ? 

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, 
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ? 

Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ? 
Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to 
love ? 

All, surely affection ennobles the strain ! 
But how can my numbers in sympathy move, 

When I scarcely can hope to behold them again ? 

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, 
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires ? 

For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! 
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires ! 

Untouch'd then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast — 
'Tis hush'd ; and my feeble endeavors are o'er : 

And those who have heard it will pardon the past, 
Wheii they know that its murmurs shall vibrate 
no more. 

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, 
Since early affection and love is o'ercast ; 

Oh ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, 
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the 
last. 

Farewell, my young Muse ! since we now can ne'er 
meet ; 

If our songs have been languid, they surely are 
few: 
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet — 
The present — which seals our eternal adieu. 

1807 



TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.* 

Young Oak ! when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 

That thy dark-waving branches would flourish 
around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 



* See Fragment, page 560. 



Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
On the land of my fathers I reared thee with 
pride ; 
They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,— 
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can 
hide. 

I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour, 
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; 

Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the poTOr, 
But his whose neglect may have made thee expire. 

Oh ! hardy thou wert — even now little care 
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds 
gently heal ; 

But thou wert not fated affection to share — 
For who could suppose that a stranger would feel ? 

Ah, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for awhile ; 

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, 
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, 

When Infancy's years of probation are done. 

Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds, 
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, 

For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, 
And still may thy branches their beauty display. 

Oh ! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, 
Though / shall lie low in the cavern of death, 

On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine 
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. 

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; 

While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, 
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 

And as he with his boys shall revisit this spot, 
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. 

Oh ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : 
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, 
Perhaps he has poured forth his young simple lay, 

And here he must sleep, till the moments of time 
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 

1807- 



LINES. 



ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.* 



And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ; 

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was not — and pain and sorrow here ! 
And is it thus ? — is it as I foretold, 

And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, 

While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumb'd and wish to be no more, 

But in the after-silence on the shore, 
When all is lost, except a little life. 



See Fragment, page 571. 



580 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1 am too well avenged ! — but 'twas my right ; 

Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent 
To be the Nemesis who should requite — 

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. 

Mercy is for the merciful ! — If thou 

Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. 

Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep! — 

Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou must feel 

A hollow agony which will not heal, 
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep ; 
Ihou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a wo as real ! 
I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, 

And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
But thou in safe implacability 
Hadst nought to dread — in thine own weakness 

shielded, 
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded, 

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare — 
And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth — 
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth — 

On things that were not, and on things that are — 
Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! 

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, 
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, 
Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life 

"Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, 
And found a nobler duty than to part. 
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice, 

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, 

For present anger and for future gold — 
And buying other's grief at any price. 
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, 
The early truth, which was thy proper praise, 
Did not still walk beside thee — but at times, 
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 
Deceit, averments incompatible, 
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 

In Janus-spirits — the significant eye 
Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
The acquiescence in all things which tend, 
No matter how, to the desired end — 

All found a place in thy philosophy, 
The means were worthy, and the end is won — 
I would not do by thee as thou hast done ! 

September, 1816. 



STANZAS. 

" COULD LOVE FOR EVER. 

Could Love for ever 
Run like a river, 
And Time's endeavor 

Be tried in vain — 
No other pleasure 
With this could measure ; 
And like a treasure 

We'd hug the chain. 
But since our sighing 
Ends not in dying, 
And, form'd for flying, 



Love plumes his wing ; 
Then for this reason , 
Let's love a season, 
But let that season be only Spring. 

When lovers parted 
Feel broken-hearted 
And all hopes are thwarted, 

Expect to die ; 
A few years older, 
Ah ! how much colder 
They might behold her 

For whom they sigh ! 
When link'd together, 
In every weather, 
They pluck Love's feather 

From out his wing — 
He'll stay for ever, 
But sadly shiver 
Without his plumage, when past the Spring 

Like Chiefs of Faction 
His life is action — 
A formal paction 

That curbs his reign, 
Obscures his glory, 
Despot no more, he 
Such territory 

Quits with disdain. 
Still, still advancing 
With banners glancing, 
His power enhancing, 

He must move on — 
Repose but cloys him, 
Retreat destroys him, 
Love brooks not a degraded throne. 

Wait not, fond lover : 
Till years are over, 
And then recover, 

As from a dream. 
While each bewailing 
The other's failing, 
With wrath and railing 

All hideous seem — 
While first decreasing, 
Yet not quite ceasing, 
Wait not till teasing 

All passion blight: 
If once diminish'd 
Love's reign is finish'd — 
Then part in friendship, — and bid good-night 

So shall Affection, 
To recollection 
The dear connection 

Bring back with joy ; 
You had not waited 
Till, tired or hated, 
Your passions sated # 

Began to cloy. 
Your last embraces 
Leave no cold traces — 
The same fond faces 

As through the past : 
And eyes, the mirrors 
Of your sweet errors 
Reflect but rapture — not least though last. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



581 



True, separations 

Ask more than patience ; 

"What desperations 

From such have risen ! 
But yet remaining, 
What is 't but chaining 
Hearts which, once waning, 

Beat 'gainst their prison? 
Time can but cloy love, 
And use destroy love : 
The winged boy, Love, 

Is but for boys — 
You'll find it torture 
Though sharper, shorter, 
To wean, and not wear out your joys. 



STANZAS. 



TO A HINDOO AIR. 



Oh ! — my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
Where is my lover ? where is my lover ? 
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover ? 
Far — far away ! and alone along the billow ? 

Oh ! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay ? 
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 
And my head droops over thee like the willow. 

Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! 
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, 
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking ; 
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. 

Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely Pillow, 
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, 
And then expire of the joy — but to behold him ! 
Oh ! my lonely bosom ! — oh ! my lonely Pillow ! 



OH, NEVER TALK AGAIN TO ME! 

[In the original manuscript of the first Canto of Childe Harold's Pilgrimag 
were the following lines, for which those to Inez, page 27, were substituted : 

Oh, never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies : 
It has not been your lot to see, 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eyes be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses; 
How far its own expressive hue 

The languid azure eye surpasses ! 

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The fire, that through those silken lashes : 
In darkest glances seem to roll, 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes : 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 

And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 



Our English maids are long to woo, 

And frigid even in possession : 
And if their charms be fair to view, 

Their lips are slow at Love's confession : 
But born beneath a brighter sun, 

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, 
And who, — when fondly, fairly won, — 

Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ? 

The Spanish maid is no coquette, 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, 
And if she love, or if she hate, 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 

'Twill love you long and love you dearly. 

The Spanish girl that meets your love, 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain, 

She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 
And should her lover press the plain, 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 

And when, beneath the evening star, 

She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
Or joins devotion's choral band, 

To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper. 

In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 

Because her bosom is not colder ; 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam 

Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home, 

May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz 



THE THIRD ACT OF MANURED, 

IN ITS ORIGINAL SHAPE, AS FIRST SENT TO THK 
PUBLISHER.* 



SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour ? 

Her. It wants but one till sunse^ 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well : 



See Letter to Mr. Murray, April 14, 1817. 



582 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman. 

Man. (alone.) There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did now know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kalon " found 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once ; 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
And I within my tables would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 

Re-enter Herman, 
Her. My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. \ 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these 
walls : 
Thy presence honors them, and bless those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so, Count ! 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman retire. What would my reverend 
guest ? [Exit Herman. 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude ; — Age and zeal, 
my office, 
And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted, neighborhood 
May also be my herald. Rumors strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name — a noble name 
For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpaired ! 

Man. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the 
things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these 
things ? 

Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 

I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to 
heaven. 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply ; whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! * 



Abbot. Then, hear and tremble ! For the head- 
strong wretch 
Who in the mail of innate hardihood 
Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, 
There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth 
eternal — 
Man. Charity, most reverend father, 
Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace. 
That I would call thee back to it : but say, 
What wouldst thou with me ? 

Abbot. It may be there are 

Things that would shake thee — but I keep them 

back, 
And give thee till to-morrow to repent. 
Then if thou dost not all devote thyself 
To penitence, and with gift of all thy lands 

To the monastery 

Man. I understand thee, — well. 

Abbot. Expect no mercy ; I have warned thee. 
Man. (opening the casket.) Stop — 

There is a gift for thee within this casket. 

[Manfred opens the casket, strikes a light, and 
burns some incense. 
Ho! Ashtaroth! 

The Demon Ashtaroth appears, singing as follows . 

The raven sits 

On the raven stone, 
And his black wing flits 

O'er the milk-white bone ; 
To and fro, as the night winds blow, 

The carcass of the assassin swings ; 
And there alone, on the raven-stone,* 

The raven flaps his dusky wings. 

The fetters creak — and his ebon beak 

Croaks to the close of the hollow sound ; 
And this is the tune by the light of the moon 

To which the witches dance their round, — 
Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily, 

Merrily, merrily speeds the ball : 
The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds, 

Flock to the witches' carnival. 

Abbot. I fear thee not — hence — hence — 
Avaunt thee, evil one ! — help, ho ! without there ! 
Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn — to its 
peak — 
To its extremest peak — watch with him there 
From now till sunrise ; let him gaze, and know 
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven, 
But harm him not ; and when the morrow breaks, 
Set him down safe in his cell — away with him ! 

Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too, 
Convent and all to bear him company ? 
Man. No, this will serve for the present. Take 

him up. 
Ash. Come, friar ! now an exorcism or two, 
And we shall fly the lighter. 

[Ashtaroth disappears icith the Abbot, sing- 
ing as follows : 
A prodigal son and a maid undone, 

And a widow re-wedded within the year ; 
And a wordly monk and a pregnant nun, 
Are things which every day appear. 



It will be perceived that, as far as this, the original matter of the Third • " Raven-stone, (Rabenstein,) a translation of the German word for the 
Act has been retained. gibbet, which in Germany and Switzerland is permanent, and made ot stone.'' 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



583 



Manfred alone. 



Man. Why would this fool break in on me, and 
force 
My art to pranks fantastical ? — no matter, 
It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens 
And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul ; 
But it is calm — calm as a sullen sea 
After the hurricane ; the winds are still, 
But the cold waves swell high and heavily, 
And there is danger in them. Such a rest 
Is no repose. My life hath been a combat, 
And every thought a wound, till I am scarr'd 
In the immortal part of me. — "What now ? 

Re-enter Herman. 

Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so ? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the xoindozc of the hall. 
Glorious orb ! * the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race~ 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb ! that were a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
"Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! thou chief star ! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for, near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory ! Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. [Exit Manfred. 

SCENE II. 

Tlie Mountains. — The Castle of Manfred at some 
distance. — A Terrace before a Toioer. — Time, 
Twilight. 

Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of 
Manfred. 

Her. 'Tis strange enough ; night after night, for 
years, 
He hath pursed long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
So have we all been ofttimes ; but from it, 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 



• This soliloquy, and a great part of the subsequent scene, have been 
/evined in the present form of the drama. 



One chamber where none enter ; I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'Twere dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within the 

castle — 
How many years is't ? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 

Her. There be more sons in like predicament 
But wherein do they differ ? 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits : 
Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free, — 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
Merrier than day, he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
Some strange things in these few years.* 

Her. Come, be friendly ; 

Relate me some, to while away our watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remember 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like it that it might.be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing seem'd to love, 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
The lady Astarte, his 

Her. Look — look — the tower— 

The tower's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth ! what 

sound, 
What dreadful sound is that ? 

[A crash like thunder. 

Manuel. Help, help, there ! — to the rescue of the 
Count, 
The Count's in danger, — what ho ! there ! appraach : 
[The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry ap- 
proach, stupified with terror. 
If there be any of you who have heart 
And love of human kind, and will to aid 
Those in distress — pause not — but follow me — 
The portal's open, follow. [Manuel goes in 

Her. Come — Who follows ? 

What, none of ye ? — ye recreants ! shiver then 
Without. I will not see old Manuel risk 
His few remaining years unaided. 

[Herman goes in. 



* Altered, in the present form to " Some strange things in them, Herman. 



584 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Vassal. Hark ! — 

No — all is silent — not a breath — the flame 
Which shot forth such a blaze is also gone : 
What may this mean ? Let's enter ! 

Peasant. Faith, not I, — 

Not that, if one, or two, or more, will join, 
I then will stay behind ; but, for my part, 
I do not see precisely to what end. 

Vassal. Cease your vain prating — come. 

Manuel, (sjieaking within.) 'Tis all in vain — 

He's dead. 

Her. (within.) Not so — even now mcthought he 
moved ; 
But it is dark — so bear him gently out — 
Softly — how cold he is ! take care of his temples 
In winding down the staircase. 

Re-enter Manuel and Herman, bearing Manfred 
in their arms. 

Manuel. Hie to the castle, some of ye, and bring 
What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed 
For the leech to the city — quick ! some water there ! 
Her. His cheek is black — but there is a faint beat 
Still lingering about the heart. Some water. 

[They sprinkle Manfred with water: after a 
pause, he gives some, signs of life 



Manuel. He seems to strive to speak — come — 
cheerly, Count ! 
He moves his lips — canst hear him ? I am old, 
And cannot catch faint sounds. 

[Herman inclining his head and listening. 
Her. I hear a word 

Or two — but indistinctly — what is next ? 
What's to be done ? let's bear him to the castle. 
[Manfred motions with his hand not to remove 
him. 
Manuel. He disapproves — and 'twere of no avail — 
He changes rapidly. 
Her. 'Twill soon be over. 

Manuel. Oh ! what a death is this ! that I should 
live 
To shake my gray hairs over the last chief 
Of the house of Sigismund. — And such a death ! 
Alone — we know not how — unshrived — untended — 
With strange accompaniments and fearful signs — 
I shudder at the sight — but must not leave him. 
Man. (speaking faintly and slowly.) Old man ! 
'tis not so difficult to die. 

* [Manfred having said this expires. 
Her. His eyes are fix'd and lifeless. — He is gone. 
Manuel. Close them. — My old hand quivers. — 
He departs — 
Whither ? I dread to think — but he is gone ! 



DON JUAN 



,( Difficile est proprie communia dicere." 

HOR. Epist ad. Pison. 
" Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more Cakes and Ale f — Ye*, 
br St. Anne, and Ciuger shall be hot i' the mouth, too 1 " 

SHAKSPEARE, TwelfUi Night, or What You Will, 



DEDICATION. 



I. 



Bob Southey ! You're a poet — Poet-laureate, 

And representative of all the race, 
Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory at 

Last, — yours has lately been a common case,— 
And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at? 

With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ! 

II. 
" Which pye being open'd they began to sirg," 

(This old song and new simile holds good,) 
" A dainty dish to set before the King," 

Or Regent, who admires such kind of food ; — 
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, 

But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, — 
Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 
I wish he would explain his Explanation.* 

III. 

You, Bob ! are rather insolent, you know, 
At being disappointed in your wish 

To supersede all warblers here below, 
And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 

And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 
And tumble downward like the flying fish 

Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, 

And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob ! 

IV. 

And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Excursion," 
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages,) 

Has given a sample from the vasty version 
Of his new system to perplex the sages 

'Tis poetry — at least by his assertion, 
And may appear so when the dog-star rages— 

And he who understands it would be able 

To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 



You — Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclusion 
From better company, have kept your own 

At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion 
Of one another's minds, at last have grown 

To deem as a most logical conclusion, 
That Poesy hath wreathes for you alone : 

There is a narrowness in such a notion, 

Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes foi 
ocean. 

VI. 

I would not imitate the petty thought, 
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, 

For all the glory your conversion brought, 
Since gold alone should not have been its price. 

You have your salary ; was't for that you wrought ? 
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.* 

You're shabby fellows — true — but poets still, 

And duly seated on the immortal hill. 

VII. 

Your bays may hide the boldness of your brows- 
Perhaps some virtuous blushes ; — let them go — 

To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
And for the fame you would engross below, 

The field is universal, and allows 
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow : [try 

Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will 

'Gainst you the question with posterity. 

VIII. 

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, 
Contend not with you on the winged steed, 

I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, 
The fame you envy, and the skill you need ; 



• Mr. Coleridge'* " Biojrraphia Literaria " appeared in 1817. 

74 



• Wordsworth's place may be in the Customs— it is, I think, in that of the 
Excise — besides another at Lord Lonsdale's table, where this poetical charla- 
tan and political parasite licks up the crumb3 with a hardened alacrity ; th* 
converted Jacobin having long subsided into the clownish sycophant of the 
worst prejudices of the aristocracy. 



586 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And recollect a poet nothing loses 

In giving to his brethren their full meed 
Of merit, and complaint of present days 
Is not the certain path to future praise. 

IX. 

He that reserves his laurels for posterity 

(Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 

Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
Being only injured by his own assertion ; 

And although here and there some glorious rarity 
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 

The major part of such appellants go 

To — God knows where — for no one else can know. 

X. 

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 

If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs, 
And makes the word " Miltonic " mean ''■sublime,'" 

He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, 
Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 

He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 

But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 

XI. 

Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old Man — arise 
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more 

The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, 
Or be alive again — again all hoar 

With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, 
And heartless daughters — worn — and pale* — and 

Would he adore a sultan ?, he obey [poor, 

The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ?f 

XII. 

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant ! 

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, 
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 

Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore, 
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want, 

AVith just enough of talent, and no more, 
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd, 
And offer poison long already mix'd. 



* " Pale, but not cadaverous : " — Milton's two eldest daughters are said to 
have robbed him of his books, besides cheating and plaguing him in the economy 
of his house, &c, &c. His feelings on such an outrage, both as a parent and 
a scholar, must have been singularly painful. Hayley compares him to Lear. 
See part third, Life of Milton, by W. Hayley, (orHailey, as spelt in the edi- 
tion before me.) 
t Or.- 

" Would he subside into a hackney Laureate — 
A scribbling, self-sold, soul-hired, scorn'd Iscariol? " 

1 doubt if " Laureate " and " Iscariot " be good rhymes, but must say, as 
Ben Jonson did to Sylvester, who challenged him to rhyme with — 

11 1, John Sylvester, 
Lay with your sister." 

Jo ison answered — "I, Ben Jonson, lay with your wife." Sylvester an- 
swered,— ' Tkit is not rhyme." — " No," said Ben Jonson, " but it i6 true." 



XIII. 

An orator of such set trash of phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately vile, 
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, 

Nor foes — all nations — condescend to smile,— 
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 

From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, 
That turns and turns to give the world a notion 
Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 

XIV. 

A bungler even in its disgusting trade, 

And botching, patching, leaving still behind 

Something of which its masters are afraid, 
States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined, 

Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 

A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains, 

With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 

XV. 

If we may judge of matter by the mind, 

Emasculated to the nTarrow It 
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind, 

Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, 
Eutropius of its many masters,* — blind 

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, 
Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice, 
Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 

XVI. 

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, 

For I will nevexfeel them ; — Italy ! 
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds [thee— 

Beneath the lie this State-thing breath'd o'er 
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds 

Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for me. 
Europe has slaves — allies — kings — armies still, 
And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 

XVII. 

Meantime — Sir Laureate — I proceed to dedicate 
In honest simple verse, this song to you. 

And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 
'Tis that I still retain my " buff and blue ; " 

My politics as yet are all to educate : 
Apostasy's so fashionable, too, 

To keep one creed's a task grown quite Herculean ; 

Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian ?f 

Venice, September 16, 1818. 



* For the character of Eutropius, the eunuch and minister at the court of 
Arcadius, see Gibbon. 

f 1 allude not to our friend Landor's hero, the traitor Count Julian, but to 
Gibbon's hero, vulgarly yclept " The Apostate." 



DON JUAN. 



587 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO I. 
I. 

I "WANT a hero : — an uncommon want. 

When every year and month stnds forth a new one, 
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 

The age discovers he is not the true one ; 
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 

I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan: 
"We all have seen him in the pantomine 
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 

II. 

Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, AVolfe, Hawke, 
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, 

Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, [Howe, 
And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now; 

Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 
Followers of fame, " nine farrow " of that sow: 

France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier 

Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 

III. 

Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 

Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 

Were French, and famous people, as we know , 
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 

Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Dessaix, Moreau, 
With many of the military set, 

Exceedingly remarkable at times, 

But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 

IV. 

Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, 
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd ; 

There's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
'Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd ; 

Because the army's grown more popular, 
At which the naval people are concern'd : 

Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, 

Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. 

V. 

Brave men were living before Agamemnon,' 
And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 

A good deal like him too, though quite the same none, 
But then they shone not on the poet's page, 

And so have been forgotten ; — I condemn none, 
But can't find any in the present age 

Fit for my poem, (that is, for my new one ;) 

So, as I have said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. 

VI. 
Most epic poets plunge in " medias res," 

(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road,) 
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 

What went before — by way of episode, 
While seated after dinner at his ease, 

Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 
Palace or garden, paradise or cavern, 
Whifh serves the happy couple for a tavern. 



VII. 



That is the usual method, but not mine — 
My way is to begin with the beginning : 

The regularity of my design 

Forbids all wanderings as the worst of sinning, 

And therefore I shall open with a line, 

(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning,) 

Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 

And also of his mother, if you'd rather. 

VIII. 
In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, 

Famous for oranges and women — he 
Who has not seen it will be much to pity, 

So says the proverb — and I quite agree ; 
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 

Cadiz perhaps, but that you soon may see : — 
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 

IX. 

His father's name was Jose — Don, of course 
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 

Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain , 

A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, 
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 

Than Jose who begot our hero, who 

Begot — but that's to come — Well, to renew : 

X. 

His mother was a learned lady, famed 
For every branch of every science known — 

In every Christian language ever named, 
With virtues equall'd by her wit alone, 

She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, 
And even the good with inward envy groan, 

Finding themselves so very much exceeded 

In their own way by all the things that she did. 

XL 

Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 

So that if any actor miss'd his part, 
She could have served him for the prompter's copy; 

For her Feinagle's were an useless art, 
And he himself obliged to shut up shop — he 

Could never make a memory so fine as 

That which adorned the brain of Donna Inez. 

XII. 
Her favorite science was the mathematical, 

Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, 
Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, 

Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity ; 
In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 

A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity, 
Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 
And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling. 

XIII. 

She knew the Latin — that is, "the Lords prayer," 
And Greek, the alphabet, I'm nearly sure ; 

She read some French romances here and there, 
Although her mode of speaking was not pure : 

For native Spanish she had no great care, 
At least her conversation was obscure ; 

Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, 

As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 



588 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIV. 



She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 
And said there was analogy between 'em ; 

She proved it somehow out of sacred song, ['em ; 
But I must leave the proofs to those who've seen 

But this I've heard her say, and can't be wrong, ['em, 
And all may think which way their judgments lean. 

" 'Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which means 'I am,' 

The English always use to govern d n." 

XV. 

Some women use their tongues — she looked a lecture, 
Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, 

An all-in-all sufficient self-director, 

Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romily, 

The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, 
Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 

One sad example more, that " All is vanity," — 

(The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity.") 

XVI. 

In short, she was a walking calculation, [covers, 
Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their 

Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, 

" Or Coeleb's Wife " set out in quest of lovers, 

Morality's prim personification, 

In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 

To others' share let " let female errors fall," 

For she had not even one — the worst of all. 

XVII. 

Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 

Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 

So far above the cunning powers of hell, 

Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 

Even her minutest motions went as well 
As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison : 

In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 

Save thine " incomparable oil," Macassar! 2 

XVIII. 
Perfect she was, but as perfection is 

Insipid in this naughty world of ours, 
Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 

Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, 
Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss, 

(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours,) 
Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 

XIX. 

He was a mortal of the careless kind, 

With no great love for learning or the learn'd, 

Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, 
And never dream'd his lady was concern'd ; 

The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 

Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two ; 

But for domestic quarrels one will do. 

XX. 

Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 

Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, 
And such indeed she was in her moralities ; 

But then she had a devil of a spirit, 
And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, 

And let few opportunities escape 

Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 



XXI. 

This was an easy matter with a man 
Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 

And even the wisest, do the best they can, 
Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 

That you might "brain them with their lady's fan," 
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, 

And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, 

And why and wherefore no one understands. 

XXII. 

'Tis a pity learned virgins ever wed 
With persons of nfc sort of education, 

Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred, 
Grow tired of scientific conversation : 

I don't choose to say much upon this head, 
I'm a plain man, and in a single station, 

Blit — oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, 

Inform us truly, have they not henpeck'd you all ? 

XXIII. 

Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — why 

Not any of the many could divine, 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

'Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine ; 
I loathe that low vice, curiosity ; 

But if there's any thing in which I shine, 
'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs, 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 

And so I interfered, and with the best 

Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 

I think the foolish people were possess'd, 
For neither, of them could I ever find, 

Although their porter afterwards confess'd — 
But that's no matter, and the worst's behind, 

For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs. 

A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXV. 

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, 

And mischief-making monkey from his birth ; 

His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 

Instead of quarrelling had they been but both in 
Their senses, they'd have sent young master forth 

To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home 

To teach him manners for the time to come. 

XXVI. 

Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 

For some time an unhappy sort of life, 

Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
They lived respectably as man and wife, 

Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 
And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 

Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, 

And put the business past all kind of doubt. 

XXVII. 

For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, 
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad, 

But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
She next decided he was only bad ; 

Yet when they ask'd her for depositions, 
No sort of explanation could be had, 

Save that their duty both to man and God 

Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 



DON JUAN. 



XXVIII. 

She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, 
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 

All which might, if occasion served, be quoted ; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors, 

Besides her good old grandmother, (who doted;) 
The hearers of her case became repeaters, 

Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 

Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 

XXIX. 

And then this best and meekest woman bore 
With such serenity her husband's woes, 

Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 

Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose 

Never to say a word about them more — 
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 

And saw his agonies with such sublimity, 

That all the world exclaim'd, " What magna- 
nimity ! " 

XXX. 

No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning 
Is philosophic in our former friends ; [us, 

'Tis also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous, 
The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 

And what the lawyers call a " ma/us animus," 
Conduct like this by by no means comprehends ; 

Revenge in person's certainly no virtue, 

But then 'tis not my fault if others hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories, 

And help them with a lie or two additional, . 

Tm not to blame, as you well know, no more is 
Any one else — they were become traditional ; 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories [all ; 

By contrast, which is what we just were wishing 

And science profits by this resurrection — 

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their friends had tried a reconciliation, 

Then their relations, who made matters worse ; 

('Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion 
To whom it may be best to have recourse — 

I can't say much for £riend or yet relation :) 
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 

But scarce a fee was paid on either side 

Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 

XXXIII. 
He died: and most unluckily, because, 

According to all hints I could collect 
From counsel learned in those kind of laws, 

(Although their talk's obscure and circumspect,) 
His death contrived to spoil a charming cause ; 

A thousand pities also with respect 
To public feeling, which on this occasion 
Was manifested in a great sensation. 

XXXIV. 

But all ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
The public feeling and the lawyers' fees : 

His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 

A priest the other — at least so they say : 
I ask'd the doctors after his disease — 

He died of the slow fever called the tertian, 

And left his widow to her own aversion. 



58? 



XXXV. 

Yet Jose was an honorable man, 
That I must say, who knew him very well ; 

Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan, 
Indeed there were not many more to tell ; 

And if his passions now and then outran 
Discretion, and were not so peaceable 

As Numas's, (who was also named Pompilius,) 

He had been ill brought up, and was bilious. 

XXXVI. 

Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him, 

Let's own, since it can do no good on earth : 
It was a trying moment that which found him, 

Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, [him; 
Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round 

No choice was left his feelings or his pride, 

Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 

XXXVII. 

Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 

To a chancery-suit, and messages, and lands, 

Which, with a long minority and care, 

Promised to turn out well in proper hands ; 

Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, 
And answer'd but to nature's just demands ; 

An only son left with an only mother 

Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

XXXVIII. 
Sages of women, even of widows, she 

Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, 
And worthy of the noblest pedigree, 

(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragon :) 
Then for accomplishments of chivalry, 

In case our lord the king should go to war again, 
He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 
And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But that which Donna Inez most desired, 

And saw herself each day before all 
The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 

Was that his breeding should be strictly moral ; 
Much into all his studies she inquired, 

And so they were submitted first to her, all, 
Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 
To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 

XL. 

The languages, especially the dead, 
The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, 

The arts, at least all such as could be said 
To be the most remote from common use, 

In all these he was much and deeply read; 
But not a page of any thing that's loose, 

Or hints continuation of the species, 

Was ever suffered, lest he should grow vicious. 

XLI. 

His classic studies made a little puzzle, 
Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 

Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, 
But never put on pantaloons or bodices ; 

His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, 
And for their iEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 

Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 

For Dona Inez dreaded the mythology. 



59* 

• XLII. 

Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show'him ; 

Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample ; 
Catullus scarcely had a decent poem ; 

I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, 
Although 3 Longinus tells us there is no hymn [pie ; 

Where the sublime soars forth on wings more am- 
But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one 
Beginning with " Formosum pastor Corydon." 

XLIII. 
Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 

For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food, 
I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 

Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
For speaking out so plainly in his song, 

So much indeed as to be downright rude : 
And then what proper person can be partial 
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 

XLIV. 

Juan was taught from out the best edition, 
Expurgated by learned men, who place. 

Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, 
The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface 

Too much their modest bard by this omission, 
And pitying sore his mutilated case, 

They only add them all in an appendix, 4 

Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 

XLV. 

For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," 
Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 

They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop, 
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 

Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 

To call them back into their separate cages, 

Instead of standing staring altogether, 

Like garden gods — and not so decent, either. 

XLVL 

The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 

Was ornamented in a sort of way 
Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all 

Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they 
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, 

Could turn their optics to the text and pray, 
Is more than I know — but Don Juan's mother 
Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 

XLYII. 

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 
And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 

To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 

He did not take such studies for restraints; 

But how faith is acquired, and then insured, 
So well not one of the aforesaid paints 

As Saint Augustine, in his fine Confessions, 

Which made the reader envy his transgressions. 

XLVIII. 

This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
I can't but say that his mamma was right, 

If such an education was the true one. 

She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 

Her maids were old, and if she took a new one, 
You might be sure she was a perfect fright ; 

She did this during even her husband's life — 

I recommend as much to every wife. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLIX. 

Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace : 
At six a charming child, and at eleven 

With all the promise of as fine a face 
As e'er to man's maturer growth was given : 

He studied steadily, and grew apace, 
And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven 

For half his days were pass'd at church, the other 

Between his tutors, confessor, and mother, 

L. 

At six, I said he was a charming child, 
At twelve, he was a fine, but quiet boy : 

Although in infancy a little wild, 

They tamed him down among them : to destroy 

His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd, 
At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's joy 

Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 

Her young philosopher was grown already. 

LI. 

I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still. 

But what I say is neither here nor there ; 
I knew his father well, and have some skill 

In character — but it would not be fair 
From sire to son to augur good or ill ; 

He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 
But scandal's my aversion — I protest 
Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 

LII. 

For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 
This I will say — my reasons are my own — 

That if I had an only son to put 

To school (as God be praised that I have none) 

'Tis not with Donna Inez I would shut 
Him up to learn his catechism alone ; 

No — no — I'd send him out betimes to college, 

For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 

LIII. 
For there one learns — 'tis not for me to boast. 

Though I acquired — but I pass over that, 
As well as all the Greek I since have lost : 

I say that there's the place — but "Verbum sat." 
I think I pick'd up, too, as well as most, 

Knowledge of matters — but, no matter what — 
I never married — but, I think, I know 
That sons should not be educated so. 

LIV. 

Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, 
Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit ; he seem'd 

Active, though not so sprightly, as a page ; 
And every body but his mother deem'd 

Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage, 
And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) 

If any said so, for to be precocious 

Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

LV. 
Among her numerous acquaintance, all 

Selected for discretion and devotion, 
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 

Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
Of many charms, in her as natural 

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid, 
(But this last simile is trite and stupid.) 



DON JUAN. 



591 



LVI. 

The darkness of her oriental eye 

Accorded with her Moorish origin : 
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 

In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
When proud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly, 

Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain. 

LVII. 
She married (I forget the pedigree) 

With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 
His blood less~ noble than such blood should be : 

At such alliances his sires would frown, 
In that point so precise in each degree 

That they bred in and in, as might be shown, 
Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts and nieces, 
Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

LVIII. 

This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
lluin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; 

For, from a root, the ugliest in Old Spain, 
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 

The sons no more were short, the daughters plain ; 
But there's a rumor which I fain would hush — 

'Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 

LIX. 

However this might be, the race went on 

Improving still through every generation 
Until it center'd in an only son, 

Who left an only daughter ^ my narration 
May have suggested that this single one 

Could be but Julia, (who on this occasion 
I shall have much to speak about,) and she 
Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 

LX. 
Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 

Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
Until she spoke, then, through its soft disguise 

Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
And love than either ; and there would arise 

A something in them which was not desire, 
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
Which struggled through and chasten'd down the 
whole. 

LXI. 
Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 

Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth ; 
Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, 

Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 
Mounting at times to a transparent glow, 

As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 
Possess'd an air and grace by no means common : 
Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 



LXII. 
Wedded she was some years, and to a man 

Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; 
And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE, 

'Twere better to have two of flve-and-twenty, 
Especially in countries near the sun : 

And now I think on't, " mi vien in mente," 
Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue, 
Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 



LXIII. 
'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 

And all the fault of that indecent sun, 
Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 

But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, 
That, howsoever people fast and pray, 

The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, 
Is much more common where the climates's sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happy the nations of the moral north ! 

Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
Sends sin without a rag on, shivering forth, 

('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to reason ;) 
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, 

By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please oa 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
Because it is a marketable vice. 

LXV. 

Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 

A man well looking foi his years, and who 

Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd : 
They lived together as most people do, 

Suffering each others' foibles by accord, 
And not exactly either one or two ; 

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, 

For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 

LXVI. 

Julia was — yet I never could see why — 
With Donna Inez quite a favorite friend ; 

Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 
For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : 

Some people whisper (but no doubt they lie, 
For malice still imputes some private end) 

That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 

Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 

LXVII. 

And that, still keeping up the old connexion, 
Which time had lately render'd much more chaste, 

She took his lady also in affection, 
And certainly this course was much the best : 

She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, 
And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 

And if she could not (who can ?) silence scandal, 

At least she left it a more slender handle. 

LXVIII. 
I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 

With other people's eyes, or if her own 
Discoveries made, but none could be aware 

Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown ; 
Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 

Indifferent from the first or callous grown : 
I'm really puzzled what to think or say, 
She kept her counsel in so close a way. 



LXIX. 

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 
Caress'd him often, such a thing might be 

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled 
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he; 

But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three ; 

These few short years make wondrous alterations, 

Particularly among sun-burnt nations. 



592 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXX. 

Whate'cr the cause might be, they had become 
Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy: 

Their looks cast down their greetings almost dumb. 
And much embarrassment in either eye ; 

There surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 
And tremulously gentle her small hand 

Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 

And slight, so very slight, that to the mind « 
'Twas but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 

Wrought change with all Armida's fiery art 

Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

LXXII. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 
She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 

As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 

She must not own, but cherish 'd more the while, 

For that compression in its burning core : 
Even innocence itself has many a wile, 

And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 

And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

LXXIII. 

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 

Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 
Its working through the vainly-guarded eye, 

And in whatever aspect it arrays 
Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ; 

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate 

Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 

LXXIV. 

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 

And burning blushes, though for no transgression, 
Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left ; 

All these are little preludes to possession, 
Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 

And merely tend to show how greatly love is 

Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 

LXXV. 

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state: 
She felt it going, and resolved to make 

The noblest efforts for herself and mate, 

For honor's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake : 

Her resolutions were most truly great, 
And almost might have made a Tarquin quake — 

She pray'd the Virgin Wary for her grace, 

As being the best judge of a lady's case. 

LXXVI. 

She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
And next day paid a visit to his mother, 

And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ; 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
Again it opens, it can be no other, 

'Tis surely Juan now — No ! I'm afraid 

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 



LXXVII. 

She now determined that a virtuous woman 
Should rather face and overcome temptation ; 

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
Should ever give her heart the least sensation, 

That is to say a thought, beyond the common 
Preference that we must feel upon occasion 

For people who are pleasanter than others, 

But then they only seem so many brothers. 

LXXVIII. 

And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 

The devil's so very sly — she should discover 
That all within was not so very well, 

And if, still free, that such or such a- lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 

Such thoughts, and be the better when they're ovci 
And, if the man should ask, 'tis but denial : 
I recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are sxich things as love divine, 
Bright and immaculate, unmixed and pure, 

Such as the angels think so very fine, 
And matrons, who would be no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine ;" 
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure, 

And so I'd have her think, were I the man 

On whom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 

Such love is innocent and may exist 

Between young persons without any danger; 

A hand may first, and then a lip be kissed ; > 
For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger, 

But hear these freedoms for the utmost list 
Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger : 

If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime, 

But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 

LXXXI. 

Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 

Was Julia's innocent determination 
In young Don Juan's favor, and to him its 

Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 

Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
He might be taught, by love and her together — 
I really don't know what, nor Julia either. 

LXXXII. 

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 
In mail of proof — her purity of soul, 

She, for the future, of her strength convinced, 
And that her honor was a rock, or mole, 

Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 
With any kind of troublesome control. 

But whether Julia to the task was equal 

Is that which must be mentioned in the sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her plan she deemed both innocent and feasible, 
And, surely, with a strippling of sixteen [ble 

Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's seiza- 
Or, if they did so, satisfied to mean 

Nothing but what was good, her breast was peacable- 
A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 

Christians have burned each other, quite persuaded 

That all tho apostles would have done as they did. 



DON JUAN. 



593 



LXXXIV. 

And if, in the mean time, her husband died, 

But heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 

Her brain, though in a dream, (and then she sigh'd !) 
Never could she survive that common loss ; 

But just suppose that moment should betide, 
I only say suppose it — inter nos. 

(This should be entire nous, for Julia thought 

In French, but then the rhyme would go for nought.) 

LXXXV. 

I only say supposelhis supposition : 

Juan, being then grown up to man's estate, 

Would fully suit a widow of condition ; 
Even seven years hence it would not be too late ; 

And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
The mischief, after all, could not be great, 

For he would learn the rudiments of love 

I mean the seraph way of those above. 

LXXXVI. 

So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan, 

Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
Of his own case, and never hit the tnie one ; 

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
He puzzled over what he found a new one, 

But not as yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 

LXXXVII. 

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 
His home deserted for the lonely wood, 

Tormented with a wound he could not know, 
His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude : 

I'm fond myself of solitude or so, 
But then I beg it may be understood 

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 

A hermit's, with a harem for a grot. 

LXXXVIII. 

" Oh love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
Where transport and security entwine, 

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
And here thou art a god indeed divine." 

The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, 5 
With the exception of the second line, 

For that same twining " transport and security" 

Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
To the good sense and senses of mankind, 

The very thing which every body feels, 
As all have found on trial, or may find, 

That no one likes to be disturbed at meals 

Or love : — I won't say more about, " entwined" 

Or "transport," as we know all that before, 

But beg " security" will bolt the door. 

XC. 

Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, 
Thinking unutterable things : he threw 

Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew ; 

There poets find materials for their books, 
And every now and then we read them through, 

Sd that their plan and prosody are eligible, 

Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 
75 



XCI. 



He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth,) so pursued 
His self-communion with his own high soul, 

Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 
Had mitigated part, thought not the whole 

Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
With things not very subject to control, 

And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, 

Like Coieridge, into a metaphysician. 

XCI1. 

He thought about himself, and the whole earfli, 
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 

And how the deuce they ever could have birth; 
And then he thought of earthquakes and of Avars 

How many miles the moon might have in girth, 
Of air balloons, and of the many bars 

To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; 

And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 

XCIII. 

In; thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 

Which some are born with, but the most part learn 
To plague themselves withal, they know not why : 

'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern 
His brain about the action of the sky ; 

If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, 

I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 

XCIV. 
He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 

And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 

And how the goddesses come down to men : 
He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours, 

And, when he looked upon his watch again, 
He found how much old Time had been a winner — 
He also found that he had lost his dinner. 

xcv. 

Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 
Boscan, or Garcilasso ; — by the wind 

Even as the page is rustled while we look, 
So by the poesy of his own mind 

Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 
As if 'twere one wherein magicians bind 

Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, 11 

According to some good old woman's tale. 

XCVI. 

Thus would he while his lonely hours away, 
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted ; 

Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 
Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, 

A bosom whereon he his head might lay, 
And hear the heart beat with the love it granted 

With — several other things, which I forget, 

Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 

XCVII. 

These lonely walks and lengthening reveries 
Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 

She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 
But that which chiefly may and must surprise, 

Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
Her only son with question or surmise ; 

Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 

Or. like all very clever people, could not, 



594 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCVIII. 

This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very common ; 

For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, 

And break the — which commandment is't they 
(I have forgot the number, and think no man [break ? 

Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 
I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, 
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. 

XCIX. 

A real husband always is suspicious, 

But still no less suspects in the wrong place, 

Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, 

By harboring some dear friend extremely vicious ; 
The last indeed's infallibly the case : 

And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, 

He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 

C. 

Thus parents also are at times shortsighted ; 

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover 
The while the wicked world beholds, delighted, 

Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 
Till some confounded escapade has blighted' 

The plan of twenty years, and all is over ; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

CI. 

But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think on this occasion, 

She had some other motive much more near 
For leaving Juan to this new temptation ; 

But what that motive was, I shan't say here ; 
Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 

Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, 

In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 

CII. 
It was upon a day, a summer's day ; 

Summer's indeed a very dangerous season, 
And so is spring about the end of May ; 

The sun no doubt, is the prevailing reason, 
But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say, 

And stand convicted of more truth than treason, 
That there are months which nature grows more 

merry in ; 
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. 

cni. 

'Twas on a summer's day — the sixth of June : 

I like to be particular in dates, 
Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 

They are a sort of posthouse, where the Fates 
Change horses, making history change its tune, 

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
Leaving at last hot much besides chronology, 
Excepting the post-obits of theology. 

CIV. 

'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer seven, 

When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
As ere held houri in that heathenish heaven 

Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 
To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, 

With all the trophies of triumphant song — 

He won them well, and may he wear them long. 



CV. 



She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
How this same interview had taken place, 

And even if I knew, I should not tell — 

People should hold their tongues in any case — 

No matter how or why the thing befell, 
But there were she and Juan face to face — 

When two such faces are so, 'twould be wise, 

But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 

CVI. 

How beautiful she looked ! her conscious heart 
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong ; 

Oh love ! how perfect is thy mystic art, [strong, 
Strengthening the weak and trampling on the 

How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along ; 

The precipice she stood on was immense — 

So was her creed in her own innocence. 

CVII. 

She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth : 
And of the folly of all prudish fears, 

Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, 
And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 

I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth, 
Because that number rarely much endears, 

And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, 

Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 

CVIII. 
When people say, "I've told you fifty times," 

They mean to scold, and very often do ; 
When poets say, " I've written fifty rhymes," 

They make you dread that they'll recite them too ; 
In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes ; 

At fifty, love for love is rare, 'tis true ; 
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 
A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis. 

CIX. 

Julia had honor, virtue, truth and love, 
For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore, 

By all the vows below to powers above, 
She never would disgrace the ring she wore, 

Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove : 
And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, 

One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, 

Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own; 

CX. 

Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, 
Which play'd within the tangles of her hair ; 

And to contend with thoughts she could not smother, 
She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 

'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
To leave together this imprudent pair, 

She who for many years had watch'd her son so — 

I'm very certain mine would not have done so 

CXI. 

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
Gently, but palpably, confirm'd its grasp, 

As if it said " detain me, if you please ;" 
Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp 

His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze : 
She would have shrunk as from a toad or asp, 

Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 

A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 



DON JUAN. 



595 



CXII. 

I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 
But what he did is much what you would do ; 

His young lip thank 'd it with a grateful kiss, 
And then, abash'd at his own joy, withdrew 

In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, 
Love is so very timid when 'tis new: 

She blush'd and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, 

And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 

CXIII. 

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon. 

The devil's in the moon for mischief ; they 
Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon 

Their nomenclature : there is not a day, 
The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 

Sees half the business in a wicked way 
On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 
And then she looks so modest all the while. 

CXIV. 

There is a dangerous stillness in that hour, 
A stillness which leaves room for the full soul 

To open all itself, without the power 
Of calling wholly back its self-control ; 

The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, 
Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, 

Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 

A loving languor which is not repose. 

cxv. 

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced, 
And half retiring from the glowing arm, 

"Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas placed : 
Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, 
~Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist ; 
But then the situation had its charm, 

And then God knows what next — I can't go on ; 

I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 

CXYI. 

Oh, Plato ! Plato ! you have paved the way, 
With your confounded fantasies, to more 

Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
Your system feigns o'er the controllcss core 

Of human hearts, than all the long array 
Of poets and romancers : — You're a bore, 

A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 

At best, no better than a go-between. 

CXVII. 

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, 
"Until too late for useful conversation : 

The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 
I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion ; 

But who, alas ! can love, and then be wise ? 
Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, 

A little still she strove, and much repented, 

And whispering " I will ne'er consent," — consented. 

CXVIII. 

Tis said that Xerxes offer'd a reward 
To those who could invent him a new pleasure ; 

Methinks the requisition's rather hard, 
And must have cost his majesty a treasure; 

For my part, I'm a moderate-minded bard, 
Fond of a little love, (which I call leisure ;) 

I care not for new pleasures, as the old 

Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 



CXIX. 

Oh Pleasure ! you're indeed a pleasant thing, 
Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt ? 

I make a resolution every spring 
Of reformation ere the year run out, 

But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, 
Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 

I'm very sorry, very much ashamed, 

And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. ' 

cxx. 

Here my chaste muse a liberty must take — 
Start not! still chasterreader,— she'll be nice hence 

Forward, and there is no great cause to quake : 
This liberty is a poetic license ' 

Which some irregularity may make 

In the design, and as I have a high sense 

Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit 

To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

CXXI. 

This license is to hope the reader will 

Suppose from June the sixth, (the fatal day, 

Without whose epoch my poetic skill, 
For want of facts would all be thrown away,) 

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 
Insight, that several months have pass'd; we'll say 

'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure 

About the day — the era's more obscure. 

CXXII. 

We'll talk of that anon — 'Tis sweet to hear, 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky ; 

CXXIII. 

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home : 

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 

'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by trfe lark, 

Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 

CXXIV. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth 
Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps ; 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth ; 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

exxv. 

Sweet is a legacy ; and passing sweet 
The unexpected death of some old lady 

Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 
Who've made " us youth " wait too — too long 

For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, [already 
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 

That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 

Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits. 



i 596 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXVI. 

'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels 
By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end 

To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 
Dear is the helpless creature we defend 

Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 

"We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

CXXVII. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, 

Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; [known — 

The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd — all's 

And life yields nothing further to recall 
Worthy of this ambrosial sin so shown, 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 

CXXVIII. 

Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
Of his own nature and the various arts, 

And likes particularly to produce 
Some new experiment to show his parts : 

This is the age of oddities let loose, 
Where different talents find their different marts ; 

You'd best begin with truth, and when you've lost 

Labor, there's a sure market for imposture. [your 

CXXIX 

What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 

(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets:) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine, [sockets ; 

One breaks your hones, one sets them in their 
But vaccination certainly has been 

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets, 
With which the Doctor paid off an old pox, 
By borrowing a new one from an ox. 

exxx. 

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes, 
And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, 

But has not answer'd like the apparatus 
Of the humane Society's beginning, 

.By which men are tmsuffocated gratis; — [spinning. 
What wondrous new machines have late been 

I said the small-pox has gone out of late ; 

Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great. 

CXXXI. 

'Tis said the great came from America ; 

Perhaps it may set out on its return, — 
The population there so spreads, they say, . 

'Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn, 
With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 

So that civilization they may learn ; 
And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is — 
Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis ? 

CXXXII. 

This is the patent age of new inventions 
For killing bodies and for saving souls, 

All propagated with the best intentions : 

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals 

Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions ; 
Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, ' 

Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, 

Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 



CXXXIII. 

Man's a phemenon, one knows not what, 
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure ; 

'Tis pity, though, in this sublime world, that 
Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure, 

Few mortals know what end they would be at, 
But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 

The path is through perplexing ways, and when 

The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and then — 

CXXXIV. 

What then ? — I do not know, no more do you — 

And so good night. — Return we to our story : 
'Twas in November, when fine days are few, 
And the far mountains wax a little hoary, 
And clap a white cap on their mantles blue ; 
. And the sea dashes round the promontory, 
And the loud breaker boils against the rock, 
And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

exxxv. 

'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night ; 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 

With the piled wood, round which the family crowd; 
There's something cheerful in that sort of light, 

Even as a summer sky's without a cloud; 
I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 

CXXXYI. 

'Twas midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 
Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 

Arose a clatter might awake the dead, 
If they had never been awoke before — 

And that they have been so we all have read, 
And are to be so, at the least, once more — 

The door was fasten'd, but, with voice and fist, 

First knocks were heard, then " Madam — Madam— 
hist : 

CXXXYII. 

" For God's sake, Madam, — Madam — here's my 
With more than half the city at his back — [mastei 

Was ever heard of such a cursed disaster ? 
'Tis not my fault — I kept good watch — Alack ! 

Do, pray, undo the bolt a little faster — 

They're on the stair just now, and in a crack 

Will all be here ; perhaps lie yet may fly — 

Surely the window's not so very high ! " 

CXXXVIII. 

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, [ber 

With torches, friends, and servants in great nun* 

The major part of them had long been wived, 
And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber 

Of any wicked woman, who contrived 
By stealth her husband's temples to encumber : 

Examples of this kind are so contagious, 

Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous. 

CXXXIX. 

I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 
Could enter into Don Alfonso's head; 

But for a cavalier of his condition 
It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, 

Without a word of previous admonition, 
To hold a levee round his lady's bed, 

And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword, 

To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 



DON JUAN. 



597 



CXL. 



Poor Donna Julia ! starting as from sleep, 
(Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept,) 

Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 
Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, 

Contrived to fling the bedclothes in a heap, 
As if she had just now from out them crept : 

I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 

To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 

CXLI. 
But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 

Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 
Of goblins, but still more of men, afraid, 

Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two, 
And therefore side by side were gently laid, 

Until the hours of absence should run through, 
And truant husband should return and say, 
" My dear, I was the first who came away." 

•CXLII. 

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, [mean ? 

" In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d'ye 
Has madness seized you ? would that I had died 

Ere such a monster's victim I had been ! 
What may this midnight violence betide, 

A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? 
Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill ! 
Search, then, the room ! " — Alfonso said, " I will." 

CXLIII. 

He search'd, they search'd, and rumaged everywhere. 

Closet and clothes'-press, chest and window-seat. 
And found much linen, lace, and several pair 

Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 
With other articles of ladies fair, 

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat : 
Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords, 
And wounded several shutters, and some boards. 

CXLIV. 

Under the bed they search'd, and there they fbund — 
No matter what — it was not that they sought ; 

They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 

Had signs or foot-marks, but the earth said nought: 

And then they stared each other's faces round : 
'Tis odd, not one of all these seekers thought, 

And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 

Of looking in the bed as well as under. 

CXLV. 

During this inquisition Julia's tongue [cried. 

Was not asleep — "Yes, search and search," she 
" Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong ! 

It was for this that I became a bride ! 
For this in silence I have suffer'd long 

A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain, 
If there be law, or lawyers, in all Spain. 

CXLVI. 
•' Yes, Don Alfonso, husband now no more, 

If ever you indeed deserved the name, 
Is't worthy for your years ? — you have threescore, 

Fifty, or sixty — it is all the same — 
Is't wise or fitting causeless to explore 

For facts against % virtuous woman's fame ? 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso ! 
How dare you think your lady would go on so ? 



CXLVII. 

'* Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 

The common privileges of my sex ? 
That I have chosen a confessor so old 

And deaf, that any other it would vex, 
And never once he has had cause to scold, 

But found my very innocence perplex 
So much, he always doubted I was married — 
How sorry you will be when I've miscarried ! 

CXLVIII. 

" Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er 

I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville ? 
Is it for this I scarce went any where, 

Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel ? 
Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, 

I favor'd none — nay, was almost uncivil ? 
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely ? 

CXLIX. 

" Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 
Sing at my heart six months at least in vain ? 

Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, 
Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain ? 

Were there not also Russians, English, many ? 
The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, 

And Lord Mount Coffehouse, the Irish peer, 

Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 

CL. 
'• Have I not had two bishops at my feet, 

The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fenian Nunez ? 
And is it thus a faithful wife you treat ? 

I wonder in what quarter now the moon is : 
I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 

Me also since the time so opportune is — [g er > 
Oh, valiant man ! with sword drawn and cock'd trig- 
Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure ? 

CLI. 

" Was it for this you took your sudden journey, 
Under pretence of business indispensable, 

With that sublime of rascals your attorney, 
Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible 

Of having play'd the fool ? though both I spurn, he 
Deserves the worst, his conduct's less defensible, 

Because, no doubt, 'twas for his dirty fee 

And not for any love to you or me. 

CLII. 

" If he comes here to take a deposition, 

By all means let the gentleman proceed ; 
You've made the apartment in a fit condition. 

There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need- 
Let every thing be noted with precision, 

I would not you for nothing should be fee'd — 
But, as my maid's undress'd, pray turn your spies out. 
" Oh ! " sobb'd Antonia, "I could tear their eyes 
out." 

CLIII. 
" There is the closet, there the toilet, there 

The antechamber — search them under, over : 
There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, 

The chimney — which would really hold a lover. 
I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 

And make no further noise till you discover 
The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 
And, when 'tis found, let me, too, have that pleasure. 



598 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLIV. 

" And now, Hidalgo ! now that you have thrown 

Doubt upon me, confusion over all, 
Pray have the courtesy to make it known 

Who is the man you search for ? how d'ye call 
Him ? what's his lineage ? let him but be shown — 

I hope he's young and handsome — is he tall ? 
Tell me — and be assured, that since you stain 
My honor thus, it shall not be in vain. 

CLV. 
"At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years — 

At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 
Or for so young a husband's jealous fears, — 

(Antonia ! let me have a glass of water.) 
I am ashamed of having shed these tears, 

They are unworthy of my father's daughter ; 
My mother dream'd not in my natal hour 
That I should fall into a monster's power. 

CLVI. 
" Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous, 

You saw that she was sleeping by my side 
"When you broke in upon us with your fellows : 

Look where you please — we've nothing, sir, to hide; 
Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us, 

Or for the sake of decency abide 
A moment at the door, that we may be 
Dress'd to receive so much good company. 

CLVII. 
" And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 

The little I have said may serve to show 
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 

The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow : — 
I leave you to your conscience as before, 

'Twill one day ask you ichy you used me so ? 
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! — 
Antonia ! where's my pocket-handkerchief ? " 

CLVIII. 
She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale 

She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears 
Like skies that rain and lighten ; as a veil 

"Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 
Her streaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fail, 

To hide the glossy shoulder which uprears 
Its snow through all ; — her soft lips lie apart, 
And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 

CLIX. 

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 

Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, 
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 
* Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 

He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb, 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, 
Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 

CLX. 

"With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
Following Antonia's motions here and there, 

"With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
For reputation, he had little care ; 

So that a suit or action were made good, 
Small pity had he for the young and fair, 

And ne'er believ'd in negatives, till these 

"Were proved by competent false witnesses. 



CLXI. 

But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 

When, after searching in five hundred nooks, 
And treating a young wife with so much rigor, 

He gain'd no point, except some self rebukes, 
Added to those his lady with such vigor 

Had pour'd upon him for the last half hour, 

Quick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder-shower. 

CLXII. 

At first he tried to hammer an excuse, 

To which the sole reply was tears and sobs, 

And indications of hysterics, whose 

Prologue is always certain throes and throbs, 

Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose:— 
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's; 

He saw, too, in perspective, her relations, 

And tl en he tried to muster all his patience. 

CLXIII. 
He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, 

But sage Antonia cut him short before 
The anvil of his speech received the hammer, 

AVith "Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more 
Or madam dies." — Alfonso mutter'd "D — n her," 

But nothing else, the time of words was o'er ; 
He cast a rueful look op two, and did, 
He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 

CLXIV. 

With him retir'd his "posse comitatus," 
The attorney last, who linger'd near the door, 

Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
Antonia let him — not a little sore 

At this most strange and unexplain'd " hiatus " 
In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 

An awkward look ; as he revolved the'case, 

The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 

CLXV. 

No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame ! 

Oh sin ! oh sorrow ! and oh womankind ! 
How can you do such things and keep your fame, 

Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind ? 
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 

But to proceed — for there is more behind : 
"With much heart-felt reluctance be it said, 
Young Juan slipp'd, half smother'd. from the bed 

CLXVI. 

He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 
How, nor can I indeed describe the where — 

Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay, 
No doubt, in little compass, round, or square ; 

But pity him I neither must nor may 
His suffocation by that pretty pair ; 

'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut, 

With maudlin Clarence, in his Malmsey butt. 

CLXVII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 

He had no business to commit a sin, 
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human, laws, — 

At least 'twas rather early to begin ; 
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 

So much as when we call our old debts in 
At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
And find a deuced balance with the devil. 



DON- JUAN. 



599 



CLXVIII. 
Of his position I can give no notion : 

'Tis written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 

Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, 
When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, 

And that the medicine answer'd very well ; 
Perhaps 'twas in a different way applied, 
For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 

, CLXIX. 
What's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 

The moment he has sent his fools away. 
Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, 

But no device could be brought into play — 
And how to parry tbe renew'd attack ? 

Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : 
Antonia puzzled : Julia did not speak, 
But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 

CLXX. 

He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair ; 

Even then their love they could not all command, 
And half forgot their danger and despair: 

Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 

" Come, come, 'tis no time now for fooling there, 

She whisper'd in great wrath — " I must deposit 

This pretty gentleman within the closet : 

CLXXI. 

" Pray keep your nonsense for some luckier night — 
Who can have put my master in this mood ? 

What will become pn't ? — I'm in such a fright ! 
The devil's in the urchin, and no good — 

Is this a time for giggling ? this a plight ? 

Why don't you know that it may end in blood ? 

You'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 

My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 

CLXXII. 

Had it but been for a stout cavalier 

Of twenty-five or thirty — (come make haste) — 
But for a child, what piece of work is here ! 

I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 
(Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near. 

There, for the present at the least he's fast, 
And, if we can but till the morning keep 
Our counsel — (Juan, mind you must not sleep.") 

CLXXIII. 

Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone, 
Closed the oration of the trusty maid: 

She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone, 
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 

However, present remedy was none, 

And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd : 

Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, 

She snuff 'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 

CLXXIV. 

Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 

Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; 

He would not justify what he had done, 

To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding : 

But there were ample reasons for it, none 
Of which he specified in this his pleading : 

His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 

Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call "rigmarole." 



CLXXV. 

Julia said nought ; though all the while there rose 
A ready answer, which at once enables 

A matron, who her husband's foible knows, 
By a few timely words to turn the tables, 

Which, if it does not silence, still must pose, 
Even if it should comprise a pack of fables ; 

'Tis to retort with firmness, and when he 

Suspects with one, do you reproach with three. 

CLXXVI. 

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, 

Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; 

But whether 'twas that one's own guilt confounds— 
But that can't be, as has been often shown ; 

A lady with apologies abounds : 

It might be that her silence sprang alone 

From delicacy to Don Juan's ear, 

To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 

CLXXVII. 

There might be one more motive, which makes two ■ 

Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, 
Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 

Had been the happy lover, he concluded 
Conceal'd among his premises ; 'tis true, 

His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded ; 
To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 

CLXXVIII. 

A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 

Silence is best, besides there is a tact 
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, 

But it will serve to keep my verse compact) 
Which keeps, when push'd by questions rathel 

A lady always distant from the fact — [rough, 
The charming creatures lie with such a grace, 
There's nothing so becoming to the face. 

CLXXIX. 
They blush, and we believe them ; at least 1 

Have always done so ; 'tis of no great use, 
In any case, attempting a reply, 

For then their eloquence grows quite profuse ; 
And when at length they're out of breath, they sigh, 

And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 
A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 
And then — and then — and then — sit down and suf 

CLXXX. 

Alfonso closed his speech, and begged her pardon. 
Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, 

And laid conditions he thought very hard on, 
Denying several little thing-, he wanted : 

He stood, like Adam, lingering near his garden, 
With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted, 

Beseeching she no further would refuse, 

When lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 

CLXXXI. 

A pair of shoes ! — what then ? not much, if they 
Are such as fit with lady's feet, but these 

(No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
Were masculine : to see them and to seize 

Was but a moment's act. — Ah ! well-a-day 
My teeth begin to chatterji my veins freeze — 

Alfonso first examined well their fashion, 

And then flew out into another passion. 



500 



s 

CLXXXII. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



He left the room for his relinquish'd sword, 

And Julia instant to the closet flew ; 
' Fly, Juan, fly ! for Heaven's sake — not a word ; 

The door is open — you may yet slip through 
The passage you so often have explored — 

Here is the garden-key — fly — fly — adieu ! 
Haste — haste ! — I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
Day has not broke — there's no one in the street." 

CLXXXIII. 

None can say that this was not good advice, 
The only mischief was, it came too late; 

Of all experience 'tis the usual price, 
A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 

Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice, 
And might have done so by the garden-gate, 

But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, 

Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him down. 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light, 

Antonia cried out " Rape ! " and Julia " Fire ! " 

But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 
Alfonso, pomraell'd to his heart's desire, 

Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night ; 
And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher ; 

His blood was vip ; though young, he was a Tartar, 

And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 

CLXXXV. 

Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, 
And they continued battling hand to hand, 

For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 

His temper not being under great command, 

If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 
Alfonso's days had not been in the land 

Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' lives, 

And how you may be doubly widows — wives ! 

CLXXXYI. 

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 
And Juan throttled him to get away, 

And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow; 
At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, 

Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, 
And then his only garment quite gave way ; 

He fled, like Joseph, leaving it — but there, 

I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 

CLXXXVII. 

Lights came at length, and men and maids, who found 
An awkward spectacle their eyes before ; 

Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 

Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 

Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground, 
Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more ; 

Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, 

And, liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 

CLXXXVIII. 
Here ends this canto. — Need I sing or say, 

How Juan, naked, favor'd by the night, 
(Who favors what she should not,) found his way, 

And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight r 
The pleasant scandal which arose next day, 

The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, 
And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 
Were in the English newspapers, of course. 



CLXXXIX. 

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, 
The depositions, and the cause at full, 

The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 
Of counsel to nonsuit or to annul, 

There's more than one edition, and the readings 
Are various, but they none of them are dull, 

The best is that in short hand, ta'en by Gurney, 

Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 

cxc. 

But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
Of one of the most circulating scandals 

That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 

First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles ; 

And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 

She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 

CXCI. 
She had resolved that he should travel through 

All European climes by land or sea, 
To mend his former morals, and get new, 

Especially in France and Italy, 
(At least this is the thing most people do.) 

Julia was sent into a convent ; she 
Grieved, but perhaps, her feelings may be better 
Shown in the following copy of her letter : 

CXCII. 

" They tell me 'tis decided, you depart : 
'Tis wise — 'tis well, but not the less a pain : 

I have no further claim on your young heart, 
Mine is the victim, and would be again : 

To love too much has been the only art 
I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 

Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears — 

My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears 

CXCIII. 
" I loved, I love you ; for this love have lost 

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, 
And yet cannot regret what it hath cost, 

So dear is still the memory of that dream ; 
Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast, — 

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
I've nothing to reproach or to request. 

CXCIV. 

" Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
'Tis woman's whole existence ; man may range 

The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; 
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 

Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 
And few there are whom these cannot estrange : 

Men have all these resources, we but one — 

To love again, and be again undone. 

exev. 

" You will proceed in pleasure and in pride, 
Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 

For me on earth, except some years to hide 
My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core. 

These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
The passion, which still rages as before, 

And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 

That word is idle now — but let it go. 



DON JUAN. 



601 



CXCVI. 
" My breast has been all weakness, is so yet ; 

But still, I think, I can collect my mind ; 
My blood still rushes where my spirit's set, 

As roll the waves before the settled wind ; 
My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 

To all, except one image, madly blind: 
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 

CXCVII. 

" I have no more to say, but linger still, 
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 

And yet I may as well the task fulfil, 
My misery can scarce be more complete : 

I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would 

And I must even survive this last adieu, [meet, 

And bear with life, to love and pray for you ! " 

CXCVIII. 

This note was written upon gilt-edged paper, 
With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new: 

Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, 
It trembled as magnetic needles do, 

And yet she did not let one tear escape her ; 
The seal a sunflower ; " Elle vons suit partout," 

The motto cut upon a white cornelian, 

The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 

CXCIX. 

This was Don Juan's earliest scrape ; but whether 

I shall proceed with his adventure is 
Dependent on the public altogether: 

We'll see, however, what they say to this, 
(Their favor in an author's cap's a feather, 

And no great mischief's done by their caprice;) 
And, if their approbation we experience, 
Perhaps they'll have some more about a year hence. 

CC. 

My poem's epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, 
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 

A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, 
New characters ; the episodes are three : 

A panorama view of hell's in training, 
After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 
So that my name of epic's no misnomer. 

CCI. 

All these things will be specified in time, 
With strict regard to Aristotle's Rules, 

The vade mecum of the true sublime, 
Which makes so many poets and some fools ; 

Prose poets like blank-verse — I'm fond of rhyme — 
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 

I've got new mythological machinery, 

And very handsome supernatural scenery. 

CCII. 
There's only one slight difference between 

Me and my epic brethren gone before, 
And here the advantage is my own, I ween, 

(Not that I have not several merits more ;) 
But this will more peculiarly be seen ; 

They so embellish, that 'tis quite a bore 
Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, 
Whereas this story's actually true. 
76 



CCIII. 

If any person doubt it, I appeal 

To history, tradition, and to facts, 
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, 

To plays in five, and operas in three, acts ; 
All these confirm my statement a good deal, 

But that which more completely faith exacts 
Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
Saic Juan's last elopement with the devil. 

CCIV. 

If ever I should condescend to prose, 
I'll write poetical commandments, which 

Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
That went before ; in these I shall enrich 

My text with many things that no one knows, 
And carry precept to the highest pitch : 

I'll call the work, " Longinus o'er a Bottle, 

Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle." 

ccv. 

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope : 
Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
Southey ; 

Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, 

The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy : 

With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 

And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 

Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 

Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore. 

CCVI. 

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Mus£, 
His Pegasus, nor any thing that's his : 

Thou shalt not bear false witness, like " the Blues," 
(There's one, at least, is very fond of this :) 

Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose : 
This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 

Exactly as you please, or not — the rod, 

But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G — d 

CCVII. 

If any person should presume to assert 

The story is not moral, first, I pray, 
That they will not cry out before they're hurt ; 

Then that they'll read it o'er again, and say 
(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) 

That this is not a moral tale, though gay, 
Besides, in canto twelfth, I mean to show 
The very place where wicked people go. 

CCVIII. 

If, after all, there should be some so blind 
To their own good this warning to despise, 

Led by some tortuosity of mind, 
Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, 

And cry that they " the moral cannot find," 
I tell him, if a clergymen, he lies — 

Should captains the remark, or critics, make, 

They also lie too — under a mistake. 

CCIX. 
The public approbation I expect, 

And beg they'll take my word about the moral, 
Which I with their amusement will connect, 

(So children cutting teeth receive a coral ;) 
Meantime, they doubtless please to recollect 

My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
For fear some prudish reader should grow skittish, 
I've bribed my grandmother's review — the British. 



602 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CCX. 

I sent it in a letter to the editor, 
Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 

I'm for a handsome article his creditor; 
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 

And break a promise after having made it her, 
Denying the receipt of what it cost, 

And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 

All I can say is — that he had the money. 

CCXI. 

I think that with this holy new alliance ■ 

I may insure the public, and defy 
All other magazines of art or science, 

Daily, or monthly, or three-monthly; I 
Have not essay'd to multiply their clients, 

Because they tell me 'twere in vain to try, 
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 

CCXII. 

" Non ego hoc f err em calidajuventa 
Consule Planeo," Horace said, and so 

Say I, by which quotation there is meant a 
Hint that some six or seven good years ago, 

(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brcnta,) 
I was most ready to return a blow, 

And would not brook at all this sort of thing 

In my hot youth— when George the Third was King, 

CCXIII. 

But now, at thirty years, my hair is gray,— 
(I wondeV what it will be like at forty ? 

I thought of a peruke the other day,) 
My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, I 

Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May 
And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 

Have spent my life, both interest and principal, 

And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 

CCXIV. 

No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 

Which out of all the lovely things we see % 
Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 

Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee : 
Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew ? 

Alas ! 'twas not in them, but in thy power, 

To double even the sweetness of a flower. 

cexv. 

No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart, 
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 

Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 
Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : 

The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art 
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse ; 

And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment, 

Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. 

CCXVI. 

Mv days of love are over — me no more 7 

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, 

Can make the fool of which they made before — 
In short, I must not lead the«iife I did do : 

The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er ; 
The copious use of claret is forbid, too ; 

So, for a good old gentlemanly vice, 

I think I must take up with avarice. 



CCXVII. 

Ambition was my idol, which was broken 

Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure ; 
And the two last have left me many a token 

O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 
Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken, 
Time is, time was, time's past," a chymic trea 
sure 

Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes — 
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 

CCXVIII. 

What is the end of fame ? 'tis but to fill 
A certain portion of uncertain paper ; 

Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 

Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor ; 

For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, 
And bards burn what they call their "midnight 

To have, when the original is dust, [taper ; " 

A name, a wretched picture, and worst bust. 

CCXIX. 

What are the hopes of man ? old Egj'pt's king, 

Cheops, erected the first pyramid 
And largest, thinking it was just the thing 

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid : 
But somebody or other, rummaging, 

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid ; 
Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 

cexx. 

But I, being fond of true philosophy, 

Say very often to myself, " Alas ! 
All things that have been born were born to die, 

And flesh (which death mows down to hay) is grass; 
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, 

And if you had it o'er again— 'twould pass — 
So thank your stars that matters are no worse, 
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse." 

CCXXI. 

But for the present, gentle reader ! and 

Still gentle purchaser ! the bard — that's I — 

Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, 
And so your humble servant, and good bye ! 

We meet again, if we should understand 
Each other; and if not, I shall not try 

Your patience further than by this short sample — 
Twere well if others follow'd my example. 

CCXXII. 

' Go, little hook, from this my solitude ! 

I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways ! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 

The world will find thee after many days." 
When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood, 

I can't help putting in my claim to praise — 
The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line : 
For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 



DON JUAN. 



603 



CANTO II. 



I. 

Oh ye ! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations 
Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, 

I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, 
It mends their morals : never mind the pain : 

The best of mothers and of educations, 

In Juan's canse, were but employ'd in vain, 

Since in a way, that's rather of the oddest, he 

Became divested of his native modesty. 

II. 

Had he but been placed at a public school, 
In the third form, or even in the fourth, 

His daily task had kept his fancy cool, 
At least had he been nurtured in the north ; 

Spain may prove an exception to the rule, 
But then exceptions always prove its worth— 

A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 

Puzzled his tutors very much of course. 

III. 

I can't say that it puzzles me at all, 

If all things be consider'd : first, there was 

His lady mother, mathematical, 

A , never mind ; his tutor, an old ass ; 

A pretty woman, — (that's quite natural, 
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass ;) 

A husband rather old, not much in unity 

With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 

IV. 
Well — well, the world must turn upon its axis, 

And all mankind turn out with it, heads or tails, 
And live and die, make love, and pay our taxes, 

And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails ; 
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, 

The priest instructs, and so our life exhales. 
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 
Fighting, devotion, dust — perhaps a name. 



I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz — 

A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
'Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is, 

(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel ;) 
And such sweet girls — I mean such graceful ladies, 

Their very walk would mak'e your bosom swell ; 
I can't describe it, though so much itiptrike, 
Nor liken it — I never saw the like : 

VI. 

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 
New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle, 

No — none of these will do ; — and then their garb ! 
Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 

Upon such things would very near absorb 
A canto — then their feet and ancles ! — well, 

Thank Heaven I've got no metaphor, quite ready, 

(And so, my sober Muse — come let's be steady — 



VII. 



Chaste Muse !— well, if you must, you must)— the 
veil 

Thrown back a moment, with the glancing hand, 
While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 

Flashes into the heart : — all sunny land 
Of love ! when I forgot you, may I fail [plann'd 

To say my prayers— but never was there 

A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, 
Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 

VIII. 
But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 

Her son to Cadiz only to embark ; 
To stay there had not answer'd her intent, 

But why ? — we leave the reader in the dark — 
'Twas for a voyage that the young man was meant, 

As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, 
To wean him from the wickedness of earth, 
And send him like a dove of promise forth. 

IX. 

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 
According to direction, then received 

A lecture and some money : for four springs 
He was to travel ; and, though Inez grieved, 

(As every kind of parting has its stings,) 
She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed ; 

A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 

Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 

X. 

In the mean time, to pass her hours away, 
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-school 

For naughty children, who would rather play 
(Like truant rogues) the devil or the fool ; 

Infants of three years old were taught that day, 
Dunces were whipp'd or set upon a stool : 

The great success of Juan's education 

Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 

XI. 

Juan embark'd — the ship got under weigh, 
The wind was fair, the water passing rough ; 

A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, 
As I, who've cross'd it oft, know well enough : 

And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 
Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough. 

And there he stood to take, and take again, 

His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 

XII. 
I can't but say it is an awkward sight 

To see one's native land receding through 
The growing waters — it unmans one quite : 

Especially when life is rather new : 
I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, 

But almost every other country's blue, 
When, gazing on them, mystified by distance, 
We enter on our nautical existence. 

XIII. 
So Juan stood bewildcr'd on the deck : 

The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore, 
And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck, 

From which away so far and fast they bore. 
The best of remedies is a beef-steak 

Against sea-sickness ; try it, sir, before 
You sneer, and I assure you this is true, 
For I have found it answer — so may you. 



604 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIV. 



Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, 
Beheld his native Spain receding far : 

First partings form a lesson hard to learn, 
Even nations feel this when they go to war ; 

There is a sort of unexpress'd concern, 
A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar: 

At leaving even the most unpleasant people 

And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 

XV. 

But Juan had got many things to leave — 
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, 

So that he had much better cause to grieve 
Than many persons more advanced in life ; 

And, if we now and then a sigh must heave 
At quitting even those we quit in strife, 

No doubt we weep for those the heart endears — 

That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 

XVI. 

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion : 

I'd weep, but mine is not a weeping muse, 
And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 

Young men should travel, if but to amuse 
Themselves ; and the next time their servants tie on 

Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 

Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 

And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thought, 
While his salt tears dropt into the salt sea, 

" Sweets to the sweet ;" (I like so much to quote ; 
You must excuse this extract, 'tis where she, 

The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
Flowers to the grave,) and sobbing often, he 

Reflected on his present situation, 

And seriously resolved on reformation. 

XVIII. 

" Fsrewell, my Spain ! a long farewell !" he cried, 
" Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 

But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, 
Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 

Fareweil, where Guadalquivir's waters glide ! 
Farewell, my mother ! and, since all is o'er, 

Farewell, too, dearest Julia !" — (here he drew 

Her letter out again, and read it through.) 

XIX. 

" And oh ! if e'er I should forget, I swear- 
But that's impossible, and cannot be — 

Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, 
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 

Than I resign thine image, oh ! my fair ! 
Or think of any thing excepting thee ; 

A mind diseased no remedy can physic" — 

(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sibk.) 

XX. 

" Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (here he fell 
Oh, Julia ! what is every other wo ! — [sicker) — 

(For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquor — 
Pedro! Baptista! help me down below.) 

Julia, my love ! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) — 
Oh, Julia ! — (this cursed vessel pitches so)— 

Beloved Julia ! hear me still beseeching" — 

(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) 



XXI. 

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, 
Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 

Beyond the best apothecary's art, 
The loss of love, the treachery of friends, 

Or death of those we doat on, when a part 
Of us dies with them, as each fond hope ends : 

No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, 

But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 

XXII. 
Love's a capricious power ; I've known it hold 

Out through a fever caused by its own heat 
But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, 

And find a quincy very hard to treat : 
Against all noble maladies he's bold, 

But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet, 
Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh ; ■ 
Nor inflamations redden his blind eye. 

XXIII. 

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
About the lower regions of the bowels ; 

Love, who heroically breaths a vein, 

Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 

And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, 
Sea-sickness death : his love was perfect, how else 

Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, 

Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before ? 

XXIV. 

The ship, called the most holy "Trinidada," 
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 

For there the Spanish family Moncada 

Were settled long ere Juan's sire was bom : 

They were relations, and for them he had a 
Letter of introduction, which the morn 

Of his departure had been sent him by 

His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who several languages did understand, 

But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, 

His headach^ being increased by every billow : 
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

Twas not without some reason, for the wind 
Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 

And though 'twas not much to a naval mind, 
Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, 

For sailors are, in fact, a different kind: 
At sunset they began to take in sail, 

For the sky sMfcv'd it would come on to blow, 

And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

XXVII. 
At one o'clock, the wind with sudden shift 

Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, 
Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 

Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 
Whole of her stern frame, and, ere she could lift 

Herself from out her present jeopardy, 
The rudder tore away : 'twas time to sound 
The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 



DON JUAN. 



605 



XXVIII. 

One gang of people instantly was put 
Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 

To get up part of the cargo, and what not, 
But they could not come at the leak as yet ; 

At last they did get at it really, but 
Still their salvation was an even bet : 

The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, 

While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of 
muslin, 

XXIX. 

Into the opening ; but all such ingredients [down, 
Would have been vain, and they must have gone 

Despite of all their efforts and expedients, 

But for the pumps : I'm glad to make them known 

To all the brother-tars who may have need hence, 
For fifty tons of water were upthrown 

By them per hour, and they had been all undone 

But for the maker Mr. Mann, of London. 

XXX. 

As day advanced, the weather seem'd to abate, 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
Kept two hard and one chain pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late [loose, 
A squall came on, and, while some guns broke 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends— 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 

XXXI. 

There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset : 
The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, 

And made a seene men do not soon forget ; 
For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 

Or any other thing that brings regret, 
Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks, 

Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers 

And swimmers who may chance to be survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cu away, 

Both main and mizen ; first the mizen went, 

The mainmast follow'd : but the ship still lay 
Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 

Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
Eased her at last, (although we never meant 

To part with all till every hope was blighted,) 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 

XXXIII. 

It may be easily supposed, while this 

Was going on, some people were unquiet ; 

That passengers would find it much amiss 
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet ; 

That even the able seamen, deeming his 
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, 

As upon such occasions tars will ask 

For grog, and sometimes drink rum from thf cask. 

XXXIV. 

There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 
As rum and true religion ; thus it was, [psalms, 

Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung 
The high wind made the treble, and as bass 

The hoarse harsh waves kept time, fright cured the 
qualms 
Of all the luckless landsmen's seasick maws : 

Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 

Clamor'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 



XXXV. 

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, 

Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears, 

As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
Of fife than water, spite of oaths and tears, 

Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, 

Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 

XXXVI. 

" Give us more grog," they cried, " for it will be 
All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No ! 

'Tis true that death awaits both you and me, 
But let us die like men, not sink below 

Like brutes ;" — and thus his dangerous post kept he, 
And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 

And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 

Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 

XXXVII. 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast : 
And made a loud and pious lamentation ; 

Repented all his sins, and made a last 
Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 

Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 
To quit his academic occupation 

In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 

To follow Juan's wake like Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 

But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 

Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts were 
gone, 
The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shore, 

The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 
The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail. 

XXXIX. 

Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd, 
And for the moment it had some effect ; 

But with a leak, and not a stick of mast 
Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect ? 

But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 
'Tis never too late to be wholly wreck'd : 

And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 

'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 

XL. 

There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from 
thence 

Without their will, they carried them away ; 
For they were forced with steering to dispense, 

And never had as yet a quiet day 
On which they might repose, or even commence 

A jury-mast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, 
Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 

XLI. 

The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 

But the ship labor'd so, they scarce could hope 

To weather out much longer ; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid mess 
Was scant enough ; in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, 

Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 



S06 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLII. 

Again the weather threaten'd — again blew 
A gale, and in the fore. and after hold 

Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 
All this, the most were patient, and some bold, 

Until the chains and leathers were worn through 
Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she 1 roll'd, 

At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 

Like human beings during civil war. 

XLIII. 

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 

Could do no more ; he was a man in years, 
And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, 

And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
That made his eyelids as a woman's be, 

But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, 

Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 

XLIV. 

The ship was evidently settling now 
Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone, 

Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
Of candles to their saints — but there were none 

To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow, 
Some hoisted out the boats : and there was one 

That begg'd Pedrillo for absolution, 

Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusion. 

XLV. 

Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on 
Their best clothes as if going to a fair ; 

Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 
And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their 

And others went on, as they had begun, [hair; 

Getting the boats out, being well aware 

That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 

Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 

XLVI. 

The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
Having been several days in great distress, 

'Twas difficult to get out such provision 
As now might render their long suffering less : 

Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 

Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : 

Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 

XLVII. 

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 

Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; 

Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 

Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 

A portion of their beef up from below, 
And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 

But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon ; 

Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 

XLVIII. 

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
Been stove in the beginning of the gale ; 

And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
As there were but two blankets for a sail, 

And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, 

To save one half the people then on board. 



XLIX. 
'Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down 

Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, 
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 

Of one whose hate is masked but to assail ; 
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 

And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 
And the dim desolate deep — twelve days had Fear 
Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 



Some trial had been making at a raft, 
With little hope in such a rolling sea, 

A sort of thing at which one would have laugh iS, 
If any laughter at such times could be, 

Unless with people who too much have quaff 'd. 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee 

Half epileptical, and half hysterical: 

Their preservation would have been a xziii cle. 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars, 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
For yet they strove, although of no great use : 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars ; 
The boats put off o'ercrowdtd with their crews ; 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 

And, going down head-foremost — sunk, in short. 

LII. 
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell, 

Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave , 
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, 

As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, 
Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
And strives to strangle him before he die. 

mi. 

And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, 
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

LIV. 

The boats, as stated, had got off before, 
And in them crowded several of the crew ; 

And yet their present hope was hardly more 
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew, 

There was slight chance of reaching any shore, 
And then they were too many, though so ftT — 

Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, 

Were rtmnted in them when they got afloat. 

LV. 

All the rest perish'd ; near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies ; and, what's worse, alas ! 

When over Catholies the ocean rolls, 
They must wait several weeks, before a mass 

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, 

Because, till people know what's come to pass, 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that's said. 



DON JUAN. 



607 



LVI. 

Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case ; 

Battista (though a name call'd shortly Tita) 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

LVII. 

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save ; 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 
Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave, 

As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, 
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave : 

They could not rescue him, although so close, 
Because the sea ran higher every minute, 
And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 

LVIII. 

A small old spaniel, — which had been Don Jose's, 
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, 

For on such things the memory reposes 

With tenderness — stood howling on the brink, 

Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses !) 
No doubt the vessel was about to sink ; 

And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd 

Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 

LIX. 

He also stuff'd his money where he could 
About his person, and Pedrillo's too, 

Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 
Not knowing what himself to say or do, 

As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 
But Juan, trusting they might still get through, 

And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 

Thus reembark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 

LX. 

'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 

Though on the wave's high top too much to set, 
They dared not take it in for all the breeze ; 

Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, 
And made them bale without a moment's ease, 

So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 

And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 

LXI. 

Nine souls more went in her ; the long-boat still 
Kept above water, with an oar for mast, 

Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast ; 

Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, 
And present peril all before surpass'd, 

They griev'd for those who perish'd with the cutter, 

And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 

LXII. 

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
Of the continuance of the gale : to run 

Before the sea, until it should grow fine, 
Was all that for the present could be done : 

A few teaspoonfuls of their rum and wine 
Was serv'd out to the people, who begun 

To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 

And most of them had little clothes but rags. 



LXIII. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a t>pace 
Which left scarce room for motion or exertion : 

They did their best to modify their case, [sion, 

One half sate up, though numb'd with the immer- 

While t'other half were laid down in their place, 
At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the ter- 

Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, [tian 

With nothing but the sky for a great-coat. 

LXIV. 

'Tis very certain the desire of life 

Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians, 

When patients, neither plagued with friend nor wife, 
Survive through very desperate conditions, 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions. 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

LXV. 
'Tis said that persons living on annuities 

Are longer lived than others, — God knows why, 
Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is 

That some, I really think, do never die : .. 
Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, 

And that's their mode of furnishing supply : 
In my young days they lent me cash that way, 
Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

LXVI. 

'Tis thus with people in an open boat, 
They live upon the love of life, and bear 

More than can be believed, or even thought, [tear; 
And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and 

And hardships still has been the sailor's lot, 

Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there — 

She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 

Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 

, LXVII. 

But man is a carnivorous production, 

And must have meals, at least one meal a day; 

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, 
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey • 

Although his anatomical construction 
Bears vegetables in a grumbling way, 

Your laboring people think, beyond all question, 

Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

LXVIII. 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 

For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it might renew, 

And, lying on their weariness like balm, 
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm 
And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 

LXIX. 

The consequence was easily foreseen — 
They ate up all they had, and drank their wine 

In spite of all remonstrances, and then 
On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? 

They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men 
And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine, 

But, as they had but one oar, and that brittle. 

It would have been more wise to save their victual. 



608 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
And ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child : 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, 
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 

"With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew wild, 

So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, 

Was kill'd and portion'd out for present eating. 

LXXI. 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 
And Juan, who had still refused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died, 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 

With some remorse received, (though first denied,) 
-As a great favor, one of the fore-paws, 

Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
Blister'd and scorch'd ; and stagnant on the sea, 

They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none, 
Save in the breeze that came not ; savagely 

They glared upon each other — all was done, 
Water, and wine, and food, — and you might see 

The longings of the cannibal arise 
Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXIII. 
At length one whisper'd his companion, who 

Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 
And then into a hoarser murmur grew, 

An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 
And when his comrade's thoughts each sufferer knew 

'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found: 
And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 
And who should die to be his fellows' food. 

LXXIV. 

But ere they came to this, they that day shared 
Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes ; 

And then they look'd around them, and despair'd, 
And none to be the sacrifice would choose ; 

At length the lots were torn up and prepared, 
But of materials that must shock the muse — 

Having no paper, for the want of better, 

They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 

LXXV. 

The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and 
In silent horror, and their distribution [handed 

Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded, 
Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 

None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 
'Twas nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 

By which none were permitted to be neuter — 

And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 

LXXVI. 

He but requests to be bled to death ; 

The surgeon had his instruments, and bled 
Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath, 

You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 
He died, as born, a Catholic in faith, 

Like most in the belief in which they're bred, 
At first a little crucifix he kiss'd, 
And then held out his jugular and wrist. 



LXXVII. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee, 

Had his first choice of morsels for his painfl ; 

But being thirstiest at the moment, he 
Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins : 

Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, 
And such things as the entrails and the brains 

Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow — 

The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 

LXXVIII. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 
Who were not quite so fond of animal food ; 

To these was added Juan, who, before 
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 

Feel now his appetite increased much more ; 
'Twas not to be expected that he should, 

Even in extremity of their disaster, 

Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 

LXXIX. 

'Twas better that he did not ; for, in fact, 
The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 

For they, who were most ravenous in the act, 
Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme. 

And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'dj 
Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream, 

Tearing and grinning, howling, screeching, swear« 

And, with hyaena laughter, died despairing. [ing, 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, 
And all the rest were thin enough, heaven knows ; 

And some of them had lost their recollection, 
Happier than they who still perceived their woes ; 

But others ponder'd on a new dissection, 
As if not warn'd sufficiently by those 

Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, 

For having used their appetites so sadly. 

LXXXI. 

And next they thought upon the master's mate, 
As fattest ; but he saved himself, because, 

Besides being much averse from such a fate, 
There were some other reasons : the first was, 

He had been rather indisposed of late, 
And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, 

Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 

By general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXII. ' 

Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd, 
But it was used sparingly, — some were afraid, 

And others still their appetites constrain'd, 
Or but at times a little supper made ; 

All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd, 
Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead : 

At length they caught two boobies and a noddy, 

And then they left off eating the dead body. 

LXXXIII. 

And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 

Remember Ugolino condescends 
To eat the head of his arch-enemy 

The moment after he politely ends 
His tale ; if foes be food in hell, at sea 

'Tis surely fair to dine upqn our friends, 
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty 
Without being much more horrible than Dante. 



DON JUAN. 



609 



LXXXIV. 

And the same night there fell a shower of rain, 
For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks cf 
earth 

When dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain, 
Men really know not what good water's worth ; 

If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 

Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your birth, 

Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, 

You'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. 

LXXXV. 

It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer, 
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 

Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, 
And when they deem'd its moisture was complete, 

They wrung it out, and, though a thirsty ditcher 
Might not have thought the scanty draught so 

As a full pot of porter, to their thinking [sweet 

They ne'er, till now, had known the joys of drinking. 

LXXXVI. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd; 

Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were 
black 
As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd 

To beg the beggar, who could not, rain back 
A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 

To taste of heaven — if this be true, indeed, 

Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 

LXXXVII. 

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
And with them their two sons, of whom the one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view, 
But he died early ; and when he was gone, 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
One glance on him, and said, "Heaven's will be 

I can do nothing ! " and he saw him thrown [done ; 

Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 

LXXXVIII. 

The other father had a weaklier child, ( 

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 

And patient spirit, held aloof his fate ; 
Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 

As if to win a part from off the weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 

LXXXIX. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from off his face, buf wiped the foam 

From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; [come, 
And when the wish'd-for shower at length was 

And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to. roam, 

He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 

Irfto his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 



XCI. 



XC. 

The boy expired — the father held the clay, 
And look'd upon it long, and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay 
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 

He watched it wistfully, until away 
'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast ; 

Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shivering, 

And gave no'signs of life, save his limbs quivering. 
77 



Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through [sea, 
The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark 

Resting its bright base on the quivering blue : 
And all within its arch appear'd to be 

Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free, 

Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and then 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 

XCII. 

It changed, of course ; a heavenly chameleon, 
The airy child of vapor and the sun, 

Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 
Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, 

Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 
And blending every color into one, 

Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle, 

(For sometimes we must box without the muffle.) 

XCIII. 

Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen — 

It is as well to think so, now and then ; 
'Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 

And may become of great advantage when 
Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 

Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope- 
Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 

XCIV. 

About this time, a beautiful white bird, 
Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size 

And plumage, (probably it might have err'd 
Upon its course,) pass'd oft before their eyes, 

And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 
The men within the boat, and in this guise 

It came and went, and flutter'd round them till 

Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still. 

XCV. 

But in this case I also must remark, 
'Twas well this bird of promise did not perch 

Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 
Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 

And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 
Returning there from her successful search, 

Which in their way that moment chanced to faj, 

They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 

XCVI. 

With twilight it again came on to blow, 

But not with violence ; the stars shone out, 
The boat made way ; yet now they were so low, 

They knew not where nor what they were about ; 
Some fancied they saw land, and some said " No ! " 
The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt- 
Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, 
And all mistook about the latter once. 



XCVII. 

As morning broke, the light wind died away, 
When he who had the watch sung out, and swore 

If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray 
He wish'd that land he never might see more : 

And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, 
Or thought they saw, and shaped their course fo 

For shore it was, and gradually grew [shore 

Distinct and high, and palpable to view. 



610 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCVIII. 

And then of these some part burst into tears, 
And others, looking with a stupid stare, 

Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 
And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 

While a few pray'd— (the first time for some years)— 
And at the bottom of the boat three were 

Asleep ; they shook them by the hand and head, 

And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 

XCIX. 

The day before, fast sleeping on the water, 
They found a turtle of the hawks-bill kind, 

And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 

Proved even still a more nutritious matter, 
Because it left encouragement behind : 

They thought that in such perils, more than chance 

Had sent them this for their deliverance. 

C. 

The land appear'd, a high and rocky coast, 
And higher grew the mountains as they drew, 

Set by a current, toward it : they were lost 
In various conjectures, for none knew 

To what part of the earth they had been toss'd, 
So changeable had been the winds that blew ; 

Some thought it was Mount iEtna, some the high- 

Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands, [lands 

CI. 

Meantime the current, with a rising gale, 
Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 

Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale: 
Their living freight was now reduced to four ; 

And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
To heave into the deep with those before, 

Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd 

The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

CII. 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done 
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 

Such things, a mother had not known her son 
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 

By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 
They perish'd, until wither'd to these few, 

But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 

In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 

cm. 

As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen, 
Unequal in its aspect here and there, 

They felt the freshness of its growing green, 
That waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air, 

And fell upon their glazed eyes as a screen 
From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare — 

Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 

Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

CIV. 

The shore look'd wild, without the trace of man, 
And girt by formidable waves ; but they 

Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay : 

A reef between them also now began 
To show its boiling surf and bounding spray ; 

But, finding no place for their landing better, 

They lan the boat for shore, and overset her. 



CV. 



But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 

And, having learn'd to swim in that sweet river, 
Had often turn'd the art to some account. 

A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, 
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 

As once, (a feat on which ourselves we prided,). 

Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 

CVI. 

So, here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark 
The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 

The greatest danger here was from a shark, 
That carried off his neighbor by the thigh ; 

As for the other two, they could not swim, 

So nobody arrived on shore but him. 

CVII. 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 
Which, providentially for him, was wash'd 

Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, 

And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 'twas dash'd 

Within his grasp ; he clung to it, and sore 
The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 

At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 

Roll'd on the beach, half senseless, from the sea : 

CVIII. 

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 

From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung 
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : 

And there he lay, full-length, where he was flung, 
Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, 

With just enough of life to feel its pain, 

And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. 

CIX. 

With slow and staggering effort he arose, 
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee, 

And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for those 
Who long had been his mates upon the sea, 

But none of them appear'd to share his woes, 
Save one, a corpse from out the famish'd three, 

Who died two days before, and now had found 

An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 

CX. 

And, as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 
And down he sunk, and, as he sunk, the sand 

Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd : 
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand 

Droop'd dripping on the oar, (their jury-mast,) 
And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 

His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, 

As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 

CXI. 

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, 

And time had nothing more of night nor day 
For his congealing blood, and senses dim, 

And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb 

And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, 

For Death, though vanquish'd, still retir'd with strife 



DON JUAN. 



611 



CXII. 

His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, 
For all was doubt and dizziness : he thought 

He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, 

And wish'd it death in which he had reposed ; 
And then once more his feelings back were brought, 

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 

A lovely female face of seventeen. 

CXIII. 

'Twas bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 

And chafing him, the soft warm hand of yoxith 
Recall'd his answering spirits back from death: 

And, bathing his chill temples, tried to sooth 
Each pulse to animation, till beneath 

Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 

To these kind efforts made a low reply. 

CXIV. 

Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 

Rais'd higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; 
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 

Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung 
His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm ; 

And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 

A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers too. 

cxv. 

And lifting him with care into the cave, 
The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 

Young yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 
And more robust of figure, — then begun 

To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 

Light to the rocks that roof 'd them, which the sun 

Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 

She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 

CXVI. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 

Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd 
In braids behind, and, though her stature were 

Even of the highest for a female mould, 

They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 

There was a something which bespoke command, 

As one who was a lady in the land. 

CXVII. 

Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, 

Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
Deepest attraction, for when to the view 

Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 

'Tis as the snake, late coil'd, who pours his length, 

And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 

CXVIII. 

Her brow was white and low, her cheeks' pure dye 
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 

Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh 
Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 

Fit for the model of a statuary, 

(A race of mere impostors, when all's done : 

I've seen much finer women, »pe and real, 

Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal.) 



CXIX. 

I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just 
One should not rail without a decent cause: 

There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 

A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 
Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling law^ 

They will destroy a face which mortal thought 

Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. 

cxx. 

And such was she, the lady of the cave : 
Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 

Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave ; 
For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 

Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 

The basquina and the mantilla, they 

Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

CXXI. 

But with our damsel this was not the case : 
Her dress was many color'd, finely spun ; 

Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, 
But through them gold and gems profusely shone. 

Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 

Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking, 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 

CXXII. 

The other female's dress was not unlike, 

But of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike : 

Her hair had silver only, boand to be 
Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike, 

Was coarser ; and her air, though firm, less free ; 
Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

CXXIII. 

And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 
With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, 

Which are (as I must own) of female growth, 
And have ten thousand delicate inventions ; 

They made a most superior mess of broth, 
A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, 

But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's 

Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 

CXXIV. 

I'll tell you who they were, this female pair, 

Lest they should seem princesses in disguise ; 
Besides I hate all mystery, and that air 
Of clap-trap, which your poets prize ; 
And so, in short, the girls they really were 
JThey shall appear before your curious eyes, 
Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter ' 
Of an old man who lived upon the water. 

cxxv. 

A fisherman he had been in his youth, 
And still a sort of fisherman was he ; 

But other speculations were, in sooth, 
Added to his connexion with the sea, 

Perhaps, not so respectable in truth ; 
A little smuggling, and some piracy, 

Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 

Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 



612 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXXIII. 

He had a bed of furs and a pelisse, 
For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make 

His couch ; and that he might be more at ease, 
And warm, in case by chance he should awake 

They also gave a petticoat apiece, 
She and her maid, and promis'd by daybreak 

To pay -him a fresh visit, with a dish, 

For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 

CXXXIV. 

And thus they left him to his lone repose : 
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, 

"Who sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows,) 
Just for the present, and in his lull'd head 

Not even a vision of his former woes [spread 

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes 

Unwelcome visions of our former years, 

Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 

CXXXY. 

Young Juan slept all dreamless ; — but the maid 
Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den, 

Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, 
And turn'd, belicaing that he call'd again. 

He slumber'd: yet she thought, at least she said, 
(The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen,) 

He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 

That at this moment Juan knew it not. 

CXXXVI. 

And pensive to her father's house she went, 
Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 

Better than she knew what, in fact, she meant, 
She being wiser by a year or two : 

A year or two 's an age when rightly spent, 
And Zoe spent hers as most women do, 

In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 

Which, is acquired in nature's good old college. 

CXXXVII. 

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still 
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 

His rest ; the rushing of the neighboring rill, 
And the young beams of the excluded sun, , 

Troubled him not, and, he might sleep his fill; 
And need he had of slumber yet, for none 

Had suffer'd more — his hardships were comparative 

To those related in my grand-dad's "Narrative." 

cxxxviii: 

Not so Haidee ; she sadly toss'd and tumbled, 

And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 
Dream' d of a thousond wrecks, o'er which she 
stumbled, 
And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore ; 
And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, 
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 
It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven — W \x- several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek, — 
(Saint Paul says 'tis the toll which must be given.) fhey knew not what to think of such a freak. 



CX£VI. 

A fisher, therefore, was he — though of men, 
Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fish'd 

For wandering merchant vessels, now and then, 
And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 

The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 
He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 

Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, 

By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 

CXXVII. 

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 

A very handsome house from out his guilt, 
And there he lived exceedingly at ease ; 

Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, 
A sad old fellow was he, if you please, 

But this I know, it was a spacious building, 

Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

*CXXVIII. 

He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee, 
The greatest heiress of the Eastern isles ; 

Besides so very beautiful was she, 

Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles : 

Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 
She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 

Rejected several suitors, just to learn 

How to accept a better in his turn. 

CXXIX. 

And walking out upon the beach below 
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 

Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 
Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd ; 

But, being naked, she was shock'd, you know, 
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 

As fa-r as in her lay, " to take him in, 

A stranger," dying, with so white a skin. 

exxx. 

But taking him into her father's house 
Was not exactly the best way to save, 

But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
Or people in a trance into their grave ; 

Because the good old man had so much " vovs," 
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, 

He would have hospitably cured the stranger, 

And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

CXXXI. 

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 
(A virgin always on her maid relies) 

To place him in the cave for present rest: 
And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 

Their charity increased about their guest . 
And their compassion grew to such a size, 



CXXXII. 

They made a fire, but such a fire as they 
Upon the moment could contrive with such 

Materials as were cast up round the bay, 

Some broken planks and oars, that to the touch 

Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay, 
A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 

But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, 

That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty. 



CXXXIX. 

But up she got, and up she made them get, 
With some pretence about the sun, that makes 

Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set; 

And 'tis, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 

Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet 
With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 

And night is flung off,like a mourning suit 

Worn for a husband, — or some other brute. 



DON JUAN. 



613 



CXL. 

I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
I've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late 

I have set up on purpose all the night, 
"Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate; 

And so all ye, who would be in the right 
In health and purse, begin your day to date 

From day-break, and when coffin'd at fourscore, 

Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 

CXLI. 

And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 

From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, 
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, 

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread, 
Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 

CXLII. 
And down the cliff the island virgin came, 

And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 
While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 

And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 
Taking her for a sister ; just the same 

Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, 
Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 
Had all the advantage too of not being air. 

CXLIII. 

And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd, 

All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept : 

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe, 
(For sleep is awful,) and on tiptoe crept 

And wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
Should reach his blood ; then o'er him, still as death, 
Bent with hush'd lips that drank his scarce-drawn 
breath. 

CXLIV. 
And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying 

Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; and there 
All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying, 

As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air: 
But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying, 

Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 
Must breakfast, and betimes— lest they should ask it, 
She drew out her provision from the basket. 

CXLV. 

She knew that the best feelings must have victual, 
And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be ; 

Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, 
And felt her veins chill'd by the neighboring sea ; 

And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 
I can't say that she gave them any tea, 

But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, 

With Scio wine — and all for love, not money. 

CXLVI. 

And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 

The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan ; 

But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand, 
And without word, a sign her finger drew on 

Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; 
And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one, 

Because her mistress would not let her break 

That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake, j 



CXLVII. 

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek 
A purple hectic play'd, like dying day 

On the snow-tops of distant hills ; the streak 
Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, [weak ; 

Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and 
And his black curls were dewy with the spray, 

Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt 

Mix'd with the stony vapors of the vault. 

CXLVIII. 
And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 

Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 
Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 

Lull'd like the depth c;f ocean when at rest, 
Fair as the crowding rose of the whole wreath, 

Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest ; 
In short he was a very pretty fellow, 
Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow. 

CXLIX. 

He woke and gazed, and would have slept again. 

But the fair face which met his eyes, forbade 
Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 

Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 
For woman's face was never form'd in vain 

For Juan, so that even when he pray'd, 
He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, 
To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 

CL. 

And thus upon his elbow he arose, 
And look'd upon the lady in whose cheek 

The pale contented with the purple rose, 
As with an effort she began to speak ; 

Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose, 
Although she told him, in good modern Greek, 

With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, 

That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 

CLI. 

Now Juan could not understand a word, 
Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, 

And her voice was the warble of a bird, 
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, 

That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
The sort of sound we echo with a tear, 

Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, 

Whence melody descends, as from a throne. 

CLII 

And Juan gazed, as one who is awoke 
By a distant organ, doubting if he be 

Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 
By the watchman, or some such reality, 

Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 
At least it is a heavy sound to me, 

Who like a morning slumber — for the night 

Shows stars and women in a better light. 

CLIII. 
And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream, 

Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 
A most prodigious appetite : the steam 

Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 
Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 

Of the new fire which Zoe kept up, kneeling 
To stir her viands, made him quite awake 
And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak 



614 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLIV. 

But beef is rare within these oxless isles ; 

Goats' flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, 
And when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on : 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 

For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on, 
Others are fair and fertile, among which, 
This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 

CLV. 

I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 
That the old fable of the Minotaur— 

From which our modern morals rightly shrinking, 
Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 

A cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 
The allegory) a mere type, no more, 

That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, 

To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 

CLVI. 

For we all know that English people are 
Fed upon beef — I won't say much of beer, 

Because 'tis liquor only, and being far 

From this my subject, has no business here : — 

We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear; 

So were the Cretans — from which I infer 

That beef and battles both were owing to her 

CLVII. 

But to resume. The languid Juan raised 
His head upon his elbow, and he saw 

A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 
As all his latter meals had been quite raw, 

Three or four things for which the Lord be praised, 
And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw, 

He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like 

A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLVIII. 
He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she, 

Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 
Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 

Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 
But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 

Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 
That famish'd people must be slowly nursed, 
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

CLIX. 
And so she took the liberty to state, 

Rather by deeds than words, because the case 
Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 

Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 
The seashore at this hour, must leave his plate, 

Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 
She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel, 
Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. 

CLX. 

Next they — he being naked, save a tatter'd 
Pair of scarce decent trousers — went to work, 

'And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd, 
And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 

Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter'd, 
Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 

They furnish'd him, entire except some stitches, 

With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 



CLX1. 

And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking 
But not a word could Juan comprehend, 

Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 
Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end ; 

And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
Her speech out to her protege and friend, 

Till, pausing at the last her breath to take, 

She saw he did not understand Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, 
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eyfc, 

And read (the only book she could) the lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, 

The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 

And thus in every look she saw express'd 

A world of words, and things at which she guess'd- 

CLXIII. 
And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 

And words repeated after her, he took 
A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise, 

No doubt, less of her language than her look : 
As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 
Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 
From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 

CLXIV. 

'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean, 

When both the teacher and the taught are young, 
As was the case, at least where I have been ; 

They smile so when one's right, and when one's 
wrong 
They smile still more, and then there intervene 

Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss ; — 

I learn'd the little that I know by this : 

CLXV. 

That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, or Greek, 
Italian not at all, having no teachers, 

Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 

Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, 

Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 
I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 

Of eloquence in piety and prose — 

I hate your poets, so read none of those. 

CLXVI. 

As for the ladies, I have nought to say, 

A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 

Where I, like other " dogs, have had my day," 
Like other men, too, may have had my passion — 

But that, like other things, has pass'd away : 
And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on, 

Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me 

But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 

CLXVII. 
Return we to Don Juan. He begun 

To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 
Some feelings, universal as the sun, 

Were such as could not in his breast be shut 
More than within the bosom of a nun : 

He was in love — as you would be, no doubt, 
With a young benefactress, — so was she 
Just in the way we very often see. 



DON JUAN. 



615 



CLXVIII. 

And every day by daybreak— rather early 
For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest— 

Bhe came into the cave, but it was merely 
To see her bird reposing in his nest ; 

And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 
Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, 

Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 

As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 

CLXIX. 

And every morn his color freshlier came, 
And every day help'd on his convalescence, 

'Twas well, because health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, 

For health and idleness to passion's flame 
Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons 

Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

"Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 

CLXX. 

While Venus fills the heart, (without heart really 
Love, though good always, is not quite so good,) 

Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, 

For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood. — 

While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly : 
Eggs, oysters too, are amatory food ; 

But who is their purveyors from above 

Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 

CLXXI. 

When Juan woke, he found some good things ready, 
A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 

That ever made a youthful heart less steady, 
Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size ; 

But I have spoken of all this already — 
And repetition's tiresome and unwise. — 

Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea, 

Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 

CLXXII. 

Both were so young, and one so innocent, 

That bathing pass'd for nothing ; Juan seem'd 

To her, as 'twere the kind of being sent, 

Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, 

A something to be loved, a creature meant 
To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 

To render happy ; all who joy would win 

Must shars it, — happiness was born a twin. 

CLXXIII. 

It was such pleasure to behold him, such 
Enlargement of existence to partake 

Nature with him, to thrill beneath his toucn, 
To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake : 

To live with him for ever were too much ; 

But then the thought of parting made her quake : 

He was her own, her ocean treasure, cast 

Like a rich wreck — her first love and her last. 

CLXXIV. 

And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 
Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 

Such plentiful precautions, that still he 

Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook : 

At last her father's prows put out to sea, 
For certain merchantmen upon the look, 

Not as of yore to carry off an Io, 

But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 



CLXXV. 
Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, 

So that, her father being at sea, she was 
Freed as a married woman, or such other 

Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 
Without even the encumbrance of a brother, 

The freest she that ever gazed on glass : 
I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, 
Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk, 

(For they must talk,) and he had learnt to say 

So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
For little had he wander'd since the day 

On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk, 
Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 

And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 

CLXX VII. 

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 
With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 

Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host, 
With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 

A better welcome to the tempest-toss'd ; 

And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar, 

Save on the dead long summer days, which make 

The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 

CLXXVIII. 

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 

Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, 

When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, 
That sprixgdew of the spirit ! the heart's rain ! 

Few things surpass old wine ; and they may preach 
Who please, — the more because they preach in 
vain, — 

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, 

Sermons and soda-water the day after. 

CLXXIX. 

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; 

The best of life is but intoxication : 
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 

The hopes of all men, and of every nation ; 
Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk 

Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion ! 
But to return — get very drunk ; and when 
You wake with headache, you shall see what then 

CLXXX. 

Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
Some hock and soda-water, then you'll know 

A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king ; 
For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow, 

Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring, 
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow, 

After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter, 

Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water! 

CLXXXI. 

The coast — I think it was the coast that I 
Was just describing — Yes, it was the coast — 

Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 
The sands untumbled, the blue waves untoss'd, 

And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow cross'd 

By some low rock or shelve that made it fret 

Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 



616 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXXXII. 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 

As I have said, upon an expedition ; 
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, 

Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
She waited on her lady with the sun, 

Thought daily service was her only mission, 
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses, 
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 

CLXxxni. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 

Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, 
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, 

With the far mountain-crescent, half surrounded 
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 

Upon the other, and the rosy sky,' 

With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand, 
Over the shining pebbles and the shells, 

Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand, 
And in the worn and wild receptacles 

Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd, 
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, 

They turn'd to rest ; and, each clasp'd by an arm, 

Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

CLXXXV. 

They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 

"Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight ; 

They heard the waves' splash, and the wind so low, 
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other — and, beholding this, 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 

CLXXXVI. 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, 
And beauty, all concentrating like rays 

Into one focus, kindled from above ; 
Such kisses as belong to early days, 

Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, 
And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze, 

Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 

I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 

CLXXXVII. 

By length I mean duration ; theirs endured 

Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never 
reckon'd, 
And if they had, they could not have secured 

The sum of their sensations to a second : 
They had not spoken ; but they felt allured, 

As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, 
Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung — 
Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey 
sprung. 

CLXXXVIII. 
They were alone, yet not alone as they 

Who, shut in chambers, think it loneliness ; 
The silent ocean,, and the starlight bay, 

The twilight glow, which momently grew less, 
The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 

Around them, made them to each other press, 
As if there were no life beneath the sky 
Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 



CLXXXIX. 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 
They felt no terrors from the night, they were 

All in all to each other : though their speech 
Was broken words, they thought a language there 

And all the burning tongues the passions teach, 
Found in one sigh the best interpreter 

Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all 

Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 

CXC. 

Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 
Nor offer'd any ; she had never heard 

Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 
Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 

She was all which pure ignorance allows, 

And flew to her young mate like a young bird ; 

And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 

Had not one word to say of constancy. 

CXCI. 

She loved, and was beloved — she adored, 

And she was worshipp'd; after nature's fashion, 

Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 

If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,-* 

But by degrees their senses were restored, 
Again to be o'ercorae, again to dash on ; 

And, beating"gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 

Felt as if never more to beat apart. 

CXCII. 

Alas ! they were so young, so beautiful, 
So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 

Was that in which the heart is always full, 
And, having o'er itself no further power, 

Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul, 
But pays off moments in an endless shower 

Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 

Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

CXCIII. 
Alas ! for Juan and Haidee ! they were 

So loving and so lovely — till then never, 
Excepting our first parents, such a pair 

Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever ; 
And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 

Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, 
And hell and purgatory — but forgot 
Just in the very crisis she should not. 

CXCIV. 

They look upon each other, and their eyes 
Gleam in the moonlight ; and her white arm clasps 

Round Juan's head, and his around her lies 
Half buried in the tresses which it grasps ; 

She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 
He hers, until they end in broken gasps ; 

And thus they form a group that's quite antique, 

Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 

exev. 

And when those deep and burning moments pass'd 
And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, 

She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms ; 

And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, 
And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms. 

Pillow'd on her o'erflowing hearty which pants 

With all it granted, and with all it grants. 



DON JUAN. 



617 



CXCVI. 

An infant when it gazes on a light, 

A child the moment when it drains the breast, 
A devotee when soars the host in sight, 

An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
A sailor, when the prize has struck in fight, 

A miser filling his most hoarded chest, 
Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. 

CXCVII. 

For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 
All that it hath of life with us is living ; 

So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, 
And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving, 

All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 

Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving ; 

There lies the thing we love with all its errors, 

And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

CXCVIII. 

The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 

O'erflow'd her soul with their united power] 
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude, 

She and her wave-worn love had made their bower, 
Where nought upon their passion could intrude, 

And all the stars that crowded the blue space, 

Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 

CXCIX. 

Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 

And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring 
To them but mockeries of the past alone, 

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing : yet as real 
Torture is theirs — what they inflict they feel. 

CC. 

They're right ; for man, to man so oft unjust, 
Is always so to women ; one sole bond 

Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 

Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 

Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 
Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond ? 

A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, 

Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over. 

CCI. 

Some take a lover, some take drams OjfPprayers, 
Some mind their household, others dissipation, 

Some run away, and but exchange their cares, 
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; 

Few changes e'er can better their affairs, 
Theirs being an unnatural situation, 

From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 

Some play the devil, and then write a novel. 

ecu. 

Haidee was nature's bride, and knew not this ; 

Haidee was passion's child, born where the sua 
Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 

Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was one 
Made but to love, to feel that she was his 

Who was her chosen : what was said or done 
Elsewhere was nothing — She had nought to fear, 
Hooe, care, nor' love beyond, her heart beat here. 
78 



CCIII. 

And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beat ! 

How much it costs us, yet each rising throb 
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, 

That wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat 

Fine truths ; even conscience, too, has a tough job 
To make us understand each good old maxim, 
So good — I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em. 

CCIV. 

And now 'twas done — on the lone shore were plighted 
Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 

Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted: 
Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, 

By their own feelings hallow'd and united, 
Their priest was solitude, and they were wed: 

And they were%appy, for to their young eyes 

Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 

ccv. 

Oh love ! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 

Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 

Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
All those may leap who rather would be neuter — 

(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 
Oh Love ! thou art the very god of evil, 
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 

■ CCVI. 

Thou makest the chaste connubial state precarious, 
And jestest with the brows of mightiest men : 

Ca;sar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 
Have much employed the muse of history's pen ; 

Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, — 
Such worthies time will never see again : — 

Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, 

They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 

CCVII. 

Thou makest philosophers : there's Epicurus 

And Aristippus, a material crew ! 
Who to immoral courses would allure us 

By theories, quite practicable too ; 
If only from the devil they would insure us, 

How pleasant were the maxim, (not quite new,) 
" Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us ? " 
So said the royal sage, Sardanapalus. 

CCVIII. 

But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 

And should he have forgotten her so soon ? 
I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 

Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, the moon 
Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 

Palpitation rises, 'tis her boon, 
Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures ? 

CCIX. 
I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 

Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made 
Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast, 

No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 

And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 
Which gave me some sensations like a villain 



618 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CCX. 

But soon Philosophy came to my aid, 

And whisper'd, " Think of every sacred tie ! " 
' I will, my dear Philosophy ! " I said, 
" But then her teeth, and then, oh heaven ! her eye ! 

I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid, 
Or neither — out of curiosity." 

" Stop ! " cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian 

(Though she was mask'd then as a fair Venetian) — 

CCXI. 

" Stop ! " so I stopp'd. — But to return : that which 
Men call inconstancy is nothing more 

'Than admiration, due where nature's rich 
Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 

Some favor 'd object ; and as in the niche 
A lovely statue we almost adore, ^ 

This sort of admiration of the real ™ 

Is but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 

CCXII. 
'Tis the perception of the beautiful, 

A fine extension of the faculties, 
Platonic, universal, wonderful, [skies, 

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the 
Without which life would be extremely dull ; 

In short, it is the use of our own eyes, 
With one or two small senses added, just 
To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 

CCXIII. 

Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
For surely if we always could perceive 

In the same object graces quite as killing 
As when she rose upon \is like an Eve, 

'Twould save us many a heartache, many a shilling, 
(For we must get them any how, or grieve,) 

Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for ever, 

How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver ! 

CCXIV. 

The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, 
But changes night and day too, like the sky; 

Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 
And darkness and destruction as on high ; [riven, 

But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and 
Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 

Tours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears, 

Which make the English climate of our years. 

cexv. 

The liver is the lazaret of bile, 

But very rarely executes its function, 
For the first passion stays there such a while, 

">. *iat all the rest creep in and form a junction, 
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, 
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd " cen- 
tral." 

CCXVI. 
In the mean time, without proceeding more 

In this anatomy, I've finish'd now 
, Two hundred and odd stanzas as before, 

That being about the number I'll allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ; 

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee, to plead 
For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 



CANTO III. 



Hail, Muse ! et cetera. — We left Juan sleeping, 
Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, 

And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping 
And loved by a young heart too deeply bless'd 

To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 
Or know who rested there ; a foe to rest, 

Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, 

And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears. 

II. 

Oh, love ! what is it in this world of ours 

Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah, why 
With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy 
And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? [bowers, 
As those who dote on odors pluck the flowers, 

And place them on their breast — but place to die- 
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 

III. 

In her first passion woman loves her lover, 
In all the others all she loves is love, 

Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 
And fits her loosely — like an easy glove, 

As you may find whene'er you like to prove her : 
One man alone at first her heart can move ; 

She then prefers him in the plural number, 

Not finding that the additions much encumber. 

IV. 

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 

But one thing's pretty sure ; a woman planted, 
Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers,) 

After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, 
But those who have ne'er end with only one. 

V. 

'Tis melanclroly, and a fearful sign 

Of human frailty, folly, also crime, 
That love and marriage rarely can combine, 

Although they both are born in the same clime ; 
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine — 

A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavor 
Down to a very homely household savor. 

VI. 

There's something of antipathy, as 'twere, 
Between their present and their future state ; 

A kind of flattery that's hardly fair 
Is used, until the truth arrives too late — 

Yet what can people do, except despair ? 
The same things change their names at such a rate 

For instance — passion in a lover's glorious, 

But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 



DON JUAN. 



619 



VII. 



Men grow ashamed of being so very fond : 
They sometimes also get a little tired, 

(But that, of course, is rare,) and then despond : 
The same things cannot always be admired, 

Yet 'tis " so nominated in the bond," 

That both are tied till one shall have expired. 

Sad thought ! to lose the spouse that was adorning 

Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 

VIII. 

There's doubtless something in domestic doings 
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis; 

Romances paint at full length people's wooings, 
But only give a bust of marriages ; 

For no one cares for matrimonial cooings. 
There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss ; 

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, 

He would have written sonnets all his life ? 

IX. 

All tragedies are finish'd by a death, 
All comedies are ended by a marriage ; 

The future states of both are left to faith, 
For authors fear description might disparage 

The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, [riage, 
And then both worlds would punish their miscar- 

So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, 

They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 

X. 

The only two that in my recollection 

Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are, 
Dante and Milton, and of both the affection 

Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 
Of fault or temper ruin'd the connexion, — 

(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar ;) 
But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 
Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. 

XL 

Some persons say that Dante meant theology 

By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
Although my opinion may require apology, 

Deem this a commentator's phantasy, 
Unless indeed 'twas from his own knowledge he 

Decided thus, and show'd good reason why ; 
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
Meant to personify the mathematics. 

XII. 

Haidee and Juan were not married, but 
The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair, 

Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 
The blame on me, unless you wish they were ; 

Then, if you'd have them wedded, please to shut 
The book which treats of this erroneous pair, 

Before the consequences grow too awful — 

'Tis dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 

XIII. 
Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit 

Indulgence of their innocent desires ; 
But, more imprudent grown with every visit, 

Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 
When we have what we like, 'tis hard to miss it, 

At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 
Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 



XIV. 



Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, 

For into a prime minister but change 
His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation ; 

But he, more modest, took an humbler range 
Of life, and in an honester vocation 

Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 

And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 

XV. 

The good old gentleman had been detain'd 

By winds and waves, and some important captures, 

And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, . 

Although a squall or two had damped his raptures' 

By swamping one of the prizes ; he had chain'd 
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters, 

In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars, 

And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 

XVI. 

Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, 

Among his friends the Mainots ; some he sold 

To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
Toss'd overboard unsaleable, (being old ;) 

The rest — save here and there some richer one, 
Reserved for future ransom in the hold, — 

Were link'd alike ; as for the common people, he 

Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The merchandise was served in the same way, 
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 

Except some certain portions of the prey, 
Light classic articles of female want, 

French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray, 
Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 

All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 

Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

XVIII. 

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw, 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, 

He chose from several animals he saw — 
A terrier too, which once had been a Briton's, 

Who dying on the coast of Ithica, 
The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance ; 

These to secure in this strong blowing weather, 

He caged in one huge hamper altogether. 

XIX. 

Then having settled his marine affairs, 
Despatching single cruisers here and there, 

His vessel having need of some repairs, 
He shaped his course to where his daughter fair 

Continued still her hospitable cares : 
But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, 

And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, 

His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 

XX. 

And there he went ashore without delay, 
Having no custom-house or quarantine 

To ask him awkward questions on the way, 
About the time and place where he had been; 

He left his ship to be hove down next day, 
With orders to the people to careen ; 

So that all hands were busy beyond measure, 

In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 



620 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXI. 
Arriving at the summit of a hill 

Which overlook'd the white walls of his home, 
He Btopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 

Their bosoms who have been induced to roam! 
With fluttering doubts it' all be well or ill — 

With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, 
Ami bring OUT hearts buck to their starting-post. 

XXII. 
The approach of home to husbands and to sires, 

After long travelling by land or water. 
Most naturaHy some small doubt inspires — 

A female family's a serious matter; 
(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires, 

Hut they hate flattery, SO I never Hatter;) 
Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, 
And daughters sometimes run oil" with the butler. 

XXIII. 
An honest gentleman al his return 

May nol have the good fortune of Ulysses: 
Not all lone mat ions for their husbands mourn, 

Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses; 

The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 

To his memory, and two or three young misses 
Bom to some friend, who holds his wife and riches, 
And that his Argus bites him by — the breeches. 

XXIV. 

If single, probably his plighted fair 

lias in his absence wedded some rich miser; 

But all the better, for the happy pair 

May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 

lie may resume his amatory I IOT6 

As cavalier serventc, or despise her; 

And, that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 

Writes odes on the inconstancy of woman 

XXV. 

And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 

Some Dh8Ste Kaaon of the kind — 1 mean 
An honest friendship for a married lady — 

Tin- only thing of this sort ever seen 
To last — of all connexions the most steady, 

And the line Hymen (the first's but a screen) — 
Yet for all that keep not too long away ; 
I've known the absent wrong'd four times a day. 

XXVI. 

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 

Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 

On seeing his own chimney smoke, felt glad; 
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 

Of the true reason of his not being sad, 

Or that of any other strong emotion ; [her, 

He loved his child, and would hare wept the loss of 

But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 

XXVII. 

lie saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 

lie heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, 

The distant dog-bark ; and perceived between 

The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun, 
The moving figures and the sparkling sheen 

Of arms, (in the East, all arm,) and various dyes 

Of color'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 



XXVIII. 

And as the spot where they appear he nears 
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, 

lie hears — alas ! no music of the spheres, 

I bit an unhallow'd, earthly sound of Addling! 

A melody which made him doubt his ears, 
The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; 

A pipe too and a drum, and, shortly after, 

A most unoriental roar of laughter. 

XXIX. 

And still more nearly to the place advancing, 
Descending rather quickly the declivity, 

Through the waved branches, o'er the greensward 
'Midst other indications of festivity, [glancing, 

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 

Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, 

To which the Levantines are very partial. 

XXX. 

And further on a group of ( Grecian .u'irls, 

The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, 
Were Strung together like a row of pearls; 

Link'dhand in hand, and dancing ; each too having 

Down her white neck long Boating auburn curls — 

(The least of which WOUld set ten poets i 
Their leader sang — and bounded tO her son;;, 
With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 

And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, 
Small social parties just begun to dine; 

Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 
And flasks of Samiau and of Chian wine, 

Ami sherbet Cooling in the porous vase; 
Above them their dessert grew on its vine, 

The orange and the pomegranate, nodding o'er, 

Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow 
store. 

XXXII. 

A band of children, round a snow-white ram, 
There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers; 

\\ hile peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb, 
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 

His sober head, majestically tame, 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 

His brow is if in act lo butt, and then, 

Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 

XXXIII. 

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 

Their large black eyes, ami soft seraphic checks, 
Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, 

The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 
The innocence which happy childhood blesses, 

Made quite a picture of these little Greeks; 
So that the philosophical beholder 
Sigh'd for their sokes — that they should e'er grow 
older. 

XXXIV. 
Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 

To a sedate gray circle of old smokers, 
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 

Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers. 
Of charms to make good gold and 'cure bad ails, 

Of rocks bewiteh'd that open to the knockers, 
Of magic ladies, who, by one sole act, 
Transform'd their lords to beasts, (but that's a fact. 



DON JUAN. 



69.1 



XXXV. 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 

For the imagination or the senses, 
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 

All putty pastiffle in which no offence is; 
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 

Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 
Dreading that climax of all human ills, 
The inflammation of his weekly bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner — 

A day of gold from out an age of iron 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner; 

Pleasure; (whene'er she sings, at least's) a siren, 
That lures to flay alive the young beginner ; 

Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 

Was such as lire accords to a wet blanket. 

XXXVII. 

lie — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with the sword) 
His daughter — had not sent before to advise 

Of his arrival, so that, no one stirr'd ; 

And long he paused to reassure his eyes, 
In fact much more astonish'd than delighted, 
To find so much good company invited. 

XXXVIII. 

lie did not know (alas ! how men will lie) 
That a report (especially the Greeks) 

Avouch' d his death, (such people never die,) 
And put his house in mourning several weeks. 

But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 

The bloom, too, had return'd to llaidee's cheek; 

Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount, 

She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, 
Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure; 

The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
A life which inade them happy beyond measure. 

Her father':, hospitality seem'd middling. 

Compared with what II aidee did with bis treasun 

"I'u.i:, wonderful how things Went on improving, 

While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 

XL. 
Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast 

lie Hew into a passion, and in fact 
There was no mighty reason to be pleased; 

Perhaps you prophecy some sudden act, 
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 

To teach Bis people to be more exact, 
And that, proceeding at a very high rate, 
He .show'd the royal penchants of a pirate. 

XLI. 

You're wrong; — He was the mildest manner'd man 
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; 

With such true breeding of a gentleman, 
You never could divine his real thought ; 

No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 
Gird more deceit within a petticoat; 

Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 

He was so great a loss to good society. 



XLI I. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray, 
Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 

With a peculiar smile, which, by the way. 
Boded no good, whatever it. express'd, 

lie ask'd the meaning of this holiday ? 
The rfnous Greek to whom lie had address'd 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, lill'd up a -lass of wine, 

XLIII. 
And, without turning his facetious head, 

Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, 
Presented the o'erflowing cup, ami said, 

" Talking's dry work, 1 nave no time to spare." 

A second hicCUp'd, " Our old master's dead, 

You'd better ask our mistress, who's his heir." 
"Our mistress !" — quoth a third : " Our mistress !— 
You mean our master — not the old, but new." | pooh ! 

XLIV. 

These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage fell— 

And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 

Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 

The expression, and, endeavoring to resume 

His smile, requested one of them to tell 
The name ami quality of his new patron, 
Who secrn'd to have turn'd Ilaidce into a matron. 

XLV. 

" I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or what 
lie is, nor whence lie cum — and little care ; 

But this I know, that this ma t capon's fat, 

And that good wine ne'er wash' d down be Iter fare ; 

And if you are not satisfied with thai, 

Direct your questions to my neighbor there; 
He'll answer all for better or for worse, 
For none likes more to bear himself converse." 

XLVI. 

I said that Lambro was a man of patience, 

And certainly he show'd the besl of breeding, 

Which scarce even fiance, the paragon of nations. 
E'er saw her most polite id' sons exceeding; 

He bore these sneers against his near relations, 
His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding. 

The insults, too, of every servile glutton, 

Who all the time was eating up his multon. 

XLVIL 
Now in a. person used to much command — 

To bill men come, and go, and come again — 

To see his orders done, too, out of hand — 

Whether the word was death, or but the chain- 
It may seem Strange to 8nd bis manners bland ; 

Yet, BUCh things are, which 1 cannot .explain, 
Though doubtless he who can command himself 
Is good to govern — almost as a Guelf. 

XLV III. 
Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, 
But never in bis real and serious mood ; 

Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 

He lay coil'd like the boa In the wood ; 

With him it never was a word and blow. 

His angry word once o'er, he '.lied no blood, 
But in his silence there was much i>> rue, • 
And his one blow left little work for two. 



622 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLIX. 
He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 

On to the house, but by a private way, 
So that the few who met him hardly heeded, 

So little they expected him that day ; 
If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 

For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, 
But certainly to one, deem'd dead, returning, 
This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning 



If all the dead could now return to life, 

(Which God forbid !) or some, or a great many; 

For instance, if a husband or his wife, 
(Nuptial examples are as go.od as any,) 

No doubt whate'er might be their former strife, 
The present weather would be much more rainy — 

Tears shed into the grave of the connexion 

Would share most probably its resurrection. 

LI. 

He enter'd in the house, no more his home, 
A thing to human feelings the most trying, 

And harder for the heart to overcome 

Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying ; 

To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb, 

And round its once warm precincts palely lying 

The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 

Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 

LII. 

He enter'd in the house — his home no more, 
For without hearts there is no home — and felt 

The solitude of passing his own door 
Without a welcome ; there he long had dwelt, 

There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, 
There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 

Over the innocence of that sweet child, 

His only shrine of feelings undefiled. 

LIII. 

He was a man of a strange temperament, 
Of mild demeanor though of savage mood, 

Moderate in all his habits, and content 
With temperance in pleasure, as in food, 

Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 
For something better, if not wholly good ; 

His country's wrongs and his despair to save her 

Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 

LIV. 

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold, 
The hardness by long habitude produced, 

The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 
The mercy he had granted oft abused, 

The sights he was accustom'd to behold, 
The wild seas and wild men with whom he cruised. 

Had cost his enemies a long repentance, 

And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. 

LV. 

But something of the spirit of old Greece 
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 

Such as lit onward to the golden fleece 
His predecessors in the Colchian days : 

Tis true he had no ardent love for peace ; 
Alas ! his country show'd no path to praise : 

Hate to the world and war with every nation 

He waged, in vengeance of her degredation. 



LVI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
Shed its Ionian elegance, Which show'd 

Its power unconsciously full many a time, — 
A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music and of scenes sublime, 
A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 

Past him in crystals, and a joy in flowers, 

Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 

LVII. 

But whatsoe'er he had of love, reposed 
On that beloved daughter ; she had been 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, 

A lonely pure affection unopposed : 
There wanted but the loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness, 

And turn him, like the Cyclops, mad with blindness 

LTIII. 

The eubless tigress in her jungle raging 
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock ; 

The ocean when its yeasty war is waging 
Is awful to the vessel near the rock : 

But violent things will sooner bear assuaging — 
Their fury being spent by its own shock — 

Than the stern, single, deep, and worldless ire 

Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 

LIX. 

It is hard, although a common case, 
To find our children running restive — they 

In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
Our little selves reformed in finer clay ; 

Just as old age is creeping on apace, 

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 

They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 

But in good company — the gout or stone. 

LX. 

Yet a fine family is a fine thing, 

(Provided they don't come in after dinner :) 
'Tis beautiful to see a matron bring 

Her children up, (if nursing them don't thin her;) 
Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 

To the fireside, (a sight to touch a sinner :) 
A lady with her daughter or her nieces 
Shine like a guinea and seven shilling pieces. 

LXI. 

Old Lambro pass'd imseen a private gate, 
And stood within his hall at eventide ; 

Meantime the lady and her lover sate 

At wassail in their beauty and their pride : 

An ivory inlaid table spread with state 
Before them, and fair slaves on every side ; 

Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly, 

Mother-of-pearl and coral the less costly. 

LXII. 

The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 

Lamb and pistachio-nuts — in short, all meats, 
And saffron soups, and sweetbreads ; and the fishes 

Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
Dress'd to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes ; 

The beverage was various sherbets 
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, [use. 
Squeezed through the rind which makes it best for 



DON JUAN. 



623 



LXIII. 

These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, 
And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the repast, 

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 

In small fine China cups, came in at last — 

Gold cups of filigree, made to secure 

The hand from burning, underneath them placed ; 

Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd 

Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 

LXIV. 
The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 

Of velvet pannels, each of different hue, 
And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid : 

And round them ran a yellow border too ; 
The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 

Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 
Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 
From poets, or the momlists their betters. 

LXV. 

These oriental writings on the wall, 
Quite common in those countries, are a kind 

Of monitors, adapted to recall, 
Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 

The words which shook Beishazzar in his hall, 
And took his kingdom from him. — You will find, 

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, 

There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. 

LXVI. 

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
A genius who has drunk himself to death, 

A rake turn'd methodistic or eclectic — 

(For that's the name they like to pray beneath) — 

But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 
Are things that really take away the breath, 

And show that late hours, wine and love, are able 

To do not much less damage than the table. 

LXVII. 

Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 

On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue ; 

Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
Of the apartment — and appear'd quite new ; 

The velvet cushions — (for a throne more meet) — 
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 

A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, 

Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 

LXVIII. 

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 
Had done their work of splendor, Indian mats 

And Persian carpets, the heart bled to stain, 
Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats, 

And dwarfs and blacks , and such like, things that gain 
Their bread as ministers and favorites — (that's 

To say, by degradation) — mingled there 

As plentiful as in a court or fair. 

LXIX. 

There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 

The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
"With mother-of-pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 

Or were of torsoise-shell or rare woods made, 
Fretted with gold or silver : by command, 

The greater part of these were ready spread 
With viands, and sherbets in ice, and wine — 
Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 



LXX. 

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 
She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow; 

Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 
'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow ; 

With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, 
All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, 

And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, 

Like fleecy clouds about the moon, fiow'd round her. 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
Lockloss — so pliable from the pure gold, 

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, 
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould; 

So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 
And clinging as if loth to lose its hold, 

The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin 

That e'er by precious metal was held in. 2 

LXXII. 

Around, as princess of her father's land, 
A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd, 3 

Announced her rank : twelve rings were on her hand ; 
Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fold 

Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 

Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd 

About the prettiest ankle in the world. 

LXXIII. 
Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 

Fiow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 
Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal 

Her person 4 if allow'd at large to run ; 
And still they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 
Their bonds whene'er some zephyr caught began 
To offer his young pinion as her fan. 

LXXIV. 

Round her she made an atmosphere of life, 
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies, 

And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 

Her overpowering presence made you feel 

It would not be idolatry to kneel. 

LXXV. 

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tir.ged, 
(It is the country's custom,) but in vain ; 

For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed. 
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, 

And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
Her nails were touch'd with henna ; but again 

The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 

They could not look more rosy than before. 

LXXVI. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair : 

She had no need of this — day ne'er will break 
On mountain tops more heavenly white than her; 

The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
She was so like a vision ; I might err, 

But Shakspeare also says 'tis very silly 

" To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 



624 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVII. 

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, 
But a white baracan, and so transparent, 

The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 
Like small stars through the milky way apparent ; 

His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold, 
An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in't, 

Surmounted as its clasp — a glowing crescent, 

Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 

LXXVIII. 

And now they were diverted by their suite, 

Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuch's, and a poet, 

Which made their new establishment complete ; 
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it ; 

His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
And for his theme — he seldom sung below it, 

He being paid to satirize or flatter, 

As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter." 

LXXIX. 

He praised the present and abused the past, 

Reversing the good custom of old days, 
An eastern anti-jacobin at last 

He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise — 
For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 

By his seeming independent in his lays, 
But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha, 
With truth like Southey, and with verse like 
Crashaw. 

LXXX. 
He was a man who had seen many changes, 

And always changed as true as any needle, 
His polar star being one which rather ranges, 

And not the fix'd — he knew the way to wheedle ; 
So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; 

And being fluent, (save indeed when fee'd ill,) 
He lied with such a fervor of intention — 
There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension. 

LXXXI. 

But he had genius — when a turncoat has it 

The " vates irritabilis " takes care 
That without notice few full moons shall pass it : 

Even good men like to make the public stare : — 
But to' my subject — let me see — what was it ? 

Oh ! — the third canto — and the pretty pair — 
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and 
Of living in their insular abode. [mode 

LXXXII. 

Tbeir poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 

In company a very pleasant fellow, 
Had been the favorite of full many a mess [low ; 

Of men, and made them speeches when half mel- 
And though his meaning they could rarely guess, 

Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow, 
The glorious meed of popular applause, 
Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause. 

LXXXIII. 

But now being lifted into high society, 

And having pick'd up several odds and ends * 

Of free thoughts in his travels, for variety, 
He deem'd, being in a lone isle among friends, 

That without any danger of a riot, he 

Might for long lying make himself amends ; 

And, singing as he sung in his warm youth, 

Agree to a short armistice with truth. 



LXXXIV. 

He had travell'd 'mong the Arabs, Turks, and Franks* 
And knew the self-loves of the different nations ; 

And, having lived with people of all ranks, 
Had something ready upon most occasions — 

Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 
He varied with some skill his adulations ; 

To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 

Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing, 
He gave the different nations something national ; 

'Twas all the same to him — " God save the King," 
Or " Calira," according to the fashion all ; 

His muse made increment of any thing, 
From the high lyrical to the low rational : 

If Pindar sang horseraces, ^at should hinder 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson ; 

In England, a six-canto quarto tale ; 
In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on 

The last war — much the same in Portugal ; 
In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on 

Would be old Goethe's — (see what says deStael;) 
In Italy, he'd ape the " Trecentisti ;" 
In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye. 

/ 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' " Islands of the Bless'd." 

The mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 
I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; 

For, standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they ? 

And where are they ! and where art thou. 

My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
The heroic lay is tuneless now — 

The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
Degenerate into hands like mine ? 



DON JUAN. 



625 



Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must toe but weep o'er days more bless'd ? 

Must ice but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae. 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, "Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come ! " 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine ; 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant or the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells : 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells : 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the btirning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 



Place me on Sunium's marble steep — 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; ' 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die ; 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

LXXXVII. 

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung 
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; 

If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, 
Yet in these times he might have done much worse, 

His strain display'd some feeling — right or wrong ; 
And feeling, in a poet, is the source 

Of other's feeling ; but they are such liars, 

And take all colors— like the hands of dyers. 

LXXXVIII. 
But words are things, and a small drop of ink 

Falling like dew upon a thought, produces [think, 
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions 

'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses, 
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 

Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 
Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, 
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his. 

LXXXIX. 

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 
His station, generation, even his nation, 

Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
In chronological commemoration, 

Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station, 

In digging the foundation of a closet, 

May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 

XC. 

And glory long has made the sages smile , 

'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 

Depending more upon the historian's style 
Than on the name a person leaves behind : 

Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle ; 
The present century was growing blind 

To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, 

Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

XCI. 

Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; 

A little heavy, but no less divine ; 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine ; 
But his life falling into Johnson's way, 

We're told this great high priest of all the Nine 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 

XCII. 

All these are, certes, entertaining facts, [bribes ; 

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's 
Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts ; 

Like Burns, (whom Doctor Currie well describes ;) 
Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but although truth exacts 

These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
As most essential to their hero's story, 
They do not much contribute to 'his glory. 



626 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCIII. 

All are not moraliuts like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of " Pantisocracy ; " 

Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy ; 

Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ; 

When he and Southey, following the same path, 

Espoused two partners, (milliners of Bath.) 

XCIV. 

Such names at present cut a convict figure, 
The very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 

Their loyal treason, renegado vigor, 

Are good manure for their more bare biography. 

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
Than any since the birthday of typography: 

A clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the "Excursion," 

Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

xcv. 

He there builds up a formidable dyke 
Between his own and others' intellect; 

But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 
Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and her sect, 

Are things which in this century don't strike' 
The public mind, so few are the elect ; 

And the new births of both their stale virginities 

Have proved but dropsies taken for divinities. 

XCVI. 
But let me to my story : I must own 

If I have any fault, it is digression ; 
Leaving my people t<- proceed .alone, 

While I soliloquize beyond expression ; 
But these are my addresses frcm the throne, 

Which put off business to the ensuing session : 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

XCYII. 

I know that what our neighbors call " toigitettrs" 
(We've not so good a word, but have the thing 

In that complete perfection, which ensures 
An epic from Bob Southey every spring) — 

Form not the true temptation which allures 
The reader ; but 'twould not be hard to bring 

Some fine examples of the epopee, 

To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 

XCVIII. 

We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps, 
We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes 

To show with what complacency he creeps, [wakes, 
With his dear " Wagoners" around his lakes ; 

He wishes for " a boat " to sail the deeps — 
Of Ocean ? — no, of air ; and then he makes 

Another outcry for " a little boat," 

And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 

XCIX. 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, 
And Pegasus runs restive in his " wagon," 

Could he not beg the loan of Charles's wain ? 
Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 

Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, 
He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 

And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 

Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 



C. 



' Pedlars," and "boats," and " wagons ! " Oh ! ye 
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this ? [shades 

That trash of such sort not alone evades 
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 

Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss — 

The "little boatman" and his "Peter Bell" 

Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel ! " 

CI. 

T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone, 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; 

The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
And every sound of revelry expired ; 

The lady and her lover, left alone, 

The rosy flood of twilight sky admired ; — 

Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, 

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee ! 

CII. 
Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with prayer 

cm. 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer ! 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty dove — 
What though 'tis but a pictured image strike — 
That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. 

CIV. 

Some kind casuists are pleased to say, 

In nameless print — that I have no devotion, 

But set those persons down with me to pray, 
And you shall see who has the properest notion 

Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 

Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great 
whole, 

Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 

CV. 

Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 

Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 
Rooted where once the Adrian wave fiow'd o'er, 

To where the last Coesarean fortress stood, 
Ever-green forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 

And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 

How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ' 

CVI. 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and nfine, 
And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along ; 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng. 

Which learn'd from this example not to fly 

From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye. 



DON JUAN. 



627 



cvir. 



Oh Hesperus ! 5 thou bringest all good things- 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd steer ; 

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
"Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 

Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 

CVIII. 
Soft hour ! 6 which wakes the wish and melts the 

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day [heart 
"When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 

Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, 
As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 

CIX. 

When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd 

Amid the roar of liberated Rome, 

©f nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, 

Some hands unseen strew' d flowers upon his tomb ; 7 
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 

CX. 

But I'm digressing : what on earth has Nero, 

Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 
To do with the transactions of my hero, [moon's ? 

More than such madmen's fellow-man — the 
Sure my invention must be down at zero, 

And I grown one of many "wooden spoons" 
Of verse, (the name with which we Cantabs please 
To dub the last of honors in degrees.) 

CXI. 

I feel this tediousness will never do — 
'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down 

(In copying) this long canto into two : 
They'll never find it out, unless I own 

The fact, excepting some experienced few ; 
And then as an improvement 'twill be shown: 

I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is, 

From Aristotle passim. — See Hoojrucr/s. 



CANTO IV. 



Nothing so difficult as a beginning 

In poesy, unless perhaps the end : 
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 

The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, 
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning ; 

Our s^n the same, and hard as his to mend, 
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, 
Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 



II. 



But time, which brings all beings to their level, 
And sharp adversity, will teach at last 

Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps the devil, 
That neither of their intellects are vast : 

While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, 
We know not this— the blood flows on too fast ; 

But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 

We wonder deeply on each past emotion. 

III. 
As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 

And wish'd that others held the same opinion : 
They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 

And other minds acknowledged my dominion : 
Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 

Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion, 
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV. 

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 

'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 
Itself to apathy, which we must steep 

First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring, 
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep ; 

Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; 

A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 



Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the land, 

And trace it in this poem every line : 
I don't pretend that I quite understand 

My own meaning when I would be very fine ; 
But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, 

Unless it was to be a moment merry, 

A novel word in my vocabulary. 

VI. 

To the kind reader of our sober clime, 
This way of writing will appear exotic ; 

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 

Who sung when chivalry was more Quixotic, 

And revell'd in the fancies of the time, [despotic ; 
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings 

But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 

I chose a modern subject as more meet. 

VII. 
How I have treated it, I do not know — 

Perhaps no better than they have treated me 
Who have imputed such designs as show, 

Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see ; 
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so, — 

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free : 
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 
And tells me to resume my story here. 

VIII. 
Young Juan and his lady-love were left 

To their own heart's most sweet society ; 
Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he 
Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft, 

Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be 
Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, 
Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 






628 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IX. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 

Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail ; 

The blank gray was not made to blast their hair, 
But, like the climes that know nor snow nor hail, 

They were all summer : lightning might assail 
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 

A long and snake-like life of dull decay 

Was not for them — they had too little clay. 

X. 

They were alone once more ; for them to be 
Thus was another Eden ; they were never 

Weary, unless when separate : the tree 

Cut from its forest root of years — the river 

Damra'd from its fountain — the child from the knee 
And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever, 

Would wither less than these two torn apart ; 

Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 

XL 

The heart — which may be broken : happy they ! 

Thrice fortunate ! who, of that fragile mould, 
The precious porcelain of human clay, 

Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
The long year link'd with heavy day on day, 

And all which must be borne, and never told; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

XII. 
" Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore, 1 

And many deaths do they escape by this : [more — 
The death of friends, and that which slays even 

The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 
Except mere breath; and since the silent shore 

Awaits at last even those whom longest miss 
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 
Which men weep over may be meant to save. 

XIII. 
Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead ; [them : 

The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for 
They found no fault with time, save that he fled ; 

They saw not in themselves aught to condemn : 
Each was the other's mirror, and but read 

Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 
And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
Of their exchanging glances of affection. 

XIV. 

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 

The least glance better understood than words, 
Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much ; 

A language, too, but like to that of birds, 
Known but to them, at least appearing such, 

As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 
Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 
To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er 
heard : 

XV. 
All these were theirs, for they were children still, 

And children still they should have ever been ; 
They were not made in the real world to fill 

A busy character in the dull scene ; 
But like two beings born from out a rill, 

A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 
To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 
And never know the weight of human hours. 



XVI. 

Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found 
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 

As rarely they beheld throughout their round : 
And these were not of the vain kind which cloys ; 

For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 

Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 

A thing which each endearment more eudear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh beautiful ! and rare as beautiful ! 

But theirs was love in which the mind delights 
To lose itself, when the whole world grows dull, 

And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 

Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, 
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more 
Whose husband only knows her not a wh — re. 

XVIII. 
Hard words ; harsh truth ; a truth which many know. 

Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, 
Who never found a single hour too slow, 

What was it made them thus exempt from care ? 
Young innate feelings all have felt below, 

Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
Inherent ; what we mortals call romantic, 
And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 

XIX. 

This is in others a factitious state, 

An opium dream of too much youth and reading, 
But was in them their nature or their fate ; 

No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, 
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great, 

And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding, 
So that there was no reason for their loves, 
More than for those of nightingales or doves. 

XX. 

They gazed upon the sunset; 'tis an hour 
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 

For it had made them what they were : the power 
Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such 

When happiness had been their only dower, [skies, 
And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties ; 

Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that 
brought 

The past still welcome as the present thought. 

XXI. 

I know not why, but in that hour to-night, 
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 

And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' delight, 
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame, 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight; 
And thus some boding flash'd through either frame, 

Andcall'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 

While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 

XXII. 

That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate 

And follow far the disappearing sun, 
As if their last day of a happy date, 

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were 
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — [gone 

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, 
His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 



DON JUAN. 



629 



XXIII. 

She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 
Which makes not others smile ; then turn'd aside : 

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride ; 

When Juan spoke, too — it might be in sport — 
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied — 

" If it should be so, — but — it cannot be — 

Or I at least shall not survive to see." 

XXIV. 

Juan would question further, but she press'd 

His lips to hers, and silenced him with this, 
And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 

Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 
And no doubt of all method's 'tis the best : 

Some people prefer wine — 'tis not amiss : 
I have tried both ; so those who would a part take 
May choose between the headache and the heart- 
ache. 

XXV. 
One of the two, according to your choice, 

Women or wine, you'll have to undergo ; 
Both maladies are taxes on our joys : 

But which to choose I really hardly know ; 
And if I had to give a casting voice, 

For both sides I could many reasons show, 
And then decide, without great wrong to either, 
It were much better to have both than neither. 

XXVI. 

Juan and Haidee gazed upon eacn other, 
With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, 

Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother, 
All that the best can mingle and express, 

When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, 
And love too much, and yet can not love less ; 

But almost sanctify the sweet excess 

By the immortal wish and power to bless. 

XXVII. 

Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 
Why did they not then die ? — they had lived too 
long, 

Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart ; 
Years could not bring them cruel things or wrong, 

The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
For beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 

Love was born with them, in them, so intense, 

It wae their very spirit — not a sense. 

XXVIII. 

They should have lived together deep in woods, 
Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 

Call'd social, where all vice and hatred are : 

How lonely every freeborn creature broods ! 
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 

The eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 

Flock o'er their carrion, just as mortals do. 

XXIX. 

Now pillow'd, cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 

HaWee and Juan their siesta took, 
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 

For ever and anon a something shook 
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep ; 

And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook 
A worldless music, and her face so fair 
Stirr'd with her dream as rose-leaves with the air : 



XXX. 

Or as the "stirring of a deep clear stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 

Walks over it, was she shaken by the dream, 
The mystical usurper of the mind — 

O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 

Good to the soul which we no more can bind : 

Strange state of being ! (for 'tis still to be,) 

Stenseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 

XXXI. 

She dream'd of being alone on the seashore, 
Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir 

She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening 

And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour, [her ; 
Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high 

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 

XXXII. - 
Anon — she was released, and then she stray'd 

O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 
And stumbled almost every step she made ; 

And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 
Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid ; 

'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 
Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 
And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 
The dream chang'd : in a cave she stood, its walls 

Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 
Of ages on its water-fretted halls, [and lurk ; 

Where waves might wash, and seals might breed 
Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and murk 
The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 
Which froze to marble as it fell, she thought. 

XXXIV. 

And 'Wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 

Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 

Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now !) 

Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 

Of his quench'd heart ; and the sea-dirges low 

Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, 

And that brief dream appear'd a life too long. 

XXXV. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
Faded, or alter'd into something new — 

Like to her father's features, till each trace 
More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew— 

With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace; 
And starting, she awoke, and what to view ! 

Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she 

'Tis — 'tis her father's — fixed upon the pair ! [there ? 

XXXVI. 

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 

Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too well ; 
Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that awful kind 

I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 



630 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXVII. 
Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek, 

And caught her falling, and from off the wall 
Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 

Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 
Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, - 

Smiled scornfully, and said, " Within my call 
A thousand scimitars await the word : 
Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." 

XXXVIII. 
And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 'tis — 

'Tis Lambro — 'tis my father ! Kneel with me — 
He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes. 

Oh! dearest father, in this agony 
Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 

Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 
That doubt should mingle with my filial joy ? 
Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 

' XXXIX. 

High and inscrutable the old man stood. 

Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 
Not always signs with him of calmest mood : 

He look'd upon her, but gave no reply, 
Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 

Oft came and went, as there resolv'd to die ; 
In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 
On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. 

XL. 
" Young man, your sword ; " so Lambro once more 

Juan replied, " Not while this arm is free ;" [said: 
The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread, 

And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
Replied, " Your blood be then on your own head : " 

Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
'Twas fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 
And next proceeded quietly to cock. 

XLI. 
It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, 

That cocking of a pistol, when you know 
A moment more will bring the sight to bear 

Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so; 
A gentlemanly distance, not too near, 

If you have got a former friend for foe ; 
But after being fired at once or twice, 
The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 

XLII. 

Lambro presented, and one instant more 

Had stopp'd this canto, and Don Juan's breath, 

When Haidee threw herself her boy before, 

Stern as her sire : " On me " she cried, " let death 

Descend — the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 
He found — but sought not. I have pledged my faith ; 

I love him — I will die with him : I knew 

Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's too." 

XLIII. 

A minute past, and she had been all tears, 
And tenderness, and infancy : but now 

She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 
Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow : 

And tall beyond her sex and their compeers, 
She drew up to her height, as if to show 

A fairer mark ; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 

Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 



XLIV. 

He gazed on her, and she on him : 'twas strange 
How like they look'd ! the expression was ths 

Serenely savage, with a little change [same ; 

In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame, 

For she too was as one who could avenge, 
If cause should be — a lioness, though tame, 

Her father's blood before her father's face 

Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 

XLV. 

I said they were alike, their features and 
Their stature differing but in sex and years ; 

Even to the delicacy of their hands 

There was resemblance, such as true blood wears ; 

And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears, 

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both. 

Show what the passions are in their full growth. 

XLVI. 
The father paused a moment, then withdrew 

His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood still, 
And looking on her, as to look her through, 

"Not I," he said, "have sought this stranger's ill . 
Not / have made this desolation : few 

AVould bear such outrage, and forbear to kill; 
But I must do my duty — how thou hast 
Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 

XLVII. 

" Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head, 
His own shall roll before you like a ball ! " 

He raised his whistle, as the word he said, 
And blew ; another answcr'd to the call, 

And rushing in disorderly, though led, 

And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, 

Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank : 

He gave the word, " Arrest or slay the Frank." 

XLVIII. 
Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 

His daughter ; while compre3s'd within his grasp. 
'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 

In vain she struggled in her father's grasp, — 
His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew 

Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp. 
The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 
Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through, 

XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
His own well in : so well, ere you could look, 

His man was floor'd, and helpless a^his foot, 
With the blood running like a little brook 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 

One on the arm, the other on the head. 



And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 
Juan from the apartment : with a sign • 

Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, 
Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. 

They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 

Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line ; 

On board of one of these, and under hatches, 

They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches 



DON JUAN.. 



631 



LI. 



The world is full of strange vicissitudes, 
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant : 

A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, 

Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, 

Just at the very time when he least broods 
On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, 

Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 

And all because a lady fell in love. 

LII. 
Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, 

Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea, 
Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic ; 

For if my pure libations exceed three, 
I feel my heart become so sympathetic, 

That I must have recourse to black Bohea : 
'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious, 
For tea and coffee leave us much more serious. 

LIII. 

Unless when qualified with thee, Cognac ! 

Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill ? 
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack, 

(In each sense of the word,) whene'er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 

LIV. 

I leave Don Juan for the present safe — 
Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; 

Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 

Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded ? 

She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, 
And then give way, subdued because surrounded ; 

Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 

Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 

LV. 

There the large olive rains its amber store 

In marble fonts ; there grain, and flower, and fruit, 

Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er ; 
But there, too, many a poison-tree has root, 

And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 

And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, 

Or, heaving, whelm the helpless caravan, 

And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 

LVI. 

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 

Her human clay is kindled : full of power 

For good or evil, burning from its birth, 

The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, 

And like the soil beneath it will bring forth : 
Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower: 

But her large dark eye show'd deep passion's force, 

Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 

LVII. 

Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, 

Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 

Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, 

Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 
But, overwrought with passion and despair, 

The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, 

Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 



Lvni. 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down ; 

His blood was running on the very floor 
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own : 

Thus much she view'd an instant and no more, — 
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan ; 

On her sjre's arm, which until now scarce held 

Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 

LIX. 

A vein had burst, 2 and her sweet lips' pure dyes, 
Were dabbled with the deep blood'which ran o'ei , 

And her head droop'd as when the lily lies [bore 
O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd handmaids 

Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 

Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, 

But she defied all means they could employ, 

Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 

LX. 

Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill. 
With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 

She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead; 

Corruption came not in each mind to kill 
All hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 

New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul, 

She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 

LXI. 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, 

But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; 

O'er the LaocoOn's all eternal throes, 
And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 

Their energy like life forms all their fame, 

Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 

LXII. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, 

A strange sensation which she must partake 
Perforce, since whatsover met her view 

Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true, 

Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 

For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 

LXIII. 
She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, 

On many a token without knowing what ; 
She saw them watch her without asking why, 

And reck'd not who around her pillow sat; 
Not speechless, though she spoke not : not a sigh 

B,eveal'd her thoughts ; dull silence and quick cha 
Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 
No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 

LXIV. 

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 

Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away ; 
She recognized no being, and no spot, 

However dear or cherish'd in their day ; 
They changed from room to room, but all forgot, 

Gentle, but without memory, she lay ; 
And yet those eyes, which they would fain be weaning 
Back to old thoughts, seem'd full of fearful meaning 



632 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXV. 

And then a slave bethought her of a harp ; 

The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp [sent, 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re- 
And he began a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
In time to his old tune ; he changed the theme, 

And sung of love — the fierce name struck through all 
Her recollection ; on her flash'd the dream 

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To be so being ; in a gushing stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 

LXVII. 

Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too quick, 
And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose 

As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, 
And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 

But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 

Although her paroxysm drew towards its close : 

Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, 

Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 

Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 

Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 

Avail'd for either ; neither change of place, 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 

LX1X. 

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last, 
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 

A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd : 

And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 

The very instant, till the change that cast 
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, 

Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 

Oh ! to possess such lustre — and then lack ! 

LXX. 

She died, but not alone ; she held within 
A second principle of live, which might 

Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin : 
But closed its little being without light, 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight ; 

In vain the dews of heaven descend above 

The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

LXXI. 
Thus lived — thus died she : never more on her, 

Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not made 
Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 

Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 
By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 

Brief, but delightful — such as had not stay'd 
Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 
By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell. 



LXXII. 

That isle is now all desolate and bare, 

Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away ; 

None but her own and father's grave is there, 
And nothing outward tells of human clay : 

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 

What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 

But many a Greek maid in a loving song- 
Sighs o'er her name, and many an islander 

With her sire's story makes the night less long ; 
Valor "was his, and beauty dwelt with her ; 

If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 
A heavy price must all pay who thus err, 

In some shape ; let none think to fly the danger, 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But let me change this theme, which grows too sad. 
And lay this sheet of sorrow on the shelf; 

I don't much like describing people mad, 
For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself — 

Besides, I've no more on this head to add; 
And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 

We'll put about and try another tack 

With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 

LXXV. 

Wounded and fetter'd, " cabin'd, cribb'd, confined," 
Some days and nights elapsed before that he 

Could altogether call the past to mind ; 
And when he did, he found himself at sea, 

Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 
The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 

Another time he might have liked to see 'em, 

But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigffium. 

LXXYI. 

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
(Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea) 

Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles : 
They say so — (Bryant says the contrary ;) 

And further downward, tall and towering, still is 
The tumulus — of whom ? Heaven knows ; 't may 

Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, — [be 

All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 

LXXYII. 

High barrows, without marble or a name, 
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, 

And Ida in the distance, still the same, 
And old Scamander (if 'tis he) remain ; 

The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
A hundred thousand men might fight again 

With ease ; but where I sought for Dion's walls, 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 

LXXVIII. 

Troops of untended horses; here and there 
Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth ; 

Some shepherds, (unlike Paris,) led to stare 
A moment at the European youth 

Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings bear ; 
A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, 

Extremely taken with his own religion, 

Are what I found there — but the devil a Phrygian. 



DON JUAN. 



633 



LXXIX. 

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 
From his dull cabin, found himself a slave ; 

Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave : 

Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 
A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 

No very satisfactory information 

About his past or present situation. 

LXXX. 

He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 
To be Italians — as they were, in fact ; 

From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 
Which was an odd one ; a troop going to act 

In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 
In their vocation, — had been attack'd, 

In sailing from Livorno, by the pirate, 

But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 3 

LXXXI. 

By one of these, the buffo of the party, 
Juan was told about their curious case ; 

For, although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 

The little fellow really look'd quite hearty, 
And bore him with some gayety and grace, 

Showing a much more reconciled demeanor 

Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In a few words he told their hapless story, 
Saying, " Our Machiavelian impresario, 

Making a signal off some promontory, 

Hail'd a strange brig ; Corpo di Caio Mario ! 

We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry, 
Without a single scudo of salario ; 

But, if the sultan has a taste for song, 

We will revive our fortunes before long. 

LXXXIII. 

" The prima donna, though a little old, 

And haggard with a dissipated life, 
And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, 

Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's wife, 
With no great voice is pleasing to behold ; 

Last carnival she made a deal of strife, 
By carrying off Count Cassare Cicogna, 
From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 

LXXXIV. 

" And then there are the dancers ; there's theNini, 
With more than one profession, gains by all ; 

Then there's that laughing slut, the Pelegrini, 
She too was fortunate last carnival, 

And made at least five hundred zecchini, 
But spends so fast, she has not now a paul ; 

And then there's the Grotesca — such a dancer ! 

Where men have souls or bodies, she must answer. 

LXXXV. 

" As for the figuranti, they are like 

The rest of all that tribe ; with here and there 
A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 

The rest are hardly fitted for a fair ; 
There's one, though tall, and stiffer than a pike, 

Yet has a sentimental kind of air, 
Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigor, 
The more's the pity, with her face and figure. 
80 



LXXXVI. 

" As for the men, they are a middling set ; 

The musico is but a crack'd old basin, 
But, being qualified in one way yet, 

May the seraglio do to set his face in, 
And as a servant some preferment get ; 

His singing I no further trust can place in : 
From all the pope 4 makes yearly, 'twould perplex 
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 

LXXXVII. 

"The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, 
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow ; 

In fact, he had no singing education, 
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow, 

But being the prima donna's near relation, 

Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, 

They hired hira, though to hear him you'd believe 

An ass was practising recitative. 

LXXXVIII. 

" 'Twould not become myself to dwell upon 
My own merits, and though young — I see, sir — you 

Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one 
To whom the opera is by no means new : 

You've heard of Raucocanti ? — I'm the man ; 
The time may come when you may hear me too ; 

You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 

But next, when I'm engaged to sing there — do go. 

LXXXIX. 

" Our baritone I almost had forgot, 
A pretty lad but bursting with conceit : 

With graceful action, science not a jot, 

A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, 

He always is complaining of his lot, 
Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street ; 

In lovers' parts, his passion more to breathe, 

Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." 

XC. 

Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew, 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to their sad berths ; each threw 
A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright all, 

From the blue skies derived a double blue, 
Dancing all free and happy in the sun,) 
And then went down the hatchway one by one. 

XCI. 

They heard, next day, that in the Dardanelles, 

Waiting for his sublimity's firman — 
The most imperative of sovereign spells, 

Which every body does without who can,— 
More to secure them in their naval cells, 

Lady to lady, well as man to man, 
Were to be chained and lotted out per oouple, 
For the slave-market of Constantinople. 

XCII. 

It seems when this allotment was made out, 
There chanced to be an odd male and odd female, 

Who (after some discussion and some doubt 
If the soprano might be deem'd to be male, 

They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male 

Was Juan, who — an awkward thing at his age — 

Pair'd off with a Bacchante's blooming visage 



634 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCIII. 

With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
The tenor ; these two hated with a hate 

Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd 
With this his tuneful neighbor than his fate ; 

Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd, 
Instead of bearing up without debate, 

That each pull'd different ways with many an oath, 

" Arcades ambo," id est — blackguards both. 

XCIV. 

Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 
But bred within the march of old Ancona, 

With eyes that look'd into the very soul, 

(And other chief points of a " bella donna,") 

Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 

And through her clear brunette complexion shone a 

Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 

Especially when added to the power. 

xcv. 

But all that power was wasted upon him, 

For sorrow o'er e4ich sense held stern command ; 

Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim ; 
And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 

Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 
(And she had some not easy to withstand) 

Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle, 

Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 

XCVI. 

No matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire, 
But facts are facts : no knight could be more true, 

And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 
We will omit the proofs, save one or two : 

'Tis said no one in hand " can hold a fire 
By thought of frosty Caucasus ; " but few, 

I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 

Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 

XCVII. 
Here I might enter on a chaste description, 

Having withstood temptation in my youth, 
But hear that several people take exception 

At the first two books having too much truth ; 
Therefore I'll make Don Juan leave the ship soon, 

Because the publisher declares, in sooth, 
Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 
To pass, than those two cantos into families. 

XCVIII. 

'Trs all the same to me ; I'm fond of yielding, 
And therefore leave them to the purer page 

Of Smollet, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 
Who say strange things for so correct an age ; 

I once had great alacrity in wielding 
My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, 

And recollect the time when all this cant £■ 

Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't. 

XCIX. 

As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble ; 

But at this hour I wish to part in peace, 
Leaving such to the literary rabble, 

Whr ther my verse's fame be doom'd to cease, 
While the right hand which wrote it still is able, 

Or of some centuries to take a lease : 
The grrss upon my grave will grow as long, 
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 



Of poets who come down to us through distar.ee 
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame, 

Life seems the smallest portion of existence ; 
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 

'Tis as a snowball which derives assistance 
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 

Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow ; 

But, after all, 'tis nothing but cold snow. 

CI. 

And so great names are nothing more than nominal 

And love of glory's but an airy lust, 
Too often in its fury overcoming all 

Who would as 'twere identify their dust 
From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all 

Leaves nothing till " the coming of the just" — 
Save change : I've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 
And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt of Rome. 

CII. 

The very generations of the dead 

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, 

Until the memory of an age is fled, 
And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom : 

Where are the epitaphs our father's read ? 
Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom 

Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, 

And lose their own in universal death. 

CHI. 

I canter by the spot each afternoon 

"Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, 

Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 
For human vanity, the young De Foix ! 

A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, 
But which neglect is hastening to destroy, 

Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, 

While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.* 

CIV. 

I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid ; 

A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 

To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column: 
The time must come when both alike decay'd, 

The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume, 
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth 
Before Pelides' death or Homer's birth. 

CV. 

With human blood that column was cemented, 
With human filth that column is defiled, 

As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented 
To show his loathing of the spot he spoil'd ; 

Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 
Should ever be those bloodhounds, from whose wild 

Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 

Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 

CVI. 

Yet there will still be bards ; though fame is smoke, 
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought, 

And the unquiet feelings which first woke - 

Song in the world, will seek what then they sough^ 

As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 
Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought, 

Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 

Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 



DON JUAN. 



63.5 



CVII. 

If in the course of such a life as was 
At once adventurous and contemplative, 

Men who partake all passions as they pass, 
Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 

Their images again, as in a glass, 
And in such colors that they seem to live ; 

You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 

Uut spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 

CVIII. 
Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books ! 

Benign ceruleans of the second sex ! 
Who advertise new poems by your looks, 

Your " imprimatur " will ye not annex ? — 
What, must I go to the oblivious cooks, — 

Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks ? 
Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be 
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea ? 

CIX. 

What, can I prove " a lion " then no more ? 

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling, 
To bear the compliments of many a bore, 

And sigh " I can't get out," like Yorick's starling, 
Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore, [ing,) 

(Because the world won't read him, always snarl- 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, 
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie. 

CX. 

Oh! "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 
As some one somewhere sings about the sky, 

And I, ye learned ladies, say of you ; [why 

They say your stockings are so, (Heaven knows 

I have examined few pair of that hue ;) 
Blue as the garters which serenely lie 

Round the patrician left-legs, which adorn 

The festal midnight and the levee morn. 

CXI. 

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures — 
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, 

You read my stanzas, and I read your features ; 
And — but no matter, all those things are over ; 

Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 
For sometimes such a world of virtues cover ; 

I knew one woman of that purple school, 

The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool, 

CXII. 

Humboldt, " the first of travellers," but not 
The last, if late accounts be accurate, 

Invented, by some name I have forgot, 
As well as the sublime discovery's date, 

An airy instrument, with which he sought 
To ascertain the atmospheric state, 

By measuring " the intensity of blue ; " 

Oh ! Lady Daphne ! let me measure you ! 

CXIII. 

But to the narrative. — The vessel hound 

With slaves to sell off in the capital, 
After the usual process, might be found 

At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound, 

Were landed in the market, one and all, [sians 
And there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circas- 
Bought up for different purposes and passions. 



CXIV. 

Some went off dearly : fifteen hundred dollars 
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, 

AVarranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colors 
Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven ; 

Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers, 
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven ; 

But when the offer went beyond, they knew 

'Twas for the sultan, and at once withdrew. 

cxv. 

Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 

Which the West Indian market scarce would bring. 

Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 
What 'twas ere abolition ; and the thing 

Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 

Is always much more splendid than a king ; 

The virtues, even the most exalted, charity, 

Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

CXVI. 

But for the destiny of this young troop, 
How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, 

How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
And others rose to the command of crews 

As renegadoes * while in hapless group, 
Hoping no very old vizier might choose, 

The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, 

To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim. 

CXVII. 

All this must be reserved for further song ; 

Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
(Because this canto has become too long,) 

Must be postponed directly for the present; 
I'm sensible redundancy is wrong, 

But could not for the muse of me put less in't : 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
To what is called in Ossian, the fifth Duan. 



CANTO V. 



When amatory poets sing their loves 

In liquid lines mellifluously bland, 
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves, 

They little think what mischief is in hand ; 
The greater their success the worse it proves, 

As Ovid's verse may make you understand : 
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity, 
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 

II. 

I therefore do denounce all amorous writing, 
Except in such a way as not to attract ; 

Plain — simple — short, and by no means inviting, 
But with a moral to each error tack'd, 

Form'd rather for instructing than delighting, 
And with all passions in their turn attack'd ; 

Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 

This poem will become a moral model. 



636 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



III. 



The European with the Asian shore 
Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream,' 

Here and there studded with a seventy-four ; 
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 

The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar ; 
The twelve isles, und the more than I could dream, 

Far less describe, present the very view 

Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. 

IV. 
I have a passion for the name of " Mary," 

For once it was a magic sound to me, 
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 

Where I beheld what never was to be ; 
All feelings change, but this was last to vary, 

A spell from whieh even yet I am not quite free : 
But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, 
Which must not be pathetically told. 



The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades, 

'Tis a grand sight, from off " the Giants's Grave," 2 
To watch the progress of those rolling seas 

Between the Bosphorus, as they lash, and lave 
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease ; 

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in 

Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 

VI. 

'Twas a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 
When nights are equal, but not so the days ; 

The Parca? then cut short the further spinning 
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 

The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
In all who o'er the great deep take their ways : 

They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 

Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared, they won't. 

VII. 
A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, 

And age, and sex, were in the market ranged; 
Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 

Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly 
changed. 
All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, 

From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged ; 
The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 
Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 

VIII. 

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full, 
As most at his age are, of hope, and health ; 

Yet I must own he look'd a little dull, 
And now and then a tear stole down by stealth ; 

Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 

A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 

To be put up for auction among Tartars, 

IX. 

Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless, 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene ; 

His figure, and the splendor of his dress, 
Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, 

Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 

And then, though pale, he was so very handsome ; 

And then — they calculated on his ransom. 



X. 



Like a backgammon-board the place was dotted 
With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, 

Though rather more irregularly spotted: 
Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 

It chanced, among the other people lotted, 
A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 

With resolution in his dark gray eye, 

Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy 

XI. 

He had an English look ; that is, was square 
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy, 

Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair, 
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 

An open brow, a little marked with care : 
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 

And there he stood with such sangfroid, that greater 

Could scarce been shown even by a mere spectator. 

XII. 

But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, 

Of high spirit evidently, though 
At present weigh'd down by a doom which had 

O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show 
A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 

Lot of so ypung a partner in the wo, 
Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 

XIII. 

" My boy ! " — said he, " amid this motley crew 

Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not, 
All ragamuffins differing but in hue, 

With whom it is our luck to cast our lot, 
The only gentlemen seem I and you, 

So let us be acquainted, as we ought ; 
If I could yield you any consolation, 
'Twould give me pleasure. — Pray, what is your 
nation ? " 

XIV. 
When Juan answer'd " Spanish ! " he replied, 

" I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek ; 
Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 

Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak, 
But that's the way with all men till they're tried ; 

But never mind, — she'll turn, perhaps, next week, 
She has served me also much the same as you, 
Except that I have found it nothing new." 

XV. 

" Pray, sir," said Juan, *- if I may presume, [rare— 
What brought you here ? " — " Oh nothing very 

Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — "To this doom 

But what conducted, if the question's fair, 

Is that which I would learn." — " I served for some 
Months with the Russian army here and there, 

And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 

A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin." 

XVI. 

" Have you no friends ? " — " I had — but, by God's 
blessing, 

Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 
I have answer'd all your questions without pressing, 

And you an equal courtesy should show." 
" Alas ! " said Juan, 'twere a tale distressing, 

And long besides." — " Oh ! if 'tis really so 
You're right on both accounts to hold your tongue ; 
A sad tale saddens doubly when 'tis long. 



DON JUAN. 



637 



XVII. 

" But droop not : Fortune, at your time of life, 
Although a female moderately fickle, 

"Will hardly leave you (as she's not your wife) 
For any length of days in such a pickle. 

To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife 
As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle : 

Men are the sport of circumstances, when 

The circumstances seem the sport of men." 

XVIII. 

" 'Tis not," said Juan, " for my present doom 
I mourn, but for the past ; — I loved a maid : " 

He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom ; 
A single tear upon his eyelash stay'd 

A moment, and then dropp'd ; " but to resume, 
'Tis not my present lot, as I have said, 

Which I deplore so much ; for I have borne 

Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

XIX. 

" On the rough deep. But this last blow — " and here 
He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 

" Ay," quoth his friend, " I thought it would appear 
That there had been a lady in the case ; 

And these are things which ask a tender tear, 
Such as I, too, would shed, if in your place: 

I cried upon my first wife's dying day, 

And also when my second ran away : 

XX. 

" My third " — "Your third ! " quoth Juan, turn- 
ing round ; 
" You scarcely can be thirty ; have you three ? " 
*' No — only two at present above ground : 

Surely 'tis nothing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound ! " [she ? 
"Well, then, your third," said Juan ; "what did 
She did not run away, too, — did she, sir ? " 
" No, faith." — " What then ? " — " I ran away from 
her." 

XXI. 

" You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. " Why," 
Replied the other, " what can a man do ? 

There still are many rainbows in your sky, 

But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new, 

Commence with feelings, warm, and prospects high ; 
But time strips our illusions of their hue, 

And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 

Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake. 

XXII. 

" 'Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh, 

Or fresher, brighter ; but, the year gone through, 

This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh, 
Or sometimes only wear a week or two ; — 

Love's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh ; 
Ambition, avarice, vengeance, glory, glue 

The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, 

Where still we flutter on for pence or praise." 



XXIII. 

" All this is very fine, and may be true," 
Said Juan ; " but I really don't see how 

It betters present times with me or you." 

" No ! " quoth the other ; " yet you will allow, 

By setting things in their right point of view, 
Knowledge, at least, is gain'd ; for instance, now, 

We know what slavery is, and our disasters 

May teach us better to behave when masters." 



XXIV. 

" Would we were masters now, if but to try 
Their present lessons on our pagan friends here," 

Said Juan — swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 
" Heav'n help the scholar whom his fortune sends 

" Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," [here ! " 
Rejoin'd the other, "when our bad luck mends 
here, 

Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye usj 

I wish to G — d that somebody would buy us ! 

XXV. 

" But after all, what is our present state ? 

'Tis bad, and may be better — all men's lot : 
Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, 

To their own whims and passions, and what not : 
Society itself, which should create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men without a heart." 

XXVI. 

Just now a black old neutral personage 

Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over 

The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and age, 
And capabilities, as to discover 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 

Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 

Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailer, 

XXVII. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures ; 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous ; some by features 
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 

Some by a place — as tend their years or natures ; 
The most by ready cash — but all have prices, 
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 

XXVIII. 

The eunuch, having eyed them o'er with care, 
Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid, 

First, but-for one, and after, for the pair ; 
They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did ! 

As though they were in a mere Christian fair, 
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid ; 

So that their bargain sounded like a battle 

For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At last they settled into simple grumbling, 
And pulling out reluctant purses, and 

Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
Some down, and weighing others in their hand, 

And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, • 
Until the sum was accurately scann'd, 

And then the merchant, giving change and signing 

Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 



XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite was good ; 

Or, if it were, if also his digestion. 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, 

And conscience ask a curious sort of question, 
About the right divine, how far we should [one 

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppress'c 
I think it is, perhaps, the gloomiest hour 
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 



638 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXI. 

Voltaire says, " No : " he tells you that Candide 
Found life most tolerable after meals ; 

He's wrong — unless man was a pig, indeed, 
Repletion rather adds to what he feels ; 

Unless he's drunk, and then, no doubt, he's freed 
From his own brain's oppression while it reels. 

Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 

Amnion's, (ill pleased with one world and one father ;) 

XXXII. 

I think with Alexander, that the act 

Of eating, with another act or two, 
Makes us feel our mortality in fact 

Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout, 
And fish and soup, by some side-dishes back'd, 

Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 
Depends so much upon the gastric juice ? 

XXXIII. 

The other evening, ('twas on Friday last) — 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
Just as my great coat was about me cast, 

My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
I heard a shot — 'twas eight o'clock scarce past — 

And running out as fast as I was able, 3 
I found the military commandant 
Stretch'd in the street and able scarce to pant. 

XXXIV. 

Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, [there 
They had slain him witli five slugs ; and left him 

To perish on the pavement : so I had 

Him borne into the house and up the stair, 

And stripp'd, and look'd to But why should I add 

More circumstances ? vain was every care ; 

The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 

Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 4 

XXXV. 

I gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 

And, though I have seen many corpses, never 
Saw one, whom such an accident befell, [and liver, 

So calm ; though pierced through stomach, heart, 
He seem'd to sleep, for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead : — 
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 

XXXVI. 

" Can this be death ? then what is life or death ? 

Speak ! " but he spoke not : " wake ! " but still he 
But yesterday, and who had mightier breath ? [slept: 

A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
In awe : he said, as the centurion saith, 

' Go,' and he goeth ; ' come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb — 
And now nought left him but the muffled drum." 

XXXVII. 

And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 
With their rough faces throng'd about the bed, 

To gaze once more on the commanding clay 

Which for the last, though not the first, time bled ; 

And such an end ! .that he who many a day 
Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 

The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 

Should row be butcher'd in a civic alley. 



XXXVIII. 

The scars of his old wounds were near his new, 
Those honor'd scars which brought him fame ; 

And horrid was the contrast to the view — 
But let me quit the theme, as such things claim, 

Perhaps, even more attention than is due 
From me : I gazed (as oft I hqve gazed the same) 

To try if I could wrench aught out of death, 

Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 

XXXIX. 

But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 
And there we go : — but where ? five bits of lead, 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 
And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed ? 

Can every element our elements mar ? 

And air — earth — water — fire live — and we dead ? 

We, whose minds comprehend all things ? No mor« . 

But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 
Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 

Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence 
As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 

They look'd like persons being led to sentence, 
Wondering what next, till the caique was brought 

Up in a little creek below a wall 

O'ertopp'd with cypresses dark-green and tall. 

XLI. 

Here there conductor tapping at the wicket 
Of a small iron door, 'twas open'd, and 

He led them onward, first through a low thicket, 
Flank'd by large groves which tower'd on either 
hand : 

They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 
For night was closing ere they came to land. 

The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 

Who row'd off, leaving them without a word. 

XLII. 
As they were plodding on their winding way, 

Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth, 
(Of which I might have a good deal to say, 

There being no such profusion in the North 
Of oriental plants, " et cetera," 

But that of late your scribblers think it worth 
Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, 
Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks :) 

XLIII. 

As they were threading on their way, there came 
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 

Whisper'd to his companion : — 'twas the same 
Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 
Methinks," — said he — " it would be no great shame 
If we should strike a stroke to set us free; 

Let's knock that old black fellow on the head, 

And march away — 'twere easier done than said." 

XLIV. 

Yes," said the other, " and when done, what then ? 

Hoic get out ? how the devil got we in ? 
And when we once were fairly out, and when 

From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, 
To-morrow 'd see us in some other den, 

And worse off than we hitherto have been ; 
Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take. 
Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak 



DON JUAN. 



639 



XLV. 
" We must be near some place of man's abode ; 

For the old negro's confidence in creeping, 
With his two captives, by so queer a road, 

Shows that he thinks his friends have not been 
A single cry would bring the mall abroad : [sleeping ; 

'Tis therefore better looking before leaping — 
And there, you see, this turn has brought us through, 
By Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted, too." 

XLVI. 

It was indeed a wide extensive building 

Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front 

There, seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont, — 

A gaudy taste ; for they are little skill'd in 
The arts of which these lands were once the font : 

Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 

New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 

XLVII. 

And nearer as they came, a genial savor 

Of certain stews, and roast meats, and pilaus, 

Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favor, 
Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, 

And put himself upon his good behavior : 
His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 

Said, " In Heaven's name lot's get some supper now, 

And them I'm with you, if you're for a row." 

XLVIII. 

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 

Some tc men's feelings, others to their reason ; 

The last of these was never much the fashion, 
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 

Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
But more or less continue still to tease on, 

With arguments according to their " forte; " 

But no one ever dreams of being short. 

XLIX. 

But I digress : of all appeals, — although 
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 

Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 
Method's more sure at moments to take hold 

Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
More tender, as we every day behold, 

Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, 

The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 



Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine : 
And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 

No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 
Of lacqueys usher to the feast prepared, 

Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, 
And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, 

And gazed around them to the left and right 

With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 

And giving up all notions of resistance, 

They follow'd close behind their sable guide, 

Who little thought that his own crack'd existence 
Was on the point of being set aside : 

He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, 
And knocking at the gate, 'twas open'd wide, 

And a magnificent large hall display'd 

The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 



LII. 



I won't describe ; description is my forte, 
But every fool describes in these bright days 

His wond'rous journey to some foreign court, 
And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise — 

Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport ; 

While nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, 

Resigns herself with exemplary patience [tions. 

To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustra- 

LIII. 

Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 
Upon their hams, were occupied at chess ; 

Others in monosyllable talk chatted, [dress , 

And some seem'd much in love with their own 

And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 
With amber mouths of greater price or less ; 

And several strutted, others slept, and some 

Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 5 

LIV. 

As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
Of purchased infidels, some raised their eyes 

A moment without slackening from their pace ; 
But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in any wise : 

One or two stared the captives in the face, 
Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 

Some nodded to the negro from their station, 

But no one troubled him with conversation. 

LV. 

He leads them through the hall, and, without stop- 
ping, 

On through a farther range of goodly rooms, 
Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping 

A marble fountain echoes, through the glooms 
Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping 

Some female head most curiously presumes 
To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, 
As wondering what the devil noise that is. 

LVI. 
Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls 

Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 
But not enough to show the imperial halls, 

In all the flashing of their full array.; 
Perhaps there's nothing — I'll not say appals, 

But Saddens more by night as well as day, 
Than an enormous room without a soul 
To break the lifeless splendor of the whole. 

LYII.' 
Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing ; 

In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 
There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 

The spots which were her realms for evermore : 
But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 

More modern buildings and those built of yore, 
A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, 
Seeing what's meant for many with but one. 

LVIII. 
A neat, snug study on a winter's night, 

A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, 

Are things which make an English evening pass ; 
Though certes by no means so gra,nd a sight 

As is a theatre lit up by gas. 
I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, 
And that's the reason I'm so melancholy. 



640 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LIX. 



Alas ! man makes that great which makes him little ; 

I grant you in a church 'tis very well : 
What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 

But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 
Their names who rear'd it ; but huge houses fit ill — 

And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell : 
Methinks the story of the tower of Babel 
Might teach them this much better than I'm able. 

LX. 

Babel was Nimrod's hunting-seat, and then 
A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, 

Where Nebuchodonosor, king of men, 
Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing, 

And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, 
The people's awe and admiration raising ; 

'Twas famjus, too, for Thisbe, and for Pyramus, 

And the calumniated Queen Semiramis. 

LXI. 

That injured Queen, by chroniclers so coarse, 
Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) 

Of an improper friendship for her horse, 

(Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy:) 

This monstrous tale had probably its source 
(For such exaggerations here and there I see) 

In writing "Courser" by mistake for "Courier:" 

I wish the case could come before a jury here. 

LXII. 

But to resume, — should there be, (what may not 
Be in these days ?) some infidels, who don't, 

Because they can't find out the very spot 
Of that same Babel, or because they won't, 

(Though Claudius Rich, esquire, some bricks has got, 
And written lately two memoirs upon 't,) 

Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 

Must be believed, though they believe not you : — 

LXIII. 

Yet let them think that Horace has express'd 
Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 

Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, 
Who give themselves to architecture wholly ; 

We know where things and men must end at last, 
A moral (like all morals) melancholy, 

And " Et sepulcri immemor struis domos " 

Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. 

LXIV. 

Al last they reach'd a quarter most retired, 
Where echo woke as if from a long slumber : 

Though full of all things which could be desired, 
One wonder'd what to do with such a number 

Of articles which nobody required ; 

Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 

With furniture an exquisite apartment, 

Which puzzled nature much to know what art meant. 

LXV. 

It seem'd, however, but to open on 

A range or suit of further chambers, which 

Might lead to, heaven knows where ; but in this one 
The moveables were prodigally rich ; 

Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon, 

So costly were they ; carpets every stitch 

Of workmanship so rare, that made you wish 

You could glide o'er them like a golden fish. 



LXVI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning 
A glance at that which rapt the slaves in wonder, 

Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, 
As if the milky-way their feet was under 

With all its stars : and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard, niched in yonder 

In that remote recess which you may see — 

Or if you don't, the fault is not in me : 

LXVII. 

I wish to be perspicuous : and the black, 
I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth 

A quantity of clothes, fit for the back 
Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 

And of variety there was no lack — 
And yet, though I have said there was no dearth. 

He chose himself to point out what he thought 

Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 

LXVIII. 

The suit he thought most suitable to each 
Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 

A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, 
And trowsers not so tight that they would burst, 

But. such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 

A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, 

Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; 

In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy 

LXIX. 

While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend, 
Hinted the vast advantages which they 

Might probably attain both in the end, 
If they would but pursue the proper way 

Which fortune plainly seem'd to recommend ; 
And then he added, that he needs must say, 

" 'Twould greatly tend to better their condition, 

If they would condescend to circumcision. 

LXX. 

" For his own part, he really should rejoice 
To see them true believers, but no less' 

Would leave his proposition to their choice." 
The other, thanking him for this excess 

Of goodness in thus leaving them a voice 
In such a trifle, scarcely could express 

" Sufficiently (he said) his approbation 

Of*all the customs of this polish'd nation. 

LXXI. 

" For his own share — he saw but small objection 

To so respectable an ancient rite, 
And after swallowing down a slight reflection, 

For which he own'd a present appetite, 
He doubted not a few hours of reflection 

Would reconcile him to the business quite." — 
" Will it ? " said Juan, sharply ; " Strike me dead, 
But they as soon shall circumcise my head — 

LXXII. 

"Cut off a thousand heads, before " —"Nov* 

Replied the other, " do not interrupt: [pray," 

You put me out in what I had to say. 
Sir ! — as I said, as soon as I have supp'd, 

I shall perpend if your proposals may 
Be such as I can properly accept ; ' 

Provided always your great goodness still 

Remits the matter to our own free-will." 



DON JUAN. 



641 



LXXIII. 
Baba eyed Juan, and said, " Be so good 

As dress yourself" — and pointed out a suit 
In which a princess with great pleasure would 

Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute, 
As not being in a masquerading mood, 

Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot ; 
And when the old negro told him to " Get ready," 
Replied, " Old gentleman, I'm not a lady." 

LXXIV. 

" What you may be, I neither know nor care," 
Said Baba, " but pray do as I desire, 

I have no more time nor many words to spare." 
"At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 

The cause of this odd travesty ? " — " Forbear," 
Said Baba, " to be curious : 'twill transpire, 

No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season : 

I have no authority to tell the reason." 

LXXV. 

" Then if I do," said Juan, " I'll be " " Hold ! " 

Rejoin'd the negro, " pray be not provoking : 

This spirit's well, but it may wax too bold, 
And you will find us not too fond of joking." 

" What, sir," said Juan, " shall it e'er be told 
That I unsex'd my dress ? " But Baba, stroking 

The things down, said — " Incense me, and I call 

Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 

LXXVI. 

" I offer you a handsome suit of clothes : 
A woman's true ; then there is a cause 

Why you should wear them." — "What, though my 
soul loathes 
The effeminate garb ? " — Thus, after a short pause, 

Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 
" What the devil shall I do with all this gauze ? " 

Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 

Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face. 

LXXVII. 

And then he swore ; and, sighing, on he slipp'd 
A pair of trowsers of flesh-color'd silk ; 

Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd, 

Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk, 

But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd. 

Which — as we say — or, as the Scotch say, whilk, 

(The rhyme obliges me to this : — sometimes 

Kings are not more imperative than rhymes) — 

LXXVIII. 

Whilk, which (or what you please) was owing to 
His garment's novelty, and his being awkward : 

And yet at last he managed to get through 
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward ; 

The negro Baba help'd a little too, 

When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard ; 

And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, 

He paused and took a survey up and down. 

LXXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd, — his hair 
Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 

So many false long tresses all to spare, 

That soon his head was most completely crown'd, 

After the manner then in fashion there ; 
And this addition with such gems was bound 

As suited the ensemble of his toilet, 

While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. 
81 



LXXX. 

And now being femininely all array 'd, [tweezers, 
With some small aid from scissors, paint, and 

He look'd in almost all respects a maid, 

And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, " You see, sirs, 

A perfect transformation here display'd ; [sirs, 

And now, then, you must come along with me, 

That is — the lady : " — clapping his hands twice, 

Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 

LXXXI. 

"You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
"Will please to accompany those gentlemen 

To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun, 
Will follow me : no trifling, sir : for when 

I say a thing, it must at once be done. 
What fear you ? think you this a lion's den ? 

Why, 'tis a palace ; where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 

LXXXII. 

" You fool ! I tell you no one means you harm 
" So much the better," Juan said, " for them : 

Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 
Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 

I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm, 
If any take me for that which I seem ; 

So that I trust, for every body's sake, 

That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 

LXXXIII. 

" Blockhead ! come on, and see," quoth Baba ; while 
Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who, [smile 

Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a 
Upon the metamorphosis in view, — 

"Farewell!" they mutually exclaim'd : " this soil 
Seems fertile in adventures strange and new ; 

One's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 

By this old black enchanter's unsought aid." 

LXXXIV. 

" Farewell ! " said Juan ; " should we meet no more, 
I wish you a good appetite." — " Farewell ! " 

Replied the other ; " though it grievs me sore ; 
When we next meet we'll have a tale to tell ; 

We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
Keep your good name ; though Eve herself once 
fell." [carry me, 

"Nay," quoth the maid, "the Sultan's self shan't 

Unless his highness promises to marry me." 

LXXXV. 

And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 

Baba led Juan onward, room by room, 
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors, 

Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, 
Haughty and huge, along the distance towers ; 

And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine, * 

For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

LXXXVI. 

The giant door was broad, and bright, and high, 
Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise ; 

Warriors thereon were battling furiously ; 
Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies ; 

There captives led in triumph droop the eye, 
And in perspective many a squadron flies : 

It seems the work of times before the line 

Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. 



642 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXVII. 

This massy portal stood at the "wide close 
Of a huge hall, and on its either side 

Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 
Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 

In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 
O'er them in almost pyramidic pride : 

The gate so splendid was in all its features," 1 

You never thought about these little creatures, 

LXXXVIII. 

Until you nearly trod on them, and then 
You started back in horror to survey 

The wondrous hideousness of those small men, 
Whose color was not black, nor white, nor gray, 

But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 
Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 

They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb — 

Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their duty was — for they were strong, and though 
They look'd so little, did strong things at times — 

To ope this door, which they could really do, 
The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes ; 

And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, 
As is the custom of those eastern climes, 

To give some rebel Pacha a cravat ; 

For mutes are generally used for that. 

% XC. 

They spoke by signs — that is not spoke at all ; 

And, looking like two incubi, they glared 
As Baba with his ringers made them fall 

To heaving back the portal folds : it scared 
Juan a moment, as this pair so small, 

With shrinking serpent optics on him stared ; 
It was as if their little looks could poison 
Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. 

XCI. 

Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 
To Juan some slight lessons as his guide : 

"If you could just contrive," he said, "to stint 
That somewhat manly majesty of stride, fin't) — 

'Twould be as well, and — (though there's not much 
To swing a little less from side to side, 

Which has, at times, an aspect of the oddest; 

And also, could you look a little modest, 

XCII. 
" 'Twould be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 

Like needles, which might pierce those petticoats ; 
And if they should discover your disguise, 

You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats ; 
And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 

To find our way to Marmora without boats, 
Stich'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 
A good deal practised here upon occasion." 

XCIII. 

With this encouragement, he led the way 
Into a room still nobler than the last ; 

A rich confusion form'd a disarray 

In such sort, that the eye along it cast 

Could hardly carry any thing away, 
Object on object flash'd so bright and fast ; 

A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, 

Magnificently mingloi in a litter. 



XCIV. 

Wealth had done wonders — taste not mu h ; such 
Occur in orient palaces, and even [things 

In the more chasten'd domes of western kings, 
(Of which I've also seen some six or seven,) 

Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 
Much lustre, theje is much to be forgiven ; 

Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, 

On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 

xcv. 

In this imperial hall, at distance lay 

Under a canopy, and there reclined, 
Quite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady ; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling, sign'd 
To Juan, who, though not much used to pray, 

Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
What all this meant : while Baba bow'd and bended 
His head, until the ceremony ended. 

XCVI. 

The lady, rising up with such an air 
As Venus rose with from the wave, on them 

Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 

Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem ; 

And, raising up an arm as moonlight fair, 
She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 

Of her deep-purple robe, and, speaking low 

Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 

XCVII. 

Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
Whose force description only would abate : 

I'd rather leave it much to your own mind, 
Than lessen it by what I could relate 

Of forms and features; it would strike you blind, 
Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 

XCVIII. 

This much however I may add — her years [springs, 
Were ripe — they might make six-and-twenty 

But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, 
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 

Such as was Mary's, Queen of Scots ; true — tears 
And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings 

Charms from the charmer — yet some never grow 

Ugly ; for instance — Ninon de l'Enelos. 

XCIX. 

She spake some words to her attendants, who 
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 

And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too, 
Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen : 

They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, 

Which might have call'd Diana's chorus "cousin," 

As far as outward show may correspond ; 

I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 



They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, 
But not by the same door through which came in 

Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, 
At some small distance, all he saw within 

This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 
Marvel and praise : for both or none things win ; 

And I must say I ne'er could see the very 

Great happiness of the " Nil Admirari." 



DON JUAN. 



643 



CI. 



" Not to admire is all the art I know [speech) 

(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of 

To make men happy, or to keep them so ; " 
(So take it in the very words of Creech.) 

Thus Horace wrote, we all know, long ago ; 
And thus Pope quotes the precept, to re-teach 

From his translation : but had none admired, 

Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 

CIL 

Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 

Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 
A second time desired him to kneel down 

And kiss the lady's foot, which maxim when 
He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 
. Drew himself up to his full height again, 
And said " It grieved him, but he could not stoop 
To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 

\ 

cm. 

Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 

Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 

He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 

About a bowstring — quite in vain ; not yet [bride : 

Would Juan stoop, though 'twere to Mahomet's 
There's nothing in the world like etiquette, 

In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 

As also at the race and county balls. 

CIV. 
He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 

About his ears, and nathless would not bend; 
The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 

Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 
To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 

A thousand times of him had made an end ; 
At length perceiving the "foot " could not stand, 
Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 

CV. 

Here was an honorable compromise, 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest, * [guise ; 
Where they might meet in much more peaceful 

And Juan now His willingness express'd 
To use all fit and proper courtesies, 

Adding, that this was commonest and best, 
For through the South the custom still commands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 

evi; 

And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 
Though on more thorough-bred & or fairer fingers 

No lips e'er left their transitory trace: 

On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, 

And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, 
As you will see, if she you love will bring hers 

In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 

An almost twelvemonth s constancy endangers. 

CVII. 

The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 

Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, 
As if well used to the retreating trade ; 

And taking hints in good part all the while, 
He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid, 

And, looking on him with a sort of smile, 
Took leave with such a face of satisfaction, 
As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. 



CVIII. 

When he was gone, there was a sudden change, 
I know not what might be the lady's thought, 

But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange, 
And into her clear cheek the blood .was brought, 

Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 
The verge of heaven ; and in her large eyes 

A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, [wrought 

Of half voluptuousness and half command. 

CIX. 

Her forrri had all the softness of her sex, 

Her features all the swoetness of the devil, 
When he put on the cherub^to perplex 

Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil ; 
The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 
Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil; 
Yet somehow there was something somewhere want- 
As if she rather order'd than was granting. — [hag, 

CX. 

Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a chain 

Was thrown, as 'twere, about the neck of you,— 
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view : 
Our souls at least are free, and 'tis in vain 

We would against them make the flesh obey — 

The spirit, in the end, will have its way. 

CXI. 

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet ; 

Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
There was a self-will even in her small feet, [tion— 

As though they were quite conscious of her sta- 
They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 

Her state, (it is the custom of her nation,) 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride, (thank Heaven, not mine !) 

CXII. 

" To hear and to obey " had been from birth 

The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 

Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will ; 
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth ; 

Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still ; ' 
Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion 
We should have found out the "perpetual motion." 

CXIII. 

Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought ; 

Whate'cr she did not see, if she supposed 
It might be seen, with diligence was sought, 

And when 'twas found straightway the bargain 
closed : 
There was no end unto the things she bought, 

Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
Yet even her tyjpnny had such a grace, 
The women pardon'd all except her face. 

CXIV. 

Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 
Her eye in passing on his way to sale ; 

She order'd him directly to be bought, 
And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 

In any kind of mischief to be wrought, 

Had his instructions where and how to deal : 

She had no prudence, but he had ; and this 

Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 



644 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXV. 



His youth and features favor'd the disguise, 
And should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 

Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 
This I must leave sultanas to decide : 

Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
And kings and consorts oft are mystified, 

As we may ascertain with due precision, 

Some by experience, others by tradition. 

CXVI. 

But to the main point, where we have been tending : 
She now conceived all difficulties past, 

And deem'd herself extremely condescending 
When being made her property at last, 

Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 
Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, 

And merely saying, " Christian, canst thou love ? " 

Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 

CXVII. 

And so it was, in proper time and place, 

But Juan, who had still his mind o'erfiowing 

With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, 

Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing, 

Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace, 

And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing : 

These words went through his soul like Arab spears, 

So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 

CXVII1. 

She was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears, 
For women shed and use them at their liking ; 

But there is something when man's eye appears 
Wet, still more disagreeable and striking : 

A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears, 
Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 

His heart, to force it out, for (to be shorter) 

To them 'tis a relief, to us a torture. 

CXIX. 

And she would have consoled, but knew not how ; 

Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
Infected her with sympathy till now, 

And never having dreamt what 'twas to bear 
Aught of a serious sorrowing kind, although 

There might arise some pouting petty care 
To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 
Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 

cxx. 

But nature teaches more than power can spoil, 
And when a strong although a strange sensation 

Move* — female hearts are such a genial soil 
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 

They naturally pour the " wine and oil," 
Samaritans in every situation ; 

And thus Gulbeyaz, though she kne^v not why, 

Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 

CXXI. 

But tears must stop like all things else ; and soon 
Juan, who for an instant had been moved 

To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 

Of one who dared to ask if "he had loved," 

Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
Bright with the very weakness he reproved ; 

And although sensitive to beauty, he 

Felt most indignant still at not being free. 



CXXI1. 

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days, 
Was much embarrass'd, never having met 

In all her life with aught save prayers and praise ; 
And as she also risk'd her life to get 

Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
Into a comfortable tete-a-tete, 

To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 

And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 

CXXIII. 

I also would suggest the fitting time, 

To gentlemen in any such like case, 
That is to say — in a meridian clime ; 

With us there is more law given to the case, 
But here a small delay forms a great crime : 

So recollect that the extremest grace 
Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
A moment more would hurt your reputation. 

CXXIV. 

Juan's was good ; and might have been still bettei 
But he had got Haidee into his head : 

However strange, he could not yet forget her, 
Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 

Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 
For having had him to the palace led, 

Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 

Grow deadly pale, and then blush back agaim. 

exxv. 

At length, in an imperial way, she Laid 
Her hand on his, and bending on his eyes, 

Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
Look'd into his for love, where none replies : 

Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, 
That being the last thing a proud woman tries : 

She rose, and, pausing one chaste moment, threw 

Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 

CXXVI. 
This was an awkward test, as Juan found, 

But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride ; 
With gentle force her white arms he unwound, 

And seated her all drooping by his side. 
Then rising haughtily he glanced around, 

And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 
" The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I . 
Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy. 

CXXVII. 

" Thou ask'st if I can love ? be this the proof 
How much I have loved — that I love not thee ! 

In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof, 
Were fitter for me : love is for the free ! 

I am not dazzled by this splendid roof ; 

Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be — 

Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, 

And hands obey — our hearts are still our own." 

CXXVIII. 

This was a truth to us extremely trite, 

Not so to her who ne'er had heard such things ; 

She deem'd her least command must yield delight, 
Earth being only made for queens and kings ; 

If hearts lay on the left side or the right 
She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 

Legitimacy its born votaries, when 

Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 



DON JUAN. 



645 



CXXIX. 

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
As even in a much humbler lot had made 

A kingdom or confusion any where ; 
And also, as may be presumed, she laid 

Some stress upon those charms which seldom are 
By the possessors thrown into the shade ; — 

She thought hers gave a double " right divine," 

And half of that opinion's also mine. 

cxxx. 

Remember, or (if you cannot) imagine, 

Ye ! who have kept your chastity when young, 

While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung 

By your refusal, recollect her raging ! 
Or recollect all that was said or sung 

On such a subject : then suppose the face 

Of a young downright beauty in the case. 

CXXXI. 

Suppose, — but you already have supposed, 
The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 

Phaedra, and all which story has disclosed 
Of good examples ; pity that so few by 

Poets and private tutors are exposed, 

To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by ! 

But when you have supposed the few we know, 

You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

CXXXII. 

A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 

Or any interesting beast of prey, 
Are similes at hand for the distress 

Of ladies, who can not have their own way ; 
But though my turn will not be served with less, 

These don't express one half what I should say : 
For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
To cutting short their hopes of having any ? 

CXXXIIT. 

The love of offspring's nature's general law. 

From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings ; 

There's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw, 
Like an invasion on their babes and sucklings ; 

And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 
How mothers love their children's squalls and 
chucklings ; 

This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 

Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. 

CXXXIV. 

If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 

'Twere nothing — for her eyes flash'd always fire ; 

Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 
I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, 

So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 
For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire : 

Even ye who know what a check'd woman is, 

(Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this. 

cxxxv. 

Her rage was but a minute's, and 'twas well — 
A moment's more had slain her ; but the while 

It lasted 'twas like a short glimpse of hell : 
Nought's more sublime than energetic bile, 

Though horrible to see yet grand to tell, 
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 

And the deep passions flashing through her form 

Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 



CXXXVI. 

A vulgar tempest 'twere to a typhoon 
To match a common fury with her rage, 

And yet she did not want to reach the moon, 
Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page; 

Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune, 

Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age — 

Her wish was but to " kill, kill, kill," like Lear's, 

And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears. 

CXXXVII. 

A storm it raged, and like the storm it passed, 
Pass'd without words — in fact she could not speak ; 

And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 
A sentiment till then in her but weak, 

But now it flow'd in natural and fast, 
As water through an unexpected leak, 

For she felt humbled — and humiliation 

Is sometimes good for people in her station. 

CXXXVIII. 

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, 
It also gently hints to them that others, 

Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud ; 
That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 

And works of the same pottery, bad or good, 

Though not all born of the same sires and mothers. 

It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches, 

But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 

CXXXIX. 

Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head ; 

Her second, to cut only his — acquaintance ; 
Her third, to ask him where he had been bred ; 

Her fourth, to rally him into repentance ; 
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 

Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence 
The lash to Baba : — but her grand resource 
Was to sit down again, and cry of course. 

CXL. 

She thought to stab herself, but then she had 

The dagger close at hand, which made it awk- 

For Eastern stays arc little made to pad, [ward ; 
So that a poniard pierces if 'tis struck hard: 

She thought of killing Juan — but, poor lad ! 

Though he deserved it well for being so backward, 

The cutting off his head was not the art 

Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 

CXLI. 
Juan was moved : he had made up his mind 

To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, 

Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish, 
And thus heroically stood resign'd, 

Rather than sin, — except to his own wish : 
But all his great preparatives for dying 
Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 

CXLI1. 

As through his palms Bob Acres' valor oozed, 
So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how ; 

And first he wonder'd why he had refused ; 
And then, if matters could be made up now ; 

And next his savage virtue he accused, 
Just as a friar may accuse his vow, 

Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 

Which mostly ends in some small breach of both. 



646 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXLIII. 

So he began to stammer some excuses ; 

But words are not enough in such a matter, 
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses 

Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter, 
Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses ; 

Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
His peace was making, but before he ventured 
Further, old Baba rather briskly cnter'd. 

, CXLIV. 

" Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the Moon ! " 
('Twas thus he spake,) "and Empress of the Earth ! 

Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune, 
Whose smile makes all the planets dance with 
mirth, 

Your slave brings tidings — he hopes not too soon — 
Which your sublime attention may be worth : 

The Sun himself has sent me like a ray, 

To hint that he is coining up this way." 

CXLV. 
' Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, " as you say ? 

I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning ! 
But bid my women form the milky way. [ing — 

Hence, my old comet ! give the stars due warn- 
And, Christian ! mingle with them as you may, 

And as you'd have me pardon your past scorn- 
Here they were interrupted by a humming [ing " 

Sound, and then by a cry, " The Sultan's coming ! " 

CXLVI. 
First came her damsels, decorous file, 

And then his highness' eunuchs, black and white ; 
The train might reach a quarter of a mile : 

His majesty was always so polite 
As to announce his visits a long while 

Before he came, especially at night ; 
For being the last wife of the emperor, 
She was of course the favorite of the four. 

CXLVII. 

His highness was a man of solemn port, 

Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 

Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, 
His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise ; 

He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
As any mention'd in the histories 

Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine 

Save Solyman, the glory of their line. 9 

CXLVIII. 

He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 
With more than " oriental scrupulosity ; " 

He left to his vizier all state affairs, 
And show'd but little royal curiosity — 

I know not if he had domestic cares — 
No process proved connubial animosity ; 

Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, 

Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 

CXLIX. 

If now and then there happen'd a slight slip, 
Little was heard of criminal or crime; 

The story scarcely pass'd a single lip — 
The sack and sea had settled all in time, 

From which the secret nobody could rip ; 

The public knew no more than does this rhyme ; 

No scandals made the daily press a curse — 

Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 



CL. 



He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
Was also certain that the earth was square, 

Because he had journey'd fifty miles, and found 
No sign that it was circular any where ; 

His empire also was without a bound : 
'Tis true, a little troubled here and there, 

By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, 

But then they never came to " the Seven Towers ; " 

CLI. 

Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 

To lodge there when a war broke out, according 

To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
Those scoundrels who have never had a sword ia 

Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 
Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording 

Their lies, yclept despatches, without risk, or 

The singeing of a single inky whisker. 

CLII. 

He had fifty daughters and four dozens sons, 
Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, 

The former in a palace, where like nuns 

They lived till some bashaw was sent abroad, 

When she, whose turn it was, wedded at once, 
Sometimes at six years old — though this seems odd, 

'Tis true ; the reason is, that the bashaw 

Must make a present to his sire in law. 

CLIII. 

His sons were kept in prison till they grew 
Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 

One or the other, but which of the two 
Could yet be known unto the Fates alone ; 

Meantime the education they went through 
Was princely, as the proofs have always shown: 

So that the heir apparent still was found 

No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd. 

CLIV. 

His majesty saluted his fourth spouse 

With all the ceremonies of his rank, [brows 

Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd hei 

As suits a matron who has play'd a prank : 
These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 

To save the credit of their breaking bank ; 
To no men are such cordial greetings given 
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven 

CLV. 

His highness cast aroiind his great black eyes, 
And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 

Juan among the damsels in disguise, 
At which he seem'd no whit surpris'd, nor griev'd, 

But just remark'd with air sedate and wise, 
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 

" I see you've bought another girl ; 'tis pity 

That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 

CLVI. 
This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 

The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake 
Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone : 

Oh, Mahomet ! that his majesty should take 
Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 

Of them his lips imperial ever spake ! 
There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 
But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 



DON JUAN. 



647 



CLVII. 

The Turks do well to shut — at least, sometimes — 
The women up — because, in sad reality, 

Their chastity in these unhappy climes 
Is not a thing of that astringent quality, 

Which in the North prevents precocious crimes, 
And makes our snow less pure than our morality; 

The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 

Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 

CLVIII. 
Thus far our chronicle ; and now we pause, 

Though not for want of matter; but 'tis time, 
According to the ancient epic laws, 

To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 
Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, 

The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime ; 
Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 
You'll pardon to my muse a few short naps. 



PREFACE 

, TO 

CANTOS VI. VII. AND VIII. 

The details of the siege of Ismail in two of the 
following cantos (i. c. the 7th and 8th) are taken 
from a French work, entitled, " Histoire de la Nou- 
velle Russie." Some of the incidents attributed to 
Don Juan really occurred, particularly the circum- 
stance of his saving the infant, which was the actual 
case of the late Due de Richelieu, then a young 
volunteer in the Russian service, and afterwards the 
founder and benefactor of Odessa, where his name 
and memory can never cease to be regarded with 
reverence. In the course of these cantos, a stanza 
or two will be found relative to the late Marquis of 
Londonderry, but written some time before his de- 
cease. Had that person's oligarchy died with him, 
they would have been suppressed; as it is, I am 
aware of nothing in the manner of his death or of 
his life to prevent the free expression of the opinions 
of all whom his whole existence was consumed in 
endeavoring to enslave. That he was an amiable 
man in private life, may or may not be true; but 
with this the, public have nothing to do : and as to 
lamenting his death, it will be time enough when 
Ireland has ceased to mourn for his birth. As a 
minister, I, for one of millions, looked upon him as 
the most despotic in intention, and the weakest in 
intellect that ever tyrannized over a country. It is 
the first time, indeed, since the Normans, that Eng- 
land has been insulted by a minister (at least) who 
could not speak English, and that Parliament per- 
mitted to be dictated to in the language of Mrs. 
Malaprop. 

Of the manner of his death little need be said, 
except that if a poor radical, such as "Waddington 
or Watson, had cut his throat, he would have been 
buried in a cross-road, with the usual appurtenances 
of the stake and mallet. But the minister was an 
elegant lunatic — a sentimental suicide — he merely 
cut the "carotid artery" (blessings on their learn- 
ing!) — and lo ! the pageant, and the- abbey, and 
" the syllables of dolor yelled forth " by the news- 



papers — and the harangue of the coroner in an 
eulogy, over the bleeding body of the deceased — (an 
Antony worthy of such a Caisar) — and the nauseous 
and atrocious cant of a degraded crew of conspira- 
tors against all that is sincere or honorable. In his 
death he was necessarily one of two things by the 
law — a felon or a madman — and in either case no 
great subject for panegyric* In his life he was — 
what all the world knows, and half of it will feel 
for years to come, unless his death prove a " moral 
lesson" to the surviving Sejanif of Europe. It 
may at least serve as a consolation to the nations, 
that their oppressors are not happy, and in some 
instances judge so justly of their own actions as to 
anticipate the sentence of mankind. — Let us heai 
no more of this 1 man, and let Ireland remove the 
ashes of her Grattan from the sanctuary of West- 
minster. Shall the Patriot of Humanity repose by 
the Werther of Politics ! ! ! 

With regard to the objections which have been 
made on another score to the already published 
cantos of this poem, I shall content myself with 
two quotations from Voltaire : — 

"La pudeur s'est enfuite des coeurs, et s'est 
refugiee sur les levres." 

" Plus les mccurs sont depravces, plus les expres- 
sions devienment mesurees ; on croit regagner en 
langage ce qu'on a perdu en vertu." 

This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded 
and hypocritical mass which leavens the present 
English generation, and is the only answer they 
deserve. The hackneyed and lavished title of 
blasphemer — which, with radical, liberal, jacobin, 
reformer, &c, are the changes which the hirelings 
are daily ringing in the cars of those who will listen 
— should be welcome to all who recollect on whom 
it was originally bestowed. Socrates and Jesus 
Christ were put to death publicly as blasphemers, 
and so have been and ,may be many who dare to 
oppose the most notorious abuses of the name of 
God and the mind of man. But persecution is not 
refutation, nor even triumph : the wretched infidel, 
as he is called, is probably happier in his prison 
than the proudest of his assailants. With his 
opinions I have nothing to do — they may be right 
or wrong — but he has suffered for them, and that 
very suffering for conscience' sake will make more 
proselytes to Deism than the example of heterodox J 
prelates to Christianity, suicide statesmen to op- 
pression, or over-pensioned homicides to the im- 
pious alliance which insults the world with the 
name of "Holy!" I have no wish to trample 
on the dishonored or the dead; but it would be 
well if the adherents to the classes from whence* 
those persons sprung, should abate a little of the 
cant which is the crying sin of this double-dealing 
and false-speaking time of selfish spoilers, and — 
but enough for the present. 



* I say by the law of the land — the laws of humanity judge more gently; 
but as the legitimates have always the law in their own mouths, let them make 
the most of it. 

t From this number must be excepted Canning. Canning is a genius, 
almost a universal one : an orator, a wit, a poet, a statesman ; and no man 
of talent can long pursue the path of his late predecessor, Lord C. If evel 
man saved his country, Canning can ; hut will he ? I, for one, hope so. 

+ When Lord Sandwich said " he did not know the difference between 
orthodoxy and heterodoxy," — Warburton, the bishop, replied, if Orthodoxy, 
my lord, is my doxy, and heterodoxy is another's man's doxy." A prelate 
of the present day has discovered, it seems, a third Kind of doxy, which hat 
not greatly exalted in the eyes of the elect, that which Bentham call; 
" Church of-Englandism." 



848 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO VI. 



4 There is a tide in the affairs of men 
Which, taken at the flood" — you know the rest, 

And most of us have found it, now and then ; 
At least we think so, though but few have guess'd 

The moment, till too late to come again. 
But no doubt every thing is for the best — 

Of which the surest sign is in the end ; 

When things are at the worst, they sometimes mend. 

II. 

There is a tide in the affairs of women [where ! 

"Which, taken at the flood, leads " — God knows 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Whose charts lay down its currents to a hair; 
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 

With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : 
Men, with their heads, reflect on this and that — 
But women, with their hearts, on heaven knows what. 

III. 
And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 

Young, beautiful, and daring — who would risk 
A throne, the world, the universe, to be 

Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 
The stars from out the sky, than not be free 

As are the billows when the breeze is brisk — 
Though such a she's a devil, fif that there be one,) 
Yet she would make full many a Manichean. 

IV. 

Thrones, worlds, ct cetera, are so oft upset 
By commonest ambition, that when passion 

O'erthrows the same, we readily forget, 

Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 

If Antony be well remember'd yet, 
'Tis not his conquests keep his name in fashion ; 

But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 

Outbalance all the Crcsar's victories. 



He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 

I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, 
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds, are but a sport — I 

Remember when, though I had no great plenty 
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 

Gave what I had — a heart : as the world went, I 
Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds could never 
Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 

VI. 
'Twas the boy's "mite," and like the "widow's," 

Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now ; [may 
But whether such things do or do not weigh, 

All who have loved, or love, will still allow 
Life has nought like it. God is love, they say, 

And Love's a God, or was before the brow 
Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 
Of — but Chronology best knows the years. 



VII. 
We left our hero and third heroine in 

A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, 
For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 

For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman : 
Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, 

And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, 
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, 
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortcnsius. 

VIII. 
I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong ; 

I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it; 
But I detest all fiction, even in song, 

And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. 
Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 

She thought that her lord's heart (even could she 
Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine [claim it) 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 

IX. 

I am not, like Cassio, " an arithmetician," 
But by " the bookish theoric " it appears, 

If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision, 

That, adding to the account his highness' years, 

The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; 
For, were the Sultan just to all his dears, 

She could but claim the fifteen-hundreth part 

Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 

X. 

It is observed that ladies are litigious 
Upon all legal objects of possession, 

And not the least so when they are religious, [sion. 
Which doubles what they think of the transgres- 

With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, 
As the tribunal shows through many a session, 

When they suspect that any one goes shares 

In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. 

XL 

Now, if this holds good in a Christian land, 
The heathens also, though with lesser latitude, 

Are apt to carry things with a high hand, 
And take what kings call " an imposing attitude ; " 

And for their rights connubial make a stand, [tude ; 
"When their liege husbands treat them with ingrati- 

And as four wives must have quadruple claims, 

The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. 

XII. 

Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 
The favorite ; but what's favor among four ? 

Polygamy may well be held in dread, 
Not only as a sin, but as a bore : 

Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed, 
Will scarcely find philosophy for more ; 

And all (except Mahometans) forbear 

To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of Ware." 

XIII. 

His highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 
So styled according to the usual forms 

Of every monarch, till they are consigned 
To those sad hungry jacobins, the worms, 

Who on the very loftiest kings have dined, — 
His highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, 

Expecting all the welcome of a lover, 

(A " Highland welcome " all the wide world over ) 



DON JUAN. 



649 



XIV. 



Now here we should distinguish ; for howe'er 
Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 

May look like what is — neither here nor there : 
They are put on as easily as a hat, 

Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 

Which form an ornament, but no more part 

Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 

XV. 

A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 

More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 
Rather to hide what pleases most unknown, 

Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 
Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 

A sincere woman's breast, — for over warm 

Or over cold, annihilates the charm. 

XVI. 
For over warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 

If true, 'tis no great lease of its own fire ; 
For no one, save in very early youth, 

Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, 
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth, 

And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer 
At a sad discount : while your over chilly 
Women, on t'other hand, seem somewhat silly. 

XVII. 

That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 
For so it seems to lovers swift or slow, 

Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd, 
And see a sentimental passion glow, 

Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest, 
In his monastic concubine of snow ; — 

In short, the maxim for the armorous tribe is 

Horatian, "Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 

XVIII. 

The " tu " 's too much, — but let it stand — the verse 
Requires it, that's to say, the English rhyme, 

And not the pink of old Hexameters ; 
But, after all, there's neither tune nor time 

Tn the last line, which cannot well be worse, 
And was thrust in to close the octave's chime : 

I own no prosody can ever rate it 

A.s a rule, but Truth may, if you translate it. 

XIX. 

If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 

I know not — it succeeded, and success 

Is much in most things, not less in the heart 
Than other articles of female dress. 

Self-love in man, too, beats all female art ; 
They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less : 

And no one virtue yet, except starvation, 

Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We leave this royal couple to repose ; 

A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 
Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes ; 

Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 
As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 

Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 
Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears 
The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 
82 



XXL 

A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 

To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 

At a per-centage ; a child cross, dog ill, 

A favorite horse fallen lame just as he's mounted, 

A bad old woman making a worse will, 
Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted 

As certain ; — these are paltry things, and yet 

I've rarely seen the maa they did not fret. 

XXII. 
I'm a philosopher ; confound them all ! 

Bills, beasts, and men, and — no ! not womankind ! 
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, 

And then my stoicism leaves nought behind 
Which it can either pain or evil call, 

And I can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, 
Is more than I know — the deuce take them both. 

XXIII. 
So now all things are d — n'd, one feels at ease, 

As after reading Athanasius' curse, 
Which doth your true believer so much please : 

I doubt if any now could make it worse 
O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 

'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse, 
And decorates the book of Common Prayer, 
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 

XXIV. 

Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 
At least one of them — Oh the heavy night 

When wicked wives who love some bachelor 
Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 

Of the gray morning, and look vainly for 
Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite, 

To toss, to tumble, doze, revive and quake, 

Lest their too lawful bedfellow should wake. 

XXV. 

These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 

Also beneath the canopy of beds, 
Four-posted and silk-curtain'd, which are given 

For rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
Upon, in sheets white as what bards call " driven 

Snow." Well ! 'tis all hap-hazard when one weds. 
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean. 

XXVI. 

Don Juan, in his feminine disguise, 

With all the damsels in their long array, 

Had bow'd themselves before the imperial eyes, 
And, at the usual signal, ta'en their way 

Back to their chambers, those long galleries 
In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 

Their delicate limbs ; a thousand bosoms there 

Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 

XXVII. 
I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 

The tyrant's wish " that mankind only had 
One neck, which he with one fell stroke might 
pierce : " 

My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, 
And much more tender on the whole than fierce : 

It being (not now, but only while a lad) 
That womankind had but one rosy mouth, 
To kiss them all at once from North to South. 



650 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXVIII. 
Oh enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 

And heads, if thou hadst all tilings multiplied 
In such proportion ! — But my muse withstands 

The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 
Or travelling in Patagonian lands ; 

So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 
Our hero through the labyrinth of love, 
In which we left him several lines above. 

XXIX. 

lie went forth with the lovely Odalisques, 
At the given signal join'd to their array ; 

And though he certainly ran many risks, 
Yet he could not at times keep by the way, 

(Although the consequences of such frisks 
Are worse than the worst damages men pay 

In moral England, where the thing's a tax,) 

From, ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 

XXX. 

Still he forgot not his disguise : — along 

The galleries from room to room they walk'd, 

A virgin-like and edifying throng, fstalk'd 

By eunuchs flank'd; while at their head there 

A dame who kept up discipline among 
The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd 

Without her sanction on their she-parades : 

Her title was "the Mother of the Maids." 

XXXI. 

Whether she was a " mother," I know not, 

Or whether they were "maids" who call'd her 

But this is her seraglio title, got ■ [mother ; 

I know not how, but good as any other; 

So Cantemir can tell you, or Dc Tott : 
Her office was to keep aloof or smother 

All bad propensities in fifteen hundred [der'd. 

Young women, and correct them when they blun- 

XXXII. 

A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 

More easy by the absence of all men 
Except his majesty, who, with her aid, 

And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then 
A slight example, just to cast a shade 

Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 
Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 
Where all the passions have, alas ! but one vent. 

XXXIII. 

A.nd what is that ? Devotion, doubtless— how 
Could you ask such a question ? — but we will 

Continue. As I said, this goodly row 
Of ladies of all countries at the will 

Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 
Like water-lilies floating down a rill, 

Or rather lake— for rills do not run slowly, — 

Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But when they reach'd their own apartments, there, 
Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, 

Waves at spring-tide, or women any where 
When freed from bonds, (which are of no great use, 

After all,) or like Irish at a fair, 
Their guards being gone, and, as it were, a truce, 

Establish'd between them and bondage, they 

Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 



XXXV. 

Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer, 
Her shape, her air, her hair, her every thing : 

Some thought her dress did not so much become her, 
Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring ; 

Some said her years were getting nigh their summer, 
Others contended they were but in spring ; 

Some thought her rather masculine in height, 

While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 

XXXVI. 

But no one doubted, on the whole, that she 
Was what her dress bespoke her, a damsel fair, 

And fresh, and " beautiful exceedingly," 
Who with the brightest Georgians might compare : 

They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be 
So silly as to buy slaves who might share 

(If that his highness wearied of his bride) 

Her throne and power, and every thing beside. 

XXXVII. 

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 
Although her beauty was enough to vex, 

After the first investigating view, 
They all found out as few, or fewer, specks, 

In the fair form of their companion new, 
Than is the custom of the gentle sex, 

When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen 

In a new face " the ugliest creature breathing." 

XXXVIII. 
And yet they had their little jealousies, 

Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion, 
Whether there are such things as sympathies 

Without our knowledge or our approbation, 
Although they could not see through his disguise, 

All felt a soft kind of concatenation, 
Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 
You please — we will not quarrel about that. 

XXXIX. 

But certain 'tis, they all felt for their new 
Companion something newer still, as 'twere 

A sentimental friendship through and through, 
Extremely pure, which made them all concur 

In wishing her their sister, save a few 
Who wished they had a brother just like her,. 

Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 

They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 

XL. 

Of those who had most genius for this sort 
Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 

Lolah, Katinka, and Dudii ; in short, 
(To save description,) fair as fair can be 

Were they, according to the best report, 
Though differing in stature and degree, 

And clime and time, and country and complexion : 

They all alike admired their new connection. 

XLI. 

Lolah was dusk as India, and as warm ; 

Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to treadt 
But rather skim the earth; while Dudu's form 

Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, 
Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy, 
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 



DON JUAN. 



651 



XLII. 

A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 
Yet very fit to " murder sleep " in those 

Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 
Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 

Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, 

Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose; 

Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where 

It would not spoil some separate charm to^are. 

XLIII. 

She was not violently lively, but 

Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking ; 
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half shut, 

They put beholders in a tender taking ; 
She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 

From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, 
The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
And timidly expanding into life. 

XLIV. 

Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 
" Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 

Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — 

" From Spain." — " But where is Spain ?" — "Don't 
ask such stuff, 

Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for shame ! " 
Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 

To poor Katinka: " Spain's an island near 

Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 

XLV. 

Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 
Juanna, playing with her veil or hair ; 

And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd, 
As if she pitied her for being there, 

A pretty stranger, without friend or guide, 
And all abash'd, too, at the general stare 

Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, 

With kind remarks upon their mien, and faces. 

XLVI. 

But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, 
With, " Ladies, it is time to go to rest. 

I'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 
She added, to Juanna, their new guest : 

" Your coming has been unexpected here, 
And every couch is occupied ; you had best 

Partake of mine; but by to-morrow early 

We will have all things settled for you fairly." 

XLVII. 

Here Lolah interposed—" Mamma, you know 
You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 

That any body should disturb you ; so 
I'll take Juanna ; we're a slenderer pair 

Than you would make the half of; — don't say no ; 
And I of your young charge will take due care " 

But here Katinka interfered, and said, 

" She also had compassion and a bed." 

XLVIII. 

" Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 

The matron frown'd : " Why so ? " — " For fear if 
Replied Katinka ; " I am sure I see [ghost*/* 

A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 
And then I have the worst dreams that can be, [hosts." 

Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gduls in 
The dame replied, "Between your dreams and you, 
I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 



XLIX. 

" You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 
Alone, for reasons which don't matter ; you 

The same, Katinka, until by and by ; 
And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 

Who's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, 
And will not toss and chatter the night through. 

What say you, child ? "— Dudu said nothing, as 

Her talents were of the more silent class ; 

L. 

But she rose up and kiss'd the matron's brow 

Between the eyes, and Lolah on both checks, 
Katinka, too, and with a gentle bow, 

(Curtsies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks, 
She took Juanna by the hand to show 

Their place of rest, and left to both their piques 
The others pouting at the matron's preference 
Of Dudu', though they held their tongues from defer 
ence. 

LI. 
It was a spacious chamber, (Oda is 

The Turkish title,) and ranged round the wall 
Were couches, toilets — and much more than this 

I might describe, as I have seen it all. 
But it suffices — little was amiss ; 

'Twas on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall, 
With all things ladies want, save one or two, 
And even those were nearer than they knew. 

LII. 
Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 

Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 
With the most regulated charms of feature, 

Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning 
Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature 

Which they hit off at once in the beginning, 
Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, 
And, pleasing or unpleasing, still are like. 

• LIII. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, 
Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet, 

Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful without mirth, 
Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 

Than are your mighty passions, and so forth, [it : 
Which some call " the sublime : " I wish they'd try 

I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 

And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 

LIV. 
But she was pensive more than melancholy, 

And serious more than pensive, and serene 
It may be more than either — not unholy [b«en. 

Her thoughts, at least till now, appear tc ?rave 
The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholU 

Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick severnee*^ 
That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall , 
She never thought about herself at all. 

LV. 

And therefore was she kind and gentle as 

The Age of Gold (when gold was yet mik^C"* 1 ^ 

Ey which its nomenclature cam« to pass ; 
Thua most appropriately has been shown 

" Lucus a. non lucendo," not what was. 
But what tcae no: ; a sort of style that'* grov* 

Extremely lommo^ in this, age, whose metal 

The devil may arcoja^ose, but never settle : 



652 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LVI. 



I think it may De of " Corinthian Brass," 
Which was a mixture of all metals, but 

The brazen uppermost.) Kind reader! pass 
This long parenthesis : I could not shut 

It sooner for the soul of me, and class [put 

My faults even with your own ! which meaneth, 

A kind construction upon them and me : 

But that you won't — then don't — I'm not less free. 

LVII. 
'Tis time we should return to plain narration, 

And thus my narrative proceeds : — Dudu, 
With every kindness short of ostentation, 

Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 
This labyrinth of females, and each station [few : 

Described — what's strange, in words extremely 
I have but one simile, and that's a blunder, 
For worldless women, which is silent thunder. 

LVIII. 

And next she gave her (I say her, because 
The gender still was epicene, at least 

In outward show, which is a saving clause) 
An outline of the customs of the East, 

With all their chaste integrity of laws, 
By which the more a haram is increased, 

The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 

Of any supernumerary beauties. 

LIX. 

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
Dudu was fond of kissing — which I'm sure 

That nobody can ever take amiss, 
Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure, 

And between females means no more than this — 
That they have nothing better near, or newer. 

" Kiss " rhymes to " bliss " in fact as well as verse — 

I wish it never led to something worse. 

LX. # 

In perfect innocence she then unmade 
Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 

A child of nature, carelessly array'd ; 
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 

'Twas like the fawn which, in the lake display'd, 
Beholds her own shy shadowy image pass, 

When first she starts, a^id then returns to peep, 

Admiring this new native of the deep. 

LXI. 

And one by one her articles of dress 
Were laid aside ; but not before she offer'd 

Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 

Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd — 

Which pass'd well off — as she could do no less : 
Though by this politeness she rather suffer'd, 

Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 

Which surely were invented for our sins, — 

LXII. 

Making a woman like a porcupine, 

Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread, 
Oh ye ! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine, 

In early youth to turn a lady's maid ; — 
I did my very boyish best to shine 

In tricking her out for a masquerade : 
The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 



LXIII. 

But these are foolish things to all the wise — 
And I love Wisdom more than she loves me 

My tendency is to philosophize 
On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 

But still the spouseless virgin, Knoxoledge, flies. 
What are we ? and whence came we ? what shall be 

Our ultimate existence ? what's our present ? 

Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 

LXIV. 
Thfire was deep silence in the chamber : dim 

And distant from each other burn'd the lights, 
And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb 

Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites, [trim, 
They should have walk'd there in their spriteliest 

By way of change from their sepulchral sites, 
And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste, 
Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 

LXV. 

Many and beautiful lay those around, 

Like flowers of different hue, and clime, and root 
In some exotic garden sometimes found, 

With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot 
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound, 

And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath, 
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 

LXVI. 
One, with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm, 

And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd 
Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; [cloud 

And, smiling through her dream, as through a 
The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm, 

As, slrghtly stirring in her snowy shroud, 
Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night 
All bashfully to struggle into light. 

LXVII. 

This is no bull, although it sounds so ; for [said. 

'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been 
A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more 

The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd [shore 
Through the heaved breast the dream of some far 

Beloved and deplored : while slowly stray'd 
(As night dew, on the cypress glittering, tinges 
The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark 
fringes. 

LXVIII. 

A fourth, as marble, statue-like and still, 
Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep ; 

White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, 
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, 

Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you will ;— 
My similes are gather'd in a heap, 

So pick and choose — perhaps you'll be content 

With a carved lady on a monument. 

LXIX. 

And lo ! a fifth appears ; — and what is she ? 

A lady of " a certain age," which means 
Certainly aged — what her years might be 

I know not, never counting past their teens ; 
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see, 

As ere that awful period intervenes, 
Which lays both men and women on the shelf, 
To meditate upon their sins and self. 



DON JUAN. 



653 



LXX. 

But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudii ? 

With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover, 
\.nd scorn to add a syllable untrue ; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over, 
Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue, 

And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover, 
To those who like their company, about 
The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out ; 

LXXI. 

A.nd that so loudly, that upstarted all 

The Oda, in a general commotion : 
Matron and maids, and those whom you may call 

Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
One on the other, throughout the whole hall, [tion, 

All trembling, wondering, without the least no- 
More than I have myself, of what could make 
The calm Dudu so turbulently wake. 

LXXII. 

But wide awake she was, and round her bed, 
With floating draperies and with flying hair, 

With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 
And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare, 

And bright as any meteor ever bred 
By the North Pole, — they sought her cause of care, 

For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, 

Her eye dilated and her color heighten'd. 

LXXIII. 

But what is strange — and a strong proof how great 
A blessing is sound sleep, Juanna lay 

As fast as ever husband by his mate 
In holy matrimony snores away. 

Not all the clamor broke her happy state 
Of slumber, ere they shook her, — so thej^ay, 

At least, — and then she too unclosed her eyes, 

And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 

LXXIV. 

And now commenced a strict investigation, 

Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once, 

Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, 
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 

To answer in a very clear oration. 
Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, 

But being " no orator, as Brutus is," 

Could not at first expound what was amiss. 

LXXV. 

At length she said, that, in a slumber sound, 
She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood — 

A " wood obscure," like that where Dante found ' 
Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 

Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue 
crown'd 
Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ; — 

And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, 

And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 

LXXVI. 

And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 
A most prodigious pippin, — but it hung 

Rather too high and distant ; that she threw 
Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 

Stones, and whatever she could pick up, to 
Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 

To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 

But always at a most provoking height : — 



LXXVII. 

That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 
It fell down of its own accord, before 

Her feet ; that her first movement was to stoop 
And pick it up, and bite it to the core ; 

That just as her young lip began to ope 
Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 

A bee flew out and stung her to the heart, 

And so— she awoke with a great scream and star* , 

LXXVIII. 

All this she told with some confusion and 
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 

Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
To expound their vain and visionary gleams. 

I've known some odd ones which seem'd really 
Prophetically, or that which one deems [plann'd 

"A strange coincidence," to use a phrase 

By which such things are settled now-a-days. 

LXXIX. 

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm. 
Began, as is the consequence of fear, 

To scold a little at the false alarm 
That broke for nothing on their sleeping car. 

The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm 
Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear, 

And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd, 

And said that she was sorry she had cried. 

LXXX. 
" I've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 

But visions of an apple and a bee, 
To take us from our natural rest, and pull 

The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three ; 
Would make us think the moon is at "ts full. 

You surely are unwell, child ! we must see 
To-morrow, what his highness's physician 
Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 

LXXXI. 

" And poor Juanna, too ! the child's first night 
Within these walls, to be broke in upon 

With such a clamor — I had thought it right 
That the young stranger should not lie alone, 

And, as the quietest of all, she might 
With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known 

But now I must transfer her to the charge 

Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large." 

LXXX II. 

Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 

But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own, 
Resulting from the scolding or the vision, 

Implored that present pardon might be shown 
For this first fault, and that on no condition 

(She added in a soft and piteous tone) 
Juanna should be taken from her, and 
Her future dreams should all be kept in hand. 

LXXXIII. 

She promised never more to have a dream, 
At least to dream so loudly as just now ; 

She wonder'd at herself how she could scream — 
'Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 

A fond hallucination, and a theme 
For laughter — but she felt her spirits low, 

And begg'd they would excuse her ; she'd get over 

This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 



654 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXIV. 

And here Juanna kindly interposed, 
And said she felt herself extremely well 

Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed, 
When all around rang like a tocsin bell : 

She did not find herself the least disposed 
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 

Apart from one who had no sin to show, 

Save that of dreaming once "mal-a-propos." 

LXXXV. 

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd round, 
And hid her face within Juanna's breast ; 

Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 
The color of a budding rose's crest. 

I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 
The mystery of this rupture of their rest : 

All that I know is, that the facts I state 

Are true as truth has ever been of late. 

LXXXVL 

And so good night to them, — or, if you will, 

Good morrow — for the cock had crown, and light 

Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, 
And the mosque crescent struggled into sight 

Of the long caravan, which in the chill 

Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height 

That stretches to the stony belt which girds 

Asia, where KafF looks down upon the Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 

With the first ray, or rather gray of morn, 
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness ; and pale 

As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, 

Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil. 

The nighting;f!e that sings with the deep thorn, 
Which fable places in her breast of wail, 

Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 

Whose headlong passions form their proper woes. 

LXXXVIII. 

And thafs the moral of this composition, 
If people would but see its real drift ; — 

But that they will not do without suspicion, 
Because all gentle readers have the gift 

Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ; 
While gentle writers also love to lift 

Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural — 

The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. 

LXXXIX. 

Rose the sultana from a bed of splendor, — 
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 

Aloud, because his feelings were too tender 
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 

So beautiful that art could little mend her, 

Though pale with conflicts between love and pride 

So agitated was she with her error, 

She did not even look into the mirror. 

XC. 

Also arose, about the self-same time, 
Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 

Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, 
And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 

A thing of much less import in that clime — 
At least to those of incomes which afford 

The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 

Than where two wives are under an embargo. 



XCI. 



He did not think much on the matter, nor 

Indeed on any other : as a man, 
He liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
And therefore of Circassians had good store, 

As an amusement after the Divan ; 
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, 
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 

XCII. 

And now he rose : and after due ablutions, 

Exacted by the customs of the East, 
And prayers, and other pious evolutions, 

He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 

Whose victories had recently increased, 
In Catharine's reign, whom glory still adores 
As greatest of all sovereigns and w s 

XCIII. 

But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander ! 
Her son's son, — let not this last phrase offend 

Thine ear, if it should reach, — and now rhymes wan- 
Almost as far as Petersburg, and lend [der 

A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend 

Their roar even with the Baltic's, — so you be 

Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me. 

XCIV. 
To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 

Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 
That hater of mankind, would be a shame, 

A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on : 
But people's ancestors are history's game ; 

And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 
All generations, I should like to know 
What pedigree the best would have to show ? 

XCY. 
Had Catherine and the sultan understood 

Their own true interest, which kings rarely know, 
Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude, 

There was a way to end their strife, although 
Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, 

AVithout the aid of prince or plenipo : 
She to dismiss her guards, and he his haram, 
And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. 

XCYI. 

But as it was, his highness had to hold 
His daily council upon ways and means, 

How to encounter with this martial scold, 
This modern Amazon and queen of queans ; 

And the perplexity could not be told 

Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 

Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 

Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 

CXVII. 

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, 
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 

For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, 
And rich with all contrivances which grace 

Those gay recesses : — many a precious stone 
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 

Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers, 

Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 



DON JUAN. 



655 



XCVII1. 

Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble, 
Yied with each other on this costly spot ; 

A.nd singing birds without were heard to warble ; 
And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot 

Varied each ray ; — but all descriptions garble 
The true effect, and so we had better not 

Be too minute ; an outline is the best,— 

A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 

XCIX. 

And here she summon'd Baba, and required 

Don Juan at his hands, and information 
Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired^ 

And whether he had occupied their station ; 
If matters had been managed as desired, 

And his disguise with due consideration 
Kept up ; and, above all, the where and how 
He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to 
know. 

C. 
Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 

To this long catechism of questions, ask'd 
More easily than answer'd, — that he had tried 

His best to obey in what he had been task'd ; 
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide. 

Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd ; 
He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 
To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 

CI. 

Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, 
Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed ; 

She liked quick answers in all conversations ; 
And when she saw him stumbling like a steed 

In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones ; 
And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, 

Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, 

And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle, 

en. 

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 
To bode him no great good, he deprecated 

Her anger, and beseech'd she'd hear him through — 
He could not help the thing which he related : 

Then out it came at length, that to Dudu 

Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated ; 

But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 

The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 

cm. 

The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
The discipline of the whole haram bore, 

As soon as they reenter'd their own room, 
For Baba's function stopp'd short at the door, 

Had settled all : nor could he then presume 
(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 

Without exciting such suspicion as 

Might make the matter still worse than it was. 

He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure 
Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact, 

'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, 
Because a foolish or imprudent act 

Would not alone have made him insecure, 
But ended in his being found out and sack'd, 

And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 

Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke. 



CV. 



This he discreetly kept in the back ground, 
And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till now, 

For any further answer that he found, 

So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow ; 

Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd 
As if she had received a sudden blow, [round, 

And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 

O'er her fair front, like morning's on a lily. 

CVI. 

Although she was not of the fainting sort, 

Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd — 

It was but a convulsion, which, though short, 
Can never be described ; we all have heard, 

And some of us have felt thus "all amort," 
When things beyond the common have occurr'd ; 

Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 

What she could ne'er express — then how should I ? 

CVII. 

She stood a moment, as a Pythoness 
Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 

Of inspiration gather'd from distress, 
When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 

The heart asunder ; — then, as more or less 

Their speed abated, or their strength grew dull, 

She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, 

And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. 

CVIII. 

Her face declined, and was unseen ; her hair 
Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, 

Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 
Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow, — 

A low, soft ottoman,) and black despair 

Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow, 

Which rushes to some shore, whose shingles check 

Its farther course, but must receive its wreck. 

CIX. 

Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping 
Conceal'd her features better than a veil ; 

And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping, 
White, waxen, and as alabaster pale; 

Would that I were a painter ! to be grouping 
All that a poet drags into detail ! 

Oh that my words were colors ! but their tints 

May serve, perhaps, as outlines or slight hints. 

CX. 

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
And when to hold his tongue, now held it till 

This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 

At length she rose up, and began to walk 
Slowly along the room, but silent still, 

And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye — 

The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 

CXI. 

She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak — but 
paused, 

And then moved on again with rapid pace ; 
Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused 

By deep emotion : — you may sometimes trace 
A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 

By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 
By all the demons of all passions, show'd 
Their work even by the way in which he trode. 



656 



BYRON'S WORKS 



(XII. 
Gulboyai itopp'd •mil boi kon'd Babd '■ Slave 

Hi hi" iii. i iv. , ilavei I " ihi iiidi In » low tono ( 

Hni one w in' ii I'.. iii. i .iiii nni Ilka in in ivoi 

A ml yi I In lin.l. I, ■ ,1 i,,[ ,| , ; ,| | lr , nj ,,,,,. 

'rn proTo i.in. 1-nii , i bi gg'd leavi to ...in 

(Though in' iv. n in. iv iii.. mm Mini- ) I,, i,, i,,,,.,. ii 
wii ii lavi i" i I..-- 1 h'.i in Indicate, 

I'm I. .11 nl .uiy 01 i"l 111, i I In- l.il, 

(XIII. 

" 'iii. < •. lorglan and hoi pcramom ," replied 
Thfl Impel i.ii bi Ida and added, " Lot the boal 

it.' ready by the leorel poi tal'i tide [throat, 

Y.ni know tin- roil ■■ 'iii.- wordi in. i. In hoi 

De rn. in i Injured love I Aei p pi Idi , 

a mi of thli Saba willingly took note, 

An.i bogg'd, by svei y hail oi Mahomot'i i>< ;n<i. 

She would revolt! the ordei he had I I 

(XIV. 

" 'i'" ii'.n Ii in obey," in- :..ini , " but ittll, 
Nun, in. i, ii, mi upon ii"' Qoniequenoe 

ll ' "nl III ,1 I I, ,11 ,11 lullll 

S .n. i.. i n, pven in i in H 101 .1 .ii ii ii , 

Itut mnii preolpltatlo aj end tll a 

i'',\ .ii ..I \ ...ii om n nni" ratlve . pi n i 

I iln mil in. ,ni ,1,1 1 ml inn nml r\ poi in I . 

in . .i . .ii any premature din i" un 

('XV 

" Hni \ own feeling I'm ii hould all the reel 

itr iii. 1. 1. -ii bj ii" i. .Hni' wave . « in, i. hide 

\ h eady many -i onoe loi e beaten bi eai i 
Deep in the oaverni of the deadly tide 

Vim love thli boylih, now leragllo gui i, 
Ami ii iiu i i mi, ni remedy be b led 

Rxome my Freedom, in hen I hi re an ure poui 

iii ii i> iiini", iiim 1 1 nni the way i" eure yout" 

(XVI. 

■■ w iiii iln' i Hum i w of love or fooling wretoh ' 

Hi - ' " ihe oi led, "'Hi i Indling oye . " and do 

m v bidding ' " Babn van) ih'd , foi to itrotoh 
Hie own romonetranoe fui thei , ho well knew, 

M i ■■ h i . mi in ni , n in i ow ii " .'.ui, K otoh ; " 

\ mi, though ho w i ii.i oxtri mely i" gel through 

Thl '" i. « mi ini line i wli houl hai m to othoi ■■ 

ii.- itlll preforr'd hii own nook to another'!. 

(XVII. 

h " aj he wont then upon hi i o mil i , 

1 howling and grumbling In ■■ I Turk I h phraie 

\- "ii i all women, of whate'oi oondltlon 
1 i llj lultanai and theii waj 

Theii obi ini, ii \ , pride, and Indooielon, 
Tholi nevei knowing tholi own mind two dayi . 

The trouble that they gave, thi h Immorality , 

win. ii m, ni.- him dail} blon hii om n loutrality 

(XVIII. 

Ami then he oall'd hi brethron to hi aid, 
\ mi ,ni mi, nn ,i lummom to I he pali , 

Thai they mu it Initant Ij be well ai i i\ 'd, 
A ml, above all, be oomb'd even i" ,i hair, 

\mi brought before the omproaN, who had made 
1 1 1 . | iiit I.", .iiim them mi ii i I.-, i .-.He 

,\i uiii.ii I'm in ini.i.'.i itrange, and Juan illly . 

Hni go thoy mult .ii onooi and will I mil i. 



(XIX. 

And here i leave them at thi h propari 

Poi the Imperial proi i ni o, when In whi thou 
Oulbeyai ihow'd thorn both oommiieration, 

Oi got mi of the partiee altogether — 
Like "iiii'i angry ladioi ol hi i nation, — 

An- thlngi thi turning of a hair <>■- feather, — 

' ' ' , ■ ni' . but i," I"- 'i ii me to antiolpati 

in what way feminine oapi loe raa\ dinlpati 

OS x 

i leave them for the proient, with g I wiihi 

Though doubti ol theii wi n doing, to ai i 

Aniii.i part of in.', ini v . I... tin, dlihn 
• If thli mu banquet we mui I lomi I n ohanga 

Ami, truiting Jui ay on ape the Sihi , 

Although iin, i 1 1 u.i 1 1. .n now ioi mi itrangi 

A ml i ii . , ,,,,, in , ,, ,,, I, dig i ' imr, ,n , Iiii 

rim muie will take n little touoh ;ii warfare 



CANTO vii. 



i 



( )n lovo ' ' *ii i' i.n \ | n i, ii are ye " ho By 

Around ii , oi bi , i .I ely i" .iii" iii 
Thero'i not ■> meteoi In I !"■ polai I 

< >r i n. -ii tranioendont and more fleeting Bight 
• 'lull, and .ii.iin'ii i i.i oarth, we lift on high 

(Iiii . \ , in , ■.,,. I, nl' , 1 1 1 1 , i Invrly I i • ■ I i I 

a iiinni .nni .mil ,i 1 1 nni , oloi , i hoy 

\ -.Minn-, then loavo ui on our fVooeing waj 

n. 
A mi ;,m ii ai i hoy ■" ' i, mu ii mj proient tale Is, 

A nondeiorlpt and evei varying rhyme, 
a \ .I ii'i.'.i Alum ii Boi eall , 

w in, ii n I- hoi o'oi •! wo te and li v ollme. 
wii.n nr know what all are, we mint bowail ui, 

Bui n.'. 1 1 ii.'i. ,':, i hope ii Ii i mi.' 

I'., laugh ,'t all i inn", im i wi ii i" I. now 
ii imi , after nllt ore all thingi but a thotot 

Ml 

liny .urn i nm in,- I In- |,i . Ill nl \\ i ill i nf 

The preeont poem, of I know not what, — 
a tendenoy i" undei ■ ate and looff 

a i human powoi and i Ii tuO| and all thai . 
\ mi i in , thoy lay In Ii i igi i >i hei rough, 

( ,' i God ' i wondoi what they would bo ^i ' 

i iay no moi e than hai been laid In I lanto 
\ , i la, mil by I "I'limni, .mil by ( 'ei vantei ; 

IV. 
By Sfl iii . by Maohinvol, bj Elooht fouoaulti 

By !■'< ii«l> hi , by I itithei . and by Plato ; 
I'm TIllol .ni, and Weilej . and Bouiioauj 

\\ ho h new I hii life " m not woi ii> d potato 

I i im I lh, n I., ill , mu mini', il thil be N'l — 
I'm my |i." I , I |n .1. nil nni In Im ( '.iln, 

Nm oven Diogonoi We live and dl( ■. 

ittii win. h i ii. i, \..n know nn nm"' than L 



DON JUAN. 



057 



V. 
rati i said i oui only knowledge wai, | pleaianl 
"To i. now thai nothing oould b< known j" » 
Science enough , which levols to an 

Ea< h man of wisdom, fu ture, pai 1 , 01 pi ei enl . 
' ' ■ ton, (thai i"" erb ol the mind, ) ah ' 

1 leclari d, w [th all hi grand dlscoverli 1 ocenl , 
Thai he hitni elf felt only " Like a youth 
I 1 up belli by 1 no gn ai 01 ean Trul 

VI. 
Eci !• toi 1 id) 1 hal all i . vanitj — 

Moit 1 euchci iay I he iame, 01 show ii 

By theii 1 umpli of true Chrl tianity ; 

1 1. hort, all know, 01 irerj oon may 1 now ii ; 
And in thin scene ol all fi i'd Inanity, 

r. itnl ! " , bj prcachci , and by poet, 
Mtfi 1 1 restrain mo, 1 hrough 1 he foai of itrife, 
From hold! p I hi nothingni oi lifi 

VII, 
l logs, 01 mi 11 ' I im 1 Hal i<i j mi in is j Ing 

Thai yi ai e dog* j out bi 1 tei 1 far) - ye may 
R,i ad, "i ' cad nol , what 1 am now 1 ayii 

To how - whal , ■ an in over] we jr. 
A littli ■' 1 he moon stop foi thi b 

Of w'ii vi-;, will i he bi I'M M H ' ■'. 11 hdraw one raj 

1 In 1 ■ I [ii ■ , thl 11 Ii"'.' I ;'"ii Idle '.-• 1 ; 1 1 i 1 I 

Whili iii our g loomy pal h. 

VIII. 
"Ficrci lo ■ and faithlei wai " I a I i are 

11 On be thi righl r< iding 'tl no mattei 
The fai t '1 about thi im< 1 m ecurc ; — 

1 ing thi m bol h, and am aboul to bal tor 
\ tow 11 which did a famou iem eni 

A nil (vai bi leagui r'd both b 1 1 and water 

I!y Suvaroff, or A nglii i 8u arro 

\v ho lovi 'I blood b in alderman lovi mat row. 



XII. 



Bui 1 ti 



IX. 
The fortr I'd [email, and 1 1 plai 1 d 

1 pon the Danubo'i [< 11 brani h and b 11 ban! , 
Wii I, building in 1 hi oi icntal ta tc, 

Bui 'ill a I'ii tn "ii he foremost rank , 
'1. it leaf 1 unl 'tie 1 ince di faced, 

Which with youi conqueroi I a common prank 
it. itand iomi eight) n 1 ■ 1 fi om I hi big h ca, 
An*) in'.' 'in round ofjto 1 1 hou and I 

x. 
Within tin- exteni of thi 1 fortlfli otlon 

A ii'n oug iii.' ompi ii ' 'i, along 1 hi hi ighl 
1 pon the left, which, from Ita loftli 1 tation, 

Comma nd 1 thi ell •/, and upon iti liti 
A 'mi ek had rail ed aroui d thl ration 

A quantil •/ of pall ladi upi "//if, 
•Sn placed ai to impede tin fin ol tho • 
Wlii) held 1 in place, and to antii t thi fo< 

XI. 

This circun erve to givi a notion 

Of the high tab ate of this new Vauban 

lint the town ditch in low was deep ai ocean, 
The rampai I higher than you'd wieh to I 

lint then theri itlon, 

(Prll bee, excu 1 1 hit 1 nglnei 1 

Nor wink advanced, nor coret'd way 

To hint at Least " Sere ii no thoroughfare." 
S3 



1 1'. 11, ivl1 ii 1 11.11 1 'i'.v 1 [1 
A "' 1 wall o th.i< 1 a 1 mo 1 1 nil 1 ia 91 

Two batti rie , i ip Ii pie, .1 our Saint Geoi 
Ob ' mated one, and 'tothei a " barbetti ,' 

Oi Danubo'i bank took formidable 1 1 
While two and twenty cannon, duly 11 1, 

l: '1 1 thi town' righl idi , In bristling tin 

Forty feot high, upon n oavaliei 

XIII. 

But from thi rl ei the town' 1 open quite, 

Bei au ■ tin 'im 1 ' 'mi. 1 ,,. ., 1 i„ |„ I'iBaded 
A Russian vc 11 1 e'ei would hi a 1 in Ighl 

Ami such thi " im ' 'i •■'..' 1, till thej v.. m invaded, 
Wlnni ii grow rathi 1 late to eel thing 1 right. 

lint ai the Danube 1 ould nol w< II bi waded, 
They look 'd upon the Mui 1 o' Iti notlll i, 
And only ihouted, " AII..I, [" and " Bia Mill ih I 

XIV. 

The if n alani now w< re n ady to attack ; 

Bui nil, ye goddi i< oi wai and glory ' 
Ho i .111 pell t he name of eai h Co icl 

vvim worn Immortal, oould one tell thi li toi 
a j.i ' whal to iin 11 memory can lai I 

A. in ii. / icli ■.-. .. nol in "i ' gi ;m and goi y 
'iii. in tin, n andi "i thla new and polli h'd nation, 
'.'. ho ■ 1. ..im . want nothing bu1 pronunciation 

XV. 
Still 1 ii record a few, If but to inereai t [noff, 

Oui ' uphonj thi n - i Itrongenoff, and Stroko 
Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arscntew ot modi rn On 1 1 1 , 

A nd T chil bal off, and Kogui noff, and 
Ami iii here of l meonanl i] | noff, 

Ami more might bi found out, 11 1 could pol - 
• uoug 

I iiin I'.i/' II. , 1. ni 1 ami 1 (capriclou iti umpi 1 ' ) 

I I . . in , 1. . goi an oar a oil at ii umpi 1 , 

'. 1 
Ami cannol tune tl cord ol nai ration, 

wiiii h hi..-, be nami ai Mo cow, Into 1 hyme, 
Yet thi I -.iii.. ommi moratlon, 

As o'ci irgln of ■•' nuptial chime , 

■ lofl • ord i'">, (iii' -I im the peroration 

Of Londondi 1 1 7, drawling agalni 1 time, 
Ending in "< .1. in.," "ou ckln," "iffskeby," 

" mi 

Of win. m ... . ,1, [ni ' ■! i-ni Etoueamo 
XVII. 
matofl and Chn matoff, Koklophtl, 

B 01 lob i.i. oural in, and Mou kin Pon 
All propi 1 mi " '.1 1 ipon is e'er ■< ofl d I 

Again it a foi , "i ran a abri through I In 
Littli cared thi , foi Mahomi t 01 Mufti, 

1 ni' to mai ■ ii.- 11 i'Mi. .i, ,,,,, ,, ,,, 1 
''"i of thi 11 nidi 1, ii parchment had grown di ar, 
And no more handy iubiti1 uti bi 1 n m ai 

X VIII. 
Thi n there were fori Igm 1 '.1 mui b n nown, 

Of v.-iiinii 1 nd all vil'inii ■ 1 

I foi lighting foi ii.' 11 • ounti y 

But wishing to bi om day brlgadli 
a 1 tn ii.-iv 1 1 oi b town — 

A |,|i ;. .1 11 1 thing to ;•• ung mi n ai thi b 
*Mongi 1. them wi re 11 ei ral Engll ihnw n o( pith, 
en call'd Thompson, and nineti 1 " nami 'I .'imith. 



658 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIX. 

Jack Thompson and Bill Thompson ; — all the rest 
Had been call'd " Jemmy," after the great bard ; 

I don't know whether they had arms or crest, 
But such a godfather's as good a card. 

Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 
Among them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, 

"Was he, since so renown'd " in country quarters 

At Halifax ; " but now he served the Tartars. 

XX. 

The rest were Jacks and Gills, and Wills and Bills ; 

But when I've added that the elder Jack Smith 
Was born in Cumberland among the hills, 

And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 
I've said all I know of a name that fills [smith," 

Three lines of the despatch in taking " Schmack- 
A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 
He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 

XXI. 

I wonder (although Mars no doubt's a god I 

Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
May make up for a bullet in his body r 

I hope this little question is no sin, 
Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 

I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
The mouth of some one in his plays so doating, 
Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 

XXII. 

Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and 

But I'm too great a patriot to record [g av : 

Their Gallic names upon a glorious day ; 

I'd rather tell ten lies than say a word 
Of truth ; — such truths are treason : they betray 

Their country, and, as traitors are abhorr'd, 
Who name the French and English, save to show 
How peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's 
foe. 

XXIII. 
The Russians, having built two batteries on 

An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view ; 
The first was to bombard it, and knock down 

The public buildings, and the private too, 
No matter what poor souls might be undone. 

The city's shape suggested this, 'tis true ; 
Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 
Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 

XXIV. 

The second object was to profit by 
The moment of the general consternation, 

To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh, 
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station : 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation ; 

A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, 

Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers ; 

XXV. 

A habit rather blameable, which is 

That of despising those we combat with, 

Common in many cases, was in this 
The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith, 

One of the valorous " Smiths " whom we shall miss 
Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to " pith ;" 

But 'tis a name so spread o'er "Sir" and "Madam," 

That one would think the first who bore it "Adam." 



XXVI. 

The Russian batteries were incomplete, 
Because they were constructed in a hurry. 

Thus, the same cause which makes a verse want feet, 
And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Mur- 

When the sale of new 1 books is not so fleet [ray, 
As they who print them think is necessary, 

May likewise put off for a time what story 

Sometimes calls " murder," and at others " glory." 

XXVII. 

Whether it was their engineers' stupidity, 

Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care, 

Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 

Of homicide ; but there was no solidity 
In the new batteries erected there ; 

They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd, 

And added greatly to the missing list. 

XXVIII. 

A sad miscalculation about distance 

Made all their naval matters incorrect ; 
Three fire-ships lost their amiable existence, 

Before they reach'd a spot to take effect : 
The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 

Could remedy this lubberly defect ; 
They blew up in the middle of the river, 
While, though 'twas dawn, the Turks slept fast ?-s 
ever. 

XXIX. 
At seven they rose, however, and survey 'd 

The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 
'Twas nine, when still advancing undismay'd, 

Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, 

"Which was return'd with interest, I may say, 
And by a fire of musquetry and grape, 
And shells and shot of every size and shape. 

XXX. 

For six hours bore they without intermission 

The Turkish fire; and, aided by their own [sion : 

Land batteries, work'd their guns with great preci- 
At length they found mere cannonade alone 

By no means would produce the town's submission, 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 

One bark blew up ; a second, near the works 

Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 

XXXI. 

The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and mea ; 

But when they saw the enemy retire, 
Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, 

And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, 
And tried to make a landing on the main ; 

But here the effect fell short of their desire : 
Count Damas drove them back into the water 
Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 

XXXII. 
" If," (says the historian here) " I could report 

All that Russians did upon this day, 
I think that several volumes would fall short, 

And I should still have many things to say ; " 
And so he says no more — but pays his court 

To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray, 
The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 
Names great as any that the roll of fame has. 



DON JUAN. 



659 



XXXIII. 

This^eing the case, may show us what fame is : 
For out of three "preux Chevaliers," how 

Many of common readers give a guess 

That such existed ? (and they may live now 

For aught we know.) Renown's all hit or miss ; 
There's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 

*Tis true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne 

Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen. 

XXXIV. 

But here arc men who fought in gallant actions 

As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 
But buried in the heap of such transactions — 

Their names are seldom found, nor often sought. 
Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, 

And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought : 
Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
You can't repeat nine names from each gazette. 

XXXV. 

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 
Show'd that someichere, somehow, there was a fault ; 

And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
Most strongly recommended an assault; 

In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 
Which made a long debate : — but I must halt ; 

For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 

I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 

XXXVI. 

There was a man, if that he was a man, — 

Not that his manhood could be call'd in question. 

For, had he not been Hercules, his span 
Had been as short in youth as indigestion 

Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, 
He died beneath a tree, as much unbless'd on 

The soil of the green province he had wasted, 

As e'er was locust on the land it blasted ; — 

XXXVII. 
This was Poten kin— a great thing in days 

When homicide and harlotry made great, 
If stars and titles could entail long praise, 

His glory might half equal his estate. 
This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 

A kind of phantasy proportionate 
In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 
Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 

XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering the matters after his own bent. 
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

But shortly he had cause to be content. 
In the mean time the batteries proceeded, 

And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 

Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order. 

XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 

Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 

A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
Into all panters for newspaper praise, 

As well as dilettanti in war's art, 
By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase, 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Suva.roff. 



XL. 



The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be partial,— 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 

But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
With its proud brow, it merits slight applause, 

Save for its style, which 'said, all in a trice, 

"You will take Ismail, at whatever rriee." 

XLI. 

" Let there be light ! " said God, " and there was 
light!" 

"Let there be blood !" saysman, and there's a sea. 
The fiat of this spoil'd child of the night 

(For day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 
More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 

Summers could renovate, though they should be 
Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit — 
For war cuts up not only branch but root. 

XLII. 
Our friends the Turks, who with loud "Allahs " now 

Began to signalize the Russ retreat, 
Were damnably mistaken ; few are slow 

In thinking that their enemy is beat, 
(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 

I never think about it in a heat ;) 
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, 
Who, hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon. 

XLIII. 
For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop drew 

In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacks 
For some time, till they came in nearer view. 

They had but little baggage at their backs, 
For there were but three shirts between the two ; 

But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, 
Till, in approaching, were at length descried 
In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 

XLIV. 

" Great joy to London now ! " says some great fool, 
When London had a grand illumination, 

Which, to that battle conjuror, John Bull, 
Is of all dreams the first hallucination ; 

So that the streets of color'd lamps are full, 
That sage (said John) surrenders at discretion 

His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 

To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 

XLV. 
"lis strange that he should further "damn his eyes," 

For thdy are damn'd : that once all-famous oath 
Is to the devil now no further prize, 

Since John has lately lost the use of both. 
Debt he calls wealth, and taxes paradise ; 

And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, 
Which stares him in the face, he won't examine, 
Or swear that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 

XLVI. 

But to the tale. Great joy unto the camp ! 

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossack 
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp, 

Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
Or, like a wisp along the marsh so damp, 

Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, 
He flitted to and fro, a dancing light, 
Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right. 



660 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLVI1. 

But certes matters took a different face ; 

There was enthusiasm and much applause, 
The fleet and camp saluted with great grace, 

And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
Within a cannon-shot length of the place 

They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
In former works, made new, prepared fascines, 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. 

XLVIII. 

'Tis thus the spirit of a single mind 

Makes that of multitudes take one direction, 

As roll the waters to the breathing wind, 

Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection : 

Or as a little dog will lead the blind, 
Or a bellwether form the flock's connection 

By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual : 

Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 

XLIX. 

The whole camp rung with joy; you would have 
That they were going to a marriage-feast, [thought 

(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, 
Since there is discord after both at least :) 

There was not now a luggage-boy but sought 
Danger and spoil with ardor much increased ; 

And why ? because a little, odd, old man, 

Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 



But so it was ; and every preparation 
Was made with all alacrity ; the first 

Detachment of three columns took its station, 
And waited but for the signal's voice to burst 

Upon the foe ; the second's ordination 
Was also in three columns, with a thirst 

For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter : 

The third, in columns two, attack'd by water. 

LI. 
New batteries were erected ; and was held 

A general council, in which unanimity, 
That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd, 

As sometimes happens in a great extremity ; 
And every difficulty being dispell'd, 

Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, 
While Suvaroff, determined to obtain it, 
Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 1 

LII. 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander- 
in-chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could afford to squander 
His time, a corporal's duties to fulfil : 

Just as you'd break a sucking salamander 
To swallow flame, and never take it ill ; 

He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which 

Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 

Lin. 

Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
Like men, with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, 

And made them charge with bayonets these machines, 
By way of lesson against actual Turks ; 

And, when well practised in these mimic scenes, 
He judged them proper to assail the works ; 

At which your wise men sneer'd, in phrases witty : — 

He made no answer ; but he took the city. 



LIV. 

Most things were in this posture on the eve * 
Of the assault, and all the camp was in 

A stern repose : which you would scarce conceive : 
Yet men, resolved to dash through thick and thin 

Are very silent when they once believe 
That all is settled : — there was little din, 

For some were thinking of their home and friends, 

And others of themselves and latter ends. 

LV. 

Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, 

Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering: 
For the man was, we safely may assert, 

A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering ; 
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half dirt, 

Praying, instructing, desolating, blundering ; 
Now Mars, now Momus ; and when bent to storm 
A fortress, Harlequin in uniform. 

LVI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drill — 
For this great conqueror play'd the corporal — 

Some Cossacks, hovering like hawks round a hill, 
Had met a party, towards the twilight's fall, 

One of whom spoke their tosigue — or well or ill, 
'Twas much that he was understood at all ; 

But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner, 

They found that he had fought beneath their banner. 

LVII. 

Whereon, immediately at his request, [tcrs ; 

They brought him and his comrades to head-quar- 
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 

That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
And that beneath each Turkish-fashioned vest 

Lurk'd Christianity ; who sometimes barters 
Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 
It difficult to s'nun some strange mistakes. 

LVIII. 

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt, 
Before a company of Calmucks, drilling, 

Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, 
And lecturing on the noble art of killing, — 

For, deeming human clay but common dirt, 
This great philosopher was thus instilling 

His maxims, which, to martial comprehension, 

Proved death in battle equal to a pension ; — 

LIX. 

Suwarrow, when he saw this company 

Of Cossacks and their prey, turn'd round and cast 
Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — [last, 

"Whence come ye?" — "From Constantinople 
Captives just now escaped," was the reply. [past 

" What are ye ? " — " What you see us." Briefly 
This dialogue ; for he who answer'd knew 
To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 

LX. 

" Your names ? " — " Mine's Johnson, and my com- 
rade's Juan ; 

The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 

The party a slight glance, then said: "I have 
Your name before, the second is a new one ; [heard 

To bring the other three here was absurd ; 
But let that pass ; — I think I've heard your name 
In the Nikolaiew regiment ? " — "The same." — 



DON JUAN. 



661 



lxi. 

'You served at Widdin ? " — "Yes." — "You led 
the attack ? " [know." 

"I did." — "What next?" — "I really hardly 
' You were the first i' the breach ? " — " I was not 
slack, 
At least, to follow those who might be so." — 
' "What follow'd ? " — " A shot laid me on my back, 
And I became a prisoner to the foe." — [rounded 
" You" shall have vengeance, for the town sur- 
fs twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 

LXII. 
"Where will you serve?" — "Where'er you please." 

You like to be the hope of the forlorn, ["I know 
And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 

After the hardships you've already borne. 
And this young fellow ? say, what can he do ? — 

He with the beardless chin, and garments torn ? " 
" Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 
In war than love, he had better lead the assault." 

LXIII. 
" He shall, if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 

Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 
Continued : " Your old regiment's allow'd, 

By special providence, to lead to-morrow, 
Or it may be to-night, the assault : I've vow'd 

To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 
Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 
Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 

LXIV. 

" So now, my lads, for glory ! " — Here he turn'd, 
And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 

Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 

For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 

A preacher had held forth, (who nobly spurn'd [on 
All earthly goods save tithes,) and bade them push 

To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 

The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 

LXV. 

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy, 
Himself a favorite, ventured to address 

Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 
In his resumed amusement. " I confess 

My debt, in being thus allow'd to die 
Among the foremost ; but if you'd express 

Explicitly our several posts, my friend 

And self would know what duty to attend." — 

LXVI. 

" Right ! I was busy, and forgot. Why you 
Will join your former regiment, which should be 

Now under arms. Ho ! Katskoff, take him to — 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) — 

His post, I meant the regiment Nikolaiew. 
The stranger stripling may remain with me ; 

He's a fine boy. The women may be sent 

To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 

LXVII. 

But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 

The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 

To be disposed of in a way so new, 
Although their haram education led 

Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true, 
Passive obedience, — now raised up the head, 

With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 

Their arms, as hens their wings about their young, 



LXVIII. 
O'er the promoted couple of brave men 

Who were thus honor'd by the greatest chief 
That ever peopled hell with heroes slain, 

Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 
Oh, foolish mortals ! always taught in vain ! 

Oh, glorious laurel ! since for one sole leaf 
Of thine imaginary deathless tree, 
Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea ! 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, 
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 

The women with their hair about their ears, 
And natural agonies, with a slight shade 

Of feeling ; for, however habit sears [trade 

Men's hearts against whole millions, when their 

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 

Will touch even heroes — and such was Suwarrow 

LXX. 

He said — and in the kindest Calmuc tone — 
" Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean 

By bringing women here ? They shall be shown 
All the attention possible, and seen 

In safety to the wagons, where alone 
In fact they can be safe. You should have been 

Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 

Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives." 

LXXI. 

" May it please your excellency," thus replied 
Our British friend, " these are the wives of others, 

And not our own. I am too qualified 
By service with my military brothers, 

To break the rules by bringing one's own bride 
Into a camp ; I know that nought so bothers 

The hearts of the heroic on a charge, 

As leaving a small family at large. 

LXXII. 

" But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 
With their attendant aided our escape, 

And afterwards accompanied us through 
A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 

To me this kind of life is not so new ; 
To them, poor things ! it is an awkward step ; 

I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, 

Request that they may both be used genteelly." 

LXXIII. 

Meantime, these two poor girls, with swimming eyes, 
Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 

Their own protectors ; nor was their surprise 
Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 

To see an old man, rather wild than wise 

In aspect, plainly clad, besmeared with dust, 

Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, 

More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXXIV. 

For every thing seem'd resting on his nod, 
As they could read in all eyes. Now, to them, 

Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god, 
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, 

Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad, 
(That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem,) 

With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 

How power could condescend to do without, 



662 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXV. 
John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 

Though little versed in feelings oriental, 
Suggested some slight comfort in his way. 

Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, 
Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, 

Or that the Russian army should repent all : 
And, strange to say, they found some consolation 
In this — for females like exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 

And then, with tears, and sighs, and some slight 
kisses, 

They parted for the present — these to await, 
According to the artillery's hits or misses, 

What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate — 
(Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 

A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 
While their beloved friends began to arm, 
To burn a town which never did them harm. 

LXXVII. 

Suwarrow, who but saw things in the gross — 
Being much too gross to see them in detail ; 

Who calculated life as so much dross, 
And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, 

And cared as little for his army's loss 

(So that their efforts should at length prevail) 

As wife and friends did for the boils of Job ; — 

What was 't to him to hear two women sob ? 

LXXVIII. 

Nothing. The work of glory still went on, 

In preparations for a cannonade 
As terrible as that of Ilion, 

If Homer had found mortar's ready made ; 
But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 

We only can but talk of escalade, [bullets, 

Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, 
Hard words which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. 

LXXIX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 
All ears, though long — all ages, though so short, 

By merely wielding with poetic arm 
Arms to which men will never more resort, 

Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court, 

Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy ; 

But they will not find Liberty a Troy : — 

LXXX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! I have now 
To paint a siege, wherein more men Were slain, 

With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign ; 

And yet, like all men else, I must allow, 
To vie with thee, would be about as vain 

As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 

But still we moderns equal you in blood — 

LXXXI. 

If not in poetry, at least in fact ; 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum ! 
Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act, 

There should be, ne'ertheless, a slight substratum. 
But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 

Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 'em ? 
Souls of immortal generals ! Phoebus watches 
To color up his rays from your despatches. 



LXXXII. 

Oh, 'ye great bulletins of Buonaparte ! 

Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded 
Shade of Leonidas ! who fought so hearty, [rout ded . 

When my poor Greece was once, as now sur« 
Oh, Crcsar's Commentaries ! now impart ye, 

Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 
A portion of your fading twilight hues, 
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. 

LXXXIII. 

When I call " fading " martial immortality, 
I mean, that every age and every year, 

And almost every day, in sad reality, 
Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear, 

Who, when we come to sum up the totality 
Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 

Turns out to be a butcher in great business, 

Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 

Medals, ranks, ribbands, lace, embroidery, scarlet, 
Are things immortal to immortal man, 

As purple to the Babylonian harlot : 
An uniform to boys is like a fan 

To women : there is scarce a crimson varlet 
But deems himself the first in glory's van. 

But glory's glory ; and if you would find 

What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind ! 

LXXXV. 
At least he feels it, and some say he sees, 

Because he runs before it like a pig ; 
Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 

Say that he scuds before it like a brig, 
A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 

This canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. 
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, 
Like a bob-major from a village steeple. 

LXXXVI. 
Hark ! through the silence of the cold dull night, 

The hum of armies gathering rank on rank. 
Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 

Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 
Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 

The stars peep through the vapors dim and dank, 
Which curl in curious wreaths — How soon the smoke 
Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 

LXXXVII. 

Here pause we for the present — as even then 
That awful pause, dividing life from death, 

Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 

Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath . 

A moment — and all will be life again ! 
The march ! the charge ! the shouts of either faith 

Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment more — 

The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



DON JUAN. 



663 



CANTO VIII. 



Oh blood and thunder ! and oh blood and wounds ! 

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, 
Too gentle reader ! and most shocking sounds : 

And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 

At present such things, since they are her theme, 
So be they the inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 

II. 

All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 

To. wield them in their terrible array. 
The army, like a lion from his den, 

March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay, — 
A human Hydra, issuing from his fen 

To breathe destruction on its winding way, 
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain, 
Immediately in others grew again. 

III. 
History can only take things in the gross ; 

But could we know them in detail, perchance 
In balancing the profit and the loss, 

War's merit it by no means might enhance, 
To waste so much gold for a little dross, 

As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 

IV. 

And why ? because it brings self-approbation ; 

Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation — 

Which (it may be) has not much left to spare — 
A higher title, or a loftier station, 

Though they may make Corruption gape or stare, 
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles, 
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles. 



And such they are — and such they will be found. 

Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
Whose every battle-field is holy ground, [done. 

Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds un- 
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! 

While the mere victors may appal or stun 
The servile and the vain, such names will be 
A watchword till the future shall be free. 

VI. 

The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 
Nought to be seen, save the artillery's flame, 

Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 
And in the Danube's waters shone the same, 

A mirror'd hell ! The volleying roar, and loud 
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 

The ear far more than thunder ; for Heaven's flashes 

Spare, or smite rarely — Man's make millions ashes ! 



VII. 



The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, 

When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, 

Answering the Christian thunders with like voices 

Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced. 
Which rock'd as 'twere beneath the mighty noises : 

While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 

The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 

VIII. 
And one enormous shout of " Allah !" rose 

In the same moment, loud as even the roar 
Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 

Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 
Resounded " Allah ! " and the clouds, which close 

With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, 
Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark ! through 
All sounds it pierceth, " Allah ! Allah ! Hu ! "' 

IX. 

The columns were in movement, one and all : 
But, of the portion which attack'd by water, 

Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall, fter, 
Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaugh- 

As brave as ever faced both boom and ball. 

" Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is God's 
daughter: '' 2 

if he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 

Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 

X. 

The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee ; 

Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between 
His cap and head, which proves the head to be 

Aristocratic as was ever seen, 
Because it then received no injury 

More than the cap ; in fact the ball could mean 
No harm unto a right legitimate head : 
" Ashes to ashes " — why not lead to lead ? 

XL 

Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 

Insisting on removal of the prince, 
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near, — 

All common fellows, who might writhe and wince, 
And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 

The General Markow, who could thus evince 
His sympathy for rank, by the same token, 
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. 

XII. 

Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills 

Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 
Mortality ! thou hast thy monthly bills ; 

Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick 
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills 

Past, present, and to come ; — but all may yield 

To the true portrait of one battle-field. 

XIII. 

There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
Until their very number makes men hard 

By the infinities of agony, 

Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard — 

The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
Turn'd back within its socket,— these reward 

Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest 

May win, perhaps, a ribband at the breast ! 



564 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIV. 

Yet I love glory ; glory's a great thing ; 

Think what it is to be, in your old age, 
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king ! 

A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, 
And heroes are but made for bards to sing, 

Which is still better ; thus in verse to wage 
Your wars eternally, besides, enjoying 
Half-pay for life, makes mankind worth destroying. 

XV. 

The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on 
To take a battery on the right ; the others, 

Who landed lower down, their landing done, 
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers : 

Being grenadiers, they mounted, one by one, 

Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers — 

O'er the entrenchment and the palisade, 

Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 

XVI. 

And this was admirable ; for so hot 

The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, 

Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 

And shells, or hells, it could not more have goaded. 

Of officers, a third fell on the spot, 

A thing which victory by no means boded 

To gentlemen engaged in the assault : 

Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault. 

XVII. 
But here I leave the general concern, 

To track our hero on his path of fame : 
He must his laurels separately earn ; 

For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 
Though all deserving equally to turn 

A couplet, or an elegy to claim, 
Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, 
And, what is worse still, a much longer story: 

XVIII. 
And therefore we must give the greater number 

To the gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 
By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 

In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt 
Their clay for the last time their souls encumber; — 

Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 
In the despatch ; I knew a man whose loss 
Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. 3 

XIX. 

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, [ing 

And fought away with might and main, not know- 

The way which they had never trod before, 

And still less guessing where they might be going ; 

But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er, 
Firing and thrusting, slashing, swearing, glowing, 

But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, 

To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus on they wallow' d in the bloody mire 

Of dead and dying thousands — sometimes gaining 

A yai i or two of ground, which brought them nigher 
To some odd angle for which all were straining ; 

At other times, repulsed by the close fire, 

Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining, 

Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 

A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 



XXI. 

Though 'twas Don Juan's first of fields, and though 
The nightly muster and the silent march 

In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
So much as under a triumphal arch, 

Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, 

Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day ;— 

Yet for all this he did not run away. 

XXII. 

Indeed he could not. But what if he had ? • 
There hate been and are heroes who begun 

With something not much better, or as bad : 
Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run. 

For the first and last time ; for, like a pad, 
Or hawk, or bride, most mortals, after one 

Warm bout, are broken into their new tricks, 

And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 

XXIII. 

He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 
Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic, 

(The antiquarians who can settle time, 
Which settles all things, Romans, Greek, or Runic, 

Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime 
With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 

Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational 

As any other notion, and not national ;) — * 

XXIV. 

But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy," 
A thing of impulse, and a child of song : 

Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, 

Or the sensation, (if that phrase seem wrong,) 

And afterwards, if he must needs destroy, 
In such good company as always throng 

To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 

No less delighted to employ his leisure ; 

XXV. 

But always without malice. If he warr'd 
Or loved, it was with what we call "the best 

Intentions," which form all mankind's trump card, 
To be produced when brought up to the test. 

The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
Off each attack when people are in quest 

Of their designs, by saying they meant well ; 

'Tis pity " that such meaning should pave hell."* 

XXVI. 

I almost lately have begun to doubt 
Whether hell's pavement — if it be so paved — 

Must not have latterly been quite worn out, 
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, 

But by the mass who go below without 

Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved 

And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell 

Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
Warrior from warrior in their grim career, 

Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides, 
Just at the close of the first bridal year, 

By one of those odd turns of fortune's tides, 
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, 

When, after a good deal of heavy firing, 

He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 



DON JUAN. 



665 



XXVIII. 

I don't know how the thing occurr'd — it might 
Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 

And that the rest had faced unto the right 
About ; a circumstance which has confounded 
. Ocesar himself, who, in the very sight 

Of his whole army, which so much abounded 

In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield 

And rally back his Romans to the field. 

XXIX. 

Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
No Coesar, but a fine young lad, who fought, 

He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ougnt* 

For a much longer time ; then, like an ass — 

(Start not, kind reader ; since great Homer thought 

This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 

Perhaps may find it better than a new one :) — 

XXX. 

Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, 

And, what was stranger, never look'd behind; 

But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 

Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
He stumbled on, to try if he could find 

A path, to add his own slight arm and forces 

To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more the commandant 

Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 

Quite disappear'd — the gods know how ! (I can't 
Account for every thing which may look bad 

In history ; but we at least may grant 
It was not marvellous that a mere lad, 

In search of glory, should look on before, 

Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps :) — 

XXXII. 

Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
And left at large, like a young heir, to make 

His way to — where he knew not — single-handed ; 
As travellers follow over bog and brake, 

An "ignis fatuus," or as sailors stranded, 
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake, 

So Juan, following honor and his nose, 

Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes, 

XXXIII. 

He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, 
For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 

Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 
The hour, as is the case with lively brains ; 

And, where the hottest fire was seen and heard, 
And the loud cannon pealed its hoarsest strains, 

He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 

By thy humane discovery, friar Bacon ! 6 

XXXIV. 

And, as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
Fell in with what was late the second column, 

Under the orders of the General Lascy, 
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume, 

Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 

Air, 'mid the rest, who kept their valiant faces, 

And levell'd weapons, still against the glacis. 
84 



XXXV. 

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 
Who had "retreated," as the phrase is, when 

Men run away much rather than go through 
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den ; 

But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Knew when and how " to cut and come again," 

And never ran away, except when running 

Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI. 

And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, 
Except Don Juan — a mere novice, whose 

More virgin valor never dreamt of flying, 

From ignorance of danger, which indues \ 

Its votaries, like innocence relying [thews, — 

On its own strength, with careless nerves and 

Johnson retired a little, just to rally 

Those who catch cold in "shadows of death's valley." 

XXXVII. 

And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, 
Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, 

Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there was not 
In this extensive city, sore beset 

By Christian soldiery, a single spot 
Which did not combat like the devil as yet, 

He found a number of chasseurs, all scatter'd 

By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. 

XXXVIII. 

And these he call'd on ; and, what's strange, they 
Unto his call, unlike "the spirits from [came 

The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, 
Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home. 

Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 
At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb. 

And that odd impulse, which, in wars or creeds, 

Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 

XXXIX. 

By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 
And though his name than Ajax or Achilles 

Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon 
We shall not see his likeness : he could kill his 

Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon ' 

Her steady breath, (which some months the same 

Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, [stillis ;) 

And could be very busy without bustle : 

XL. 

And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 
Upon reflection, knowing that behind 

He would find others who would fain be rid so 
Of idle apprehensions, which, like wind, 

Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 
Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 

But when they light upon immediate death, 

Retire a little, merely to take breath. 

XLI. 

But Johnson only ran off to return 
With many other warriors, as we said, 

Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, 
Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread ; 

To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern* 
His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 

Acted upon the living as on wire, 

And led them back into the heaviest fire. 



666 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLII. 

Egad ! they found the second time what they 
The first time thought quite terrible enough 

To fly from, malgre all which people say 
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 

Which fills a regiment, (besides their pay, 

That daily shilling which makes warriors tough) — 

They found on their return the self-same welcome, 

Which made some think, and others knoic, a hell 
come. 

XLIII. 

They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail, 
Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 

Proving that trite old truth, that life's as frail 
As any other boon for which men stickle. 

The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail, 
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle, 

Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 

Upon the head before their guns were cock'd. 

XLIV. 
The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks 

Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, 
And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks : 

However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 
Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks, 

So order'd it, amid these sulphury revels, 
That Johnson, and some few who had not scampcr'd, 
Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart. 

XLV. 
First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen, 

Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 
All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin, 

Flame was shower'd forth above as well's below, 
So that you scarce could say who best had chosen, — 

The gentlemen that were the first to show 
Their martial faces on the parapet, 
Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 

XLVI. 

But those who scaled found out that their advance 
Was favor'd by an accident or blunder : 

The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 
Had palisadoed in a way you'd wonder 

To see in forts of Netherlands or France, 

(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under,) 

Right in the middle of the parapet 

Just named, these palisades were primly set : 

XLVII. 

So that on either side some nine or ten 
Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 

To march ; a great convenience to our men, 
At least to all those who were left alive, 

Who thus could form a line and fight again : 
And that which further aided them to strive 

Was, that they could kick down the palisades, 

Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. 7 

XLVIII. 

Among the first, — I will not say the first, 
For such precedence upon such occasions 

Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
Out between friends as well as allied nations ; 

The Briton must be bold who really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 

As say that Wellington at Waterloo 

Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so too ; — 



XLIX. 

And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau, 
And God knows who besides in " au " and ow,' 

Had not come up in time to cast an awe 
Into the hearts of those who fought till now 

As tigers combat with an empty craw, 
The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 

His orders, also to receive his pensions, 

Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 

L. 

But nevermind; — " God save the king !" and kings 
For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer. 

I think I hear a little bird, who sings, 

The 'people by and by will be the stronger : 

The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 
So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 

Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 

At last fall sick of imitating Job. 

LI. 

At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then 

Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant ; 

At last it takes to weapons, such as men [pliant ; 
Snatch when despair makes human hearts less 

Then " comes the tug of war ; " — 'twill come again, 
I rather doubt; and I would fain say, "fie on't," 

If I had not perceived that revolution 

Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 

LII. 

But to continue : — I say not the first, 
But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 

Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed Tone 
Amid such scenes — though this was quite a new 

To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst 
Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, 

Pervaded him — although a generous creature, 

As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 

Lin. 

And here he was — who, upon woman's breast 
Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er 

The man in all the rest might be confess'd. 
To him it was Elysium to be there ; 

And he could even withstand that awkward test 
Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, 

" Observe your lover when he leaves your arms ; " 

But Juan never left them while they'd charms, 

, LIV. 

Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind, 
Or near relations, who are much the same. 

But here he was ! — where each tie that can bind 
Humanity must yield to steel and flame : 

And he, whose very body was all mind, — 
Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame 

The loftiest, — hurried by the time and place, — 

Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 

LV. 

So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance, 
As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate, 

Or double post and rail, where the existence 
Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight, 

The lightest being the safest : at a distance 
He hated cruelty, as all men hate 

Blood, until heated — and even there his own 

At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 



DON JUAN. 



66? 



LVI. 



The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd, 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 

Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
•l"o Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, 
Not reckoning him to be a ^base Bezonian," 
(As Pistol calls it,) but a young Livonian. 

LVII. 
Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 

As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 
In answer made an inclination to 

The general who held him in command ; 
For, seeing one with ribbons black and blue, 

Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, 
Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank, 
lie recognized an officer of rank. 

LVIII. 
Short speeches pass between two men who speak 

No common language; and besides, in time 
Of war and taking towns, when many a crime 

Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a shriek 
Is perpetrated ere a word can break 

Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 
In, like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, 
There cannot be much conversation there, [prayer, 

LIX. 

And, therefore all we have related in 
Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute ; 

But in the same small minute, every sin 
Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 

The very cannon, deafen'd by the din, 

Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, 

As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 

Of human nature's agonizing voice ! 

LX. 

The town was enter'd. Oh eternity ! — 

" God made the country, and man made the town," 

So Cowper says — and I begin to be 
Of his opinion, when I see cast down 

Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh — 
All walls men know, and many never known ; 

And, pondering on the present and the past, 

To deem the woods shall be our home at last. 

LXI. 

Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer, 

Who passes for in life and death most lucky, 

Of the great names, which in our faces stare, 
The General Boon, backwoodsman of Kentucky, 

Was happiest among mortals any where ; 
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 

Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 

Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 

LXII. 

Crime came not near him — she is not the child 
Of solitude ; health shrank not from him — for 

Her home is in the rarely-trodden wild, 

Where if men seek her not, and death be more 

Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 

In cities caged. The present case in point I 

Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety ; 



LXIII. ' 
And what's still stranger, left behind a name — 

For which men vainly decimate the throng, — 
Not only famous, but of that good fame 

Without which glory's but a tavern song — 
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, 

Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong ; 
An active hermit, even in age the child 
Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 
'Tis true he shrank from men, even of his nation, 

When they built up unto his darling trees, — 
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 

Where there were fewer houses and more case — 
The inconvenience of civilization 

Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ; — 
But, where he met the individual man, 
He show'd himself as kind as mortal can 

LXV. 

He was not all alone : around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, 

Whose young> unwaken'd world was ever new 
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 

On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view, 
A frown on nature's or on human face ; — 

The free-born forest found and kept them free, 

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 

LXVI. 

And tall and strong, and swift of foot were they, 
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, 

Because their thoughts had never been the prey 
Of care or gain : the green woods were their por 

No sinking spirits told them they grew gray ; [tions 
No fashion made them apes of her distortions ; 

Simple they were, not savage ; and their rifles 

Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 

LXVII. 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, 
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil ; 

Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ; 
Corruption could not make their hearts her soil : 

The lust which stings, the splendor which encum 
With the free foresters divide no spoil ; [bers 

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 

Of this unsighing people of the woods. 

LXVIII. 
So much for nature : — by way of variety, 

Now back to thy great joys, civilization ! 
And the sweet consequence of large society,-- 

War, pestilence, the despot's desolation, 
The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 

The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, 
The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore, 
With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 

LXIX. 

The town was enter'd : first one column made 
Its sanguinary way good — then another ; 

The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 

Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother 

With distant shrieks were heard heaven to upbraid 
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother 

The breath of morn and man, where, foot by foot, 

The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. 



668 



BYIION'S WORKS. 



LXX. 

Koutousow, he who afterwards beat back 

(With some assistance from the frost and snow) 
Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, 

It happen'd was himself beat back just now. 
He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 

His jest alike in face of friend or foe, 
Though life, and death, and victory were at stake- 
But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take : 

LXXI. 

For, having thrown himself into a ditch, 
Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers, 

Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich, 
He climb'd to where the parapet appears ; 

But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch — 
('Mong other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 

Was much regretted) — for the Moslem men 

Threw them all down into the ditch again : 

Lxxir. 

And, had it not been for some stray troops landing 
They knew not where, — being carried by the stream 

To some spot, where they lost their understanding, 
And wander'd up and down as in a dream, 

Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding, 
That which a portal to their eyes did seem,— 

The great and gay Koutousow might have lain 

Where three parts of his column yet remain. 

LXXIII. 
And, scrambling round the rampart, these same 

After the taking of the "cavalier," [troops, 

Just as Koutousow's most "forlorn" of "hopes" 

Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
Open'd the gate call'd " Kilia " to the groups 

Of baffled heroes who stood shyly near, 
Sliding knee-deep in lately-frozen mud, 
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 

LXXIV. 

The Kozaks, or if so you please, Cossacks — 
(I don't much pique myself upon orthography, 

So that I do not grossly err in facts, 

Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 

Having been used to serve on horses' backs, 
And no great dilettanti in topography 

Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 

Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to pieces. 

LXXV. 

Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd 

Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart, 
And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 

The city, without being further hamper'd ; 
But, as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd— 

The Turks at fbjst pretended to have scamper'd, 
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners, 
From whence they sallied on those Christian scorn- 
ers. 

LXXVI. 
Then being taken by the tail — a taking 

Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — these 
Cossacks were all cut off as day was breakin" 

And found their lives were let at a short lease 

But perish'd without shivering or shaking, 

Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, 
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki : — 



LXXVII. 

This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
But could not eat them, being in his turn 

Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
Without resistance, see their city burn. 

The walls were won, but 'twas an even bet 
Which of the armies would have cause to mourn ; 

'Twas blow for blow, diskiting inch by inch, 

For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch. 

LXXVIII. 

Another column also suffer'd much : 
And here we may remark with the historian, 

You should but give few cartridges to such 

Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory : 

When matters must be carried by the touch 

Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on, 

They sometimes, with a hankering for existence, 

Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 

LXXIX. 

A junction of the General Meknop's men 

(Without the General, who had fallen some time 

Before, being badly seconded just then) [climb 

Was made at length, with those who dared to 

The death-disgorging rampart once again ; 

And, though the Turks' resistance was sublime, 

They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 

Defended at a price extremely dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers, 
Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter ; 

A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. — 

He died, deserving well his country's tears, 
A savage sort of military martyr. 

An English naval officer, who wish'd 

To make him prisoner, was also dish'd. 

LXXXI. 

For all the answer to his proposition 
Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead ; 

On which the rest, without more intermission, 
Began to lay about with steal and lead, — 

The pious metals most in requisition 
On such occasions : not a single head 

Was spared, — three thousand Moslems perish'd here, 

And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. 

I 

LXXXII. 

The city's taken — only part by part — 

And death is drunk with gore : there's not a street 
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart 

For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. 
Here War forgot his own destructive art 

In more destroying nature ; and the heat 
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 
Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian officer, in martial tread 

Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
Seized fast, as if 'twere by the serpent's head, 

Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel, 
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled, 

And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal — 
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, 
As do the subtle snakes described of old. 



DON JUAN. 



669 



LXXXIV. 

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 

The very tendon which is most acute — 
(That which some ancient Muse or modern wit 

Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through 't 
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it 

Even with his life — for (but they lie) 'tis said 

To the live leg still clung tne sevct'd head. 

LXXXV. 

However this may be, 'tis pretty sure 
The Russian officer for life was lamed, 

For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
And left him 'mid the invalid and maim'd : 

The regimentel surgeon could not cure 

His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 

More than the head of the inveterate foe, 

"Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go. 

LXXXVI. 

But then the fact's a fact — and 'tis the part 
Of a true poet to escape from fiction 

Whene'er he can ; for there is little art 

In leaving verse more free from the restriction 

Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart 
For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction, 

And that outrageous appetite for lies 

Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies. 

LXXXVII. 

The city's taken, but not render'd ! — No 

There's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword : 

The blood may gush out as the Danube's flow 
Rolls by the city wall ; nor deed nor word 

Acknowledge aught of dread or death of foe ; 
In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 

By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 

Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 

LXXXVIII. 

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
And human lives are lavish'd every where, 

As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves, 
When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 

And groans ; and thus the peopled city grieves, 
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare ; 

But still it falls with vast and awful splinters, 

As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. 

LXIX. 

It is an awful topic — but 'tis not 

My cue for any time to be terriffic : 
For checker'd as it seems our human lot 

With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 
Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific ; 
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 

XC. 

And one good action in the midst of crimes 
Is " quite refreshing " — in the affected phrase 

Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, 
With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, — 

And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 

Of conquest and its consequences, which 

Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 



XCI. 



Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 
Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm grouf 

Of murder'd women, who had found their way 
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 

And shudder ;— while, as beautiful as May, 
A female child of ten years tried to stoop 

And hide her little palpitating breast 

Amid the bodies lull'd in bloody rest. 

XCII. 
Two villanous Cossacks pursued the child [them, 

With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with 
The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 

Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem, — 
The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild : 

And whom for this at last must we condemn ? 
Their natures ? or their sovereigns, who employ 
All arts to teach their subjects to destroy ? 

XCIII. 

Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head, 

Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, 

Her hidden face was plunged amid the dead : 
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight. 

I shall not say exactly what he said, 

Because it might not solace " ears polite ; " 

But what he did, was to lay on their backs, — 

The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacks. 

XCIV. 
One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder 

And drove them with their brutal yells to seek 
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder 

The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 
Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder, 

As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 
Don Juan raised his little captive from 
The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 

xcv. 

And she was chill as they, and on her face 
A slender streak of blood announced how near 

Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 
For the same blow which laid her mother here 

Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace 
As the last link with all she had held dear ; 

But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, 

And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 

XCVI. 

Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 
Upon each other, with dilated glance, 

In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 

Upon his protege; while hers, transfix'd 
With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 

A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 

Like to a lighted alabaster vase : — 

XCVII. 
Up came John Johnson — (I will not say "Jack," 

For that were vulgar, cold, and common-place 
On great occasions, such as an attack 

On cities, as hath been the present case) — 
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, 

Exclaiming, — " Juan ! Juan ! On boy ! brace 
Your arm, and I'll bet Moscow to a dollar, 
That you and I will win St. George's collar.s 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCVIII. 

"The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, 
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 

The old pacha sits among some hundreds dead, 
Smoking his pipe quite calmly, 'mid the din 

Of our artillery and his own ; 'tis said 
Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin, 

Lie round the battery ; but still it batters, 

And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 

XCIX. 

" Then up with me ! " — But Juan answer'd, " Look 
Upon this child — I sav'd her — must not leave 

Her life to chance ; but point me out some nook 
Of safety, where she less may shriek and grieve, 

And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson took 
A glance around — and, shrugg'd — and twitch'dhis 
sleeve [right ; 

And black silk neckcloth — and replied, " You're 

Poor thing ! what's to be done ? I'm puzzled quite." 

C. 

Said Juan, — " Whatsoever is to be 

. Done, I'll not quit her till she seems secure 

Of present life a good deal more than we." — 

Quoth Johnson, — " Ncitlicr will I quite insure ; 
But at the least you may die gloriously." 

Juan replied, — " At least I will endure 
Whate'er is to be borne — but not resign 
This child, who's parentless, and therefore mine." 

CI. 
Johnson said, — " Juan, we've no time to lose ; 

The child's a pretty child — a very pretty — 
I never saw such eyes — but hark ! now choose 

Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity : 
Hark ! how the roar increases ! — no excuse 

Will serve when there is plunder in a city ; — 
I should be loth to march without you, but, 
By God! we'll be too late for the first cut." 

CII. 

But Juan was immovable ; until 

Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 

Pick'd out among his followers with some skill 
Such as he thought the least given up to prey : 

And swearing if the infant came to ill 
That they should all be shot on the next day, 

But if she were delivered safe and sound, 

They should at least have fifty roubles round, 

cm. 

And all allowances besides of plunder 

In fair proportion with their comrades ; — then 

Juan consented to march on through thunder, 
Which thinn'd, at every step, their ranks of men : 

And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder, 
For they were heated by the hope of gain, 

A thing which happens every where each day — 

No hero trusteth wholly to half-pay. 

CIV. 

And such is victory ! and siich is mjrn ! 

At least nine-tenths of what we call so ; — God 
May have another name for half we scan 

As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
But to our subject : a brave Tartar Khan, — 

Or ' sultan," as the author (to whose nod 
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
This ch'eftain — somehow would not yield at all : 



CV. 



But flank'd by Jive brave sons (such is polygamy, 
That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 

Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy) 
He never would believe the city won, 

While courage clung but to a single twig. — Am I 
Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son ? 

Neither, — but a good, plain, old, temperate man, 

Who fought with his five children in the van. 

CVI. 

To take him was the point. The truly brave, 
When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds, 

Are touch'd with a desire to shield or save ; — 
A mixture of wild beasts and demigods 

Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave, 
Now moved with pity : even as sometimes nods 

The rugged tree unto the summer wind, 

Compassion breathes along the savage mind 

CVII. 
But he would not be taken, and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender 
By mowing Christians down on every side, 

As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender. 
His five brave boys no less the foe defied : 

AVhereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, 
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, 
Apt to wear out on trifling provocations. 

CVIII. 

And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
Expended all their Eastern phraseology 

In begging him, for God's sake, just to show- 
So much less fight as might form an apology 

For them in saving such a desperate foe — 
He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 

When they dispute with skeptics ; and with curses 

Struck at his friends, as babres beat their nurses. 

CIX. 

Nay, he had w-ounded, though but slightly, both 
Juan and Johnson, whereupon they fell — 

The first with sighs, the second with an oath — 
Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, 

And all around were grown exceeding wroth 
At such a pertinacious infidel, 

And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, 

Which they resisted like a sandy plain, 

CX. 

That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd : 
His second son was levell'd by a shot ; 

His third was sabred ; and the fourth, most cherish'd 
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot ; 

The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd, 
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, 

Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom, 

To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. 

CXI. 

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartrr- 

As great a scorner of the Nazarene 
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr, 

Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green, 
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter 

On earth, in Paradise ; and, when once seen, 
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures, 
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. 



DON JUAN. 



671 



CXII. 

And what they pleased to do with the young Khan 
In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess ; 

But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 

And that's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan 
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, 

For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, 

You'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 

CXIII. 
Your houris also have a natural pleasure 

In lopping off your lately married men 
Before the bridal hours have danced their measure, 

And the sad second moon grows dim again, 
Or dull Repentance hath had dreary leisure 

To wish him back a bachelor now and then. 
And thus your houri (it may be) disputes 
Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. 

CXIV. 

Ihus the young Khan, with houris in his sight, 
Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, 

But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 
In short, howe'er our better faith derides, 

These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight, 
As though there were one heaven and none be- 

"Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven [sides : — 

And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

cxv. 

So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes, 
That when the very lance was in his heart, 

He shouted " Allah ! " and saw Paradise 
With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 

And bright eternity without disguise 

On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart, — 

With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 

In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died : 

CXVI. 

But, with a heavenly rapture on his face, 
The good old Khan — who long had ceased to see 

Houris, or aught except his florid race, 

Who grew like cedars round him gloriously — 

When he beheld his latest hero grace 

The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree, 

Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast 

A glance on that slain son, his first and last. 

CXVII. 
The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 

Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede 
Quarter, in case he bade them not " aroynt ! " 

As he before had done. He did not heed 
Their pause nor signs : his heart was out of joint, 

And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, 
As he look'd down Upon his children gone, 
And felt — though done with life — he was alone. 

CXVIII. 

But 'twas a transient tremor : — with a spring 
Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, 

As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 
Against the light wherein she dies : he clung 

Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring, 
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young ; 

And, throwing back a dim look on his sons, 

In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 



CXIX. 

'Tis strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, who 
Spared neither sex nor age in their career 

Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, 
And lay before them with his children near, 

Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew, 
Were melted for a moment ; though no tear 

Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife. 

They honor'd such determined scorn of life. 

cxx. 

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 
Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post : 

Some twenty times he made the Russ rerire, 
And baffled the assaults of all their host ; 

At length he condescended to inquire 
If yet the city's rest were won or lost, 

And, being told the latter, sent a Bey 

To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 

CXXI. 

In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid, 
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 

Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Troy » 

Saw nothing like the scene around ; — yet, looking 

With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy 
His stern philosophy : but gently stroking 

His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales, 

As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 

CXXII. 

The town was taken — whether he might yield 
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now; 

His stubborn valor was no future shield. 
Ismail's no more ! The crescent's silver bow 

Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 
But red with no redeeming gore : the glow 

Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, 

Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 

CXXIII. 

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses ; 

All that the body perpetrates of bad ; 
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses ; 

All that the devil would do if run stark mad ; 
All that defies the worst which pen expresses ; 

All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
As hell — mere mortals who their power abuse, — 
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 

CXXIV. 

If here and there some transient trait of pity, 
Was shown, and some more noble heart broice 
through 

Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty 
Child, or an aged, helpless man or two — 

What's this in one annihilated city, 

Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew ? 

Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris ! 

Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

CXXY. 

Think how the joys of reading a gazette 
Are purchased by all agonies and crimes : 

Or, if these do not move you, don't forget 
Such doom may be your own in after times. 

Meantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt, 
Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 

Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, 

Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 



672 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXVI. 

But still there is unto a patriot nation, 

Which loves so well its country and its king, 
A subject of sublimest exultation — 

Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! 
Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, 

Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 
Gaunt Famine never shall approach the throne — 
Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty 
stone. 

CXXVII. 
But let me put an end unto my theme : 

There was an end of Ismail — hapless town ! 
Far fiash'd Her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, 

And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 

Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown : 
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, 
Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all ! 

CXXVIII. 

In one thing, ne'ertheless, 'tis fit to praise 
The Russian army upon this occasion, 

M virtue much in fashion now-a-days, 

And therefore worthy of commemoration : 

The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase — 

Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station 

In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, 

Had made them chaste ; — they ravish'd very little. 

CXXIX. 

Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 
Might here and there occur some violation 

In the other line : — but not to such excess 
As when the French, that dissipated nation, 

Take towns by storm : no causes can I guess, 
Except cold weather and commiseration ; 

But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 

Were almost as much virgins as before. 

exxx. 

Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark, 
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste — 

Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
Their friends from foes, — besides, such things from 

Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark [haste 
Of light to save the venerably chaste : — 

But six old damsels, each of seventy years, 

Were all defiower'd by different grenadiers. 

CXXXI. 

But on the whole their continence was great, 
So that some disappointment there ensued 

To those who had felt the inconvenient state 
Of " single blessedness," and thought it good 

(Since it was not their fault, but only fate, 
To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 

To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, 

Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. 

CXXXII. 

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 
Were also heard to wonder in the din, 

(Widows of forty were these birds long caged,) 
" Wherefore the ravishing did not begin ! " 

But, while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, 
There was small leisure for superfluous sin ; 

But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 

In darkaess — I can only hope they did. 



CXXXIII. 

Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 
For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. [thatch 

While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like 
Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd, 

With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch, 
And here exactly follows what he said : — 

" Glory to God and to the Empress ! " (Powers 

Eternal! such names mingled!) " Ismail's ours ! "* 

CXXXIV. 

Methinks these are the most tremendous words, 
Since "Mene, Mene, Tekel," and "Upharsin," 

Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
Heaven help me ! I'm but little of a parson : 

What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, 
Severe, sublime ; the prophets wrote no farce on 

The fate of nations ; — but this Russ, so witty, 

Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. 

exxxv. 

He wrote this Polar melody, and set it, 
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, 

Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it — 
For I will teach, if possible, the stones 

To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones; — 

But ye — our children's children ! think how we 

Show'd what things were before the world was free 

CXXXVI. 

That hour is not for us, but 'tis for you ; 

And as, in the great joy of your millennium, 
You hardly will believe such things were true 

As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em 
But may their very memory perish too ! — 

Yet, if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em 
More than you scorn the savages of yore, 
Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. 

CXXXVII. 

And when you hear historians talk of thrones, 
And those that sate upon them, let it be 

As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones, 
And wonder what old world such things could see 

Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, 
The pleasant riddles of futurity — 

Guessing at what shall happily be hid, 

As the real purpose of a pyramid. 

CXXXVIII. 

Reader ! I have kept my word, — at least so far 
As the first canto promised. You have now 

Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 
All very accurate, you must allow, 

And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar ; 
For I have drawn much less with a long bow 

Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, 

But Phcebus lends me now and then a string, 

CXXXIX. 

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 

What further hath befallen or may befall 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 

I by and by may tell you, if at all : 
But now I choose to break off in the middle, 

Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, 
While Juan is sent off with the despatch, 
For w r hich all Petersburgh is on the watch. 



DON JUAN. 



673 



CXL. 

This special honor was conferr'd, because 

He had behaved with courage and humanity; — 

"Which last men like, when they have time to pause 
From their ferocities produced by vanity. 

His little captive gain'd him some applause, 
For saving her amid the wild insanity 

Of carnage, and I think he was more glad in her 

Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 

CXLI. 

The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless : all 

Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall : 

Her very place of birth was but a spectre 

Of what it had been ; there the Muezzin's call 

To prayer was heard no more ! — and Juan wept, 

And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 



CANTO IX. 



T. 



Oir, "Wellington ! (or " Villainton " — for fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways ; 

France could not even conquer your great name, 
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 

Beating or beaten she will laugh the same) — 
You have obtain' d great pensions and much praise 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, 

Humanity would rise, and thunder, " Nay ! " l 

II. 

T don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well 
In Marinet's affair — in fact 'twas shabby, 

And, like some other things, won't do to tell 
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 

Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell, 

Such tales being for the tea hours of some tabby: 

But though your years as man tend fast to zero, 

In fact your grace is still but a young hero. 

III. 

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, 
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more : 

You have repair'd legitimacy's crutch — 
A prop not quite so certain as before : 

The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore ; 

And Waterloo has made the world your debtor — 

(I wish your bards would sing it rather better. ) 

IV. 

You are " the best of cut-throats : " — do not start ; 

The phrase is Shakespeare's, and not misapplied: 
"War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, 

Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
If you have acted once a generous part, 

The world, not the world's masters, will decide, 
And I shall be delighted to learn who, 
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo ? 
85 



V. 



I am no flatterer — you've supp'd full of flattery ; 

They say you like it too — 'tis no great wonder : 
He whose whole life has been assault and battery, 

At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 
And, swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 

May like being praised for every lucky blunder : 
Call'd " Saviour of the Nations " — not yet saved, 
And "Europe's Liberator" — still enslaved. 

VI. 

I've done. Now go nnd dine from off the plate 
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 

And send the sentinel before your gate, 2 
A slice or two from your luxurious meals : 

He fought, but has not fed so well of late, 
Some hunger, too, they say the people feels : 

There is no doubt that you deserve your ration — 

But pray give back a little to the nation. 

VII. 

I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
You, my Lord Duke ! is far above reflection. 

The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus 
With modern history has but small connection ; 

Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, 

You need not take them under your direction : 

And half a million for your Sabine farm 

Is rather dear ! — I'm sure I mean no harm. 

VIII. 

Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses 
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 

Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 

George Washington had thanks and nought beside, 

Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is) 
To free his country: Pitt, too, had his pride, 

And, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is 

Renown'd for ruining Great Britain, gratis. 

IX. 
Never had mortal man such opportunity, 

Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 
You might have freed fall'n Europe from the unity 

Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore ; 
And now — what is your fame ? Shall the Muse tune 
it ye? 

Now — that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er ? 
Go, hear it in your famish'd country's cries ! 
Behold the world ! and curse your victories ! 

X. 

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, 
To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe 

Truths that you will not read in the gazettes, 
But which, 'tis time to teacn the hireling tribe 

Who fatten on their country's gore and debts, 
Must be recited, and — without a bribe. 

You did great things ; but, not being great in mind, 

Have left undone the greatest — and mankind. 

XL 

Death laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 
"With which men image out the unknown thing 

That hides the past world, like to a set sun 
"Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring : 

Death laughs at all you weep for ; — look upon 
This hourly dread of all whose threatened sting 

Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath ! 

Mark ! how its lipless mouth grins without breath ' 



674 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XII. 



Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 

And yet was what you are : from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 

So call'd ; the antic long hath ceased to hear, 
But still he smiles ; and whether near or far, 

He strips from man that mantle — (far more dear 
Than even the tailor's) — his incarnate skin, 
"White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 

XIII. 
And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment, 

But still it is so ; and with such example 
Why should not Life be equally content, 

With his superior, in a smile to trample 
Upon the nothings which are daily spent 

Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 
Than the eternal deluge, which devours 
Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like ours ? 

XIV. 

" To be, or not to be ! that is the question," 
Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. 

I am neither Alexander nor Hephsestion, 

Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion ; 

But would much rather have a sound digestion, 
Than Bonaparte's cancer: — could I dash on 

Through fifty victories to shame or fame, 

Without a stomach — what were a good name ? 

XV. 

" Oh, dura ilia messorum ! " — " Oh, 
Ye rigid guts of reapers ! " — I translate 

For the great benefit of those who know 
What indigestion is — that inward fate 

Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow. 
A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate : 

Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent, — 

He who sleeps best may be the most content. 

XVI. 

" To be, or not to be ! " — Ere I decide, 
I should be glad to know that which is being. 

'Tis true we speculate both far and wide, 
And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing : 

For my part, I'll enlist on neither side, 
Until I see both sides for once agreeing. 

For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 

Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 

XVII. 

" Que scais-je ? " was the motto of Montaigne, 

As also of the first academicians : 
That all is dubious which man may attain, 

Was one of their most favorite positions. 
There's no such thing as certainty, that's plain 

As any of mortality's conditions : 
So little do we know what we're about in 
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 

XVIII. 

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 
Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; 

But what if carrying sail capsize the boat ? 
Your wise men don't know much of navigation ; 

And swimming long in the abyss of thought 
Is apt to tire : a calm and shallow station [gathers 

Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and 

Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 



XIX. 

"But heaven," as Cassio says, "is above all. — 
No more of this then, — let us pray ! " We have 

Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, 
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, 

Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The sparrow's fall 
Is special providence," though how it gave 

Offence, we know not ; probably it perch'd 

Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 

XX. 

Oh, ye immortal gods ! what is theogony ? 

Oh, thou too mortal man ! what is philanthropy ? 
Oh, world, which was and is! what is cosmogony ? 

Some people have accused me' of misanthropy ; 
And yet I know no more than the mahogany 

That forms this desk, of what they mean: — ly- 
kanthropy 
I comprehend ; for, without transformation, 
Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 

XXI. 

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, 
Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 

Done any thing exceedingly unkind, — 

And (though I could not now and then forbear 

Following the bent of body or of mind) 
Have always had a tendency to spare, — 

Why do they call me misanthrope ? Because 

They hate me, not I them : — And here we'll pause. 

XXII. 
'Tis time we should proceed with one good poem, 

For I maintain that it is really good, 
Not only in the body, but the proem, 

However little both are understood 
Just now, — but by and by the truth will show 'en\ 

Herself in her sublimest attitude : 
And till she doth, I fain must be content 
To share her beauty and her banishment. 

XXIII. 
Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours) — 

Was left upon his way to the chief city 
Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors, [witty, 

Who still have shown themselves more brave than 
I know its mighty empire now allures 

Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that's a pity. 
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. 

XXIV. 

And I will war, at least in words (and — should 
My chance so happen — deeds) with all who war 

With thought ; — and of thought's foes by far most 
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. [rudr, 

I know not who may conquer ; if I could 
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 

To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation 

Of every despotism in every nation. 

XXV. 

It is not that I adulate the people : 
Without me there are demagogues enough, 

And infidels to pull down every steeple, 

And set up in their stead some proper stuff. 

Whether they may sow skepticism to reap hell, 
As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 

I do not know ; — I wish men to be free 

As much from mobs as kings — from you as me. 



DON JUAN. 



675 



XXVI. 

The consequence is, being of no party, 
I shall offend all parties : — never mind ! 

My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 

He who has nought to gain can have small art : he 
Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind 

May still expatiate freely, as will I, 

Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 

XXVII. 

That's an appropriate simile, that jackal ; 

I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl 
By night, as do that mercenary pack all, 

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 
And scent the prey their masters would attack all. 

However, the poor jackals are less foul, 
(As being the brave lion's keen providers) 
Than human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIII. 
Raise but an arm ! 'twill brush their web away, 

And without that, their poison and their claws 
Are useless. Mind, good people ! what I say — 

(Or rather peoples) — go on without pause ! 
The web of these tarantulas each day 

Increases, till you shall make common cause; 
None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 
As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 

XXIX. 

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 
Was left upon his way with the despatch, 

Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water; 
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 

O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 

Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the 

Between these nations as a main of cocks, [match 

Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 

XXX. 

And there in a Jdbitha he roll'd on, 

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 

Which on rough joads leaves scarcely a whole bone,) 
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, 

And orders, and on all that he had done — 
And wishing that post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 

Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 

XXXI. 

At every jolt — and there were many — still 
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge, 

As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
Than he, in these sad highways left at large 

To ruts and flints, and lovely nature's skill, 
Who is no pavior, nor admits a barge 

On her canals, where God takes sea and land, 

Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 

XXXII. 

At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
To be the first of what we used to call 

" Gentlemen farmers " — a race worn out quite, 
Since lately there have been no rents at all, 

And " gentlemen " are in a piteous plight, 

And " farmers " can't raise Ceres from her fall : 

She fell with Bonaparte : — what strange thoughts 

Arise, when we see emperors fill with oats ! 



XXXIII. 

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 
Whom he had saved from slaughter — what a trophy! 

Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 
With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy 

Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, 
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 

To sooth his woes withal, was slain, the sinner 

Because he could no more digest his dinner : — 3 

XXXIV. 

Oh ye ! or we ! or she ! or he ! reflect, 
That one life saved, especially if young 

Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 
Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 

From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 
With all the praises ever said or sung: 

Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 

Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din. 

XXXV. 

Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous ! 

Yet twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes ! 
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us ! 

Whether you're paid by government in bribes, 
To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 

Or, roughly treading on the " courtier's kibes " 
With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation — 

XXXVI. 

Oh, ye great authors ! — " Apropos des bottes " — 
I have forgotten what I mpant to say, 

As sometimes have been greater sages' lots : 
'Twas something calculated to allay 

All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots : 
Certes it would Rave been but thrown away 

And that's one comfort for my lost advice, 

Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 

XXXVII. 
But let it (;o: it will one day be found 

With other relics of "a former world," 
When this world shall be former, underground, 

Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd, 
Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside out, or drown'd, 

Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd 
First out of and then back again to chaos, 
The superstratum which will overlay us. 

XXXVIII. 

So Cuvier says ; — and then shall come again 

Unto the new creation, rising out 
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 

Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt: 
Like to the notions we now entertain 

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, 
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up • 
How the new woiidings of the then new East 

Will wonder where such animals could sup ! 
(For they themselves will be but of the least : 

Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 
And every new creation hath decreased 

In size, from overworking the material — 

Men are but maggots of some huge earth's burial.) 



676 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XL. 



How will — to these young people, just thrust out 
From some fresh paradise, and set to plough, 

And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, 

Till all the arts at length are brought about, 
Especially of war and taxing — how, 

I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em, 

Look like the monsters of a new museum ? 

XLI. 
But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 

" The time is out of joint," — and so am I ; 
I quite forget this poem's merely quizzical, 

And deviate into matters rather dry. 
I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 

Much too poetical : men should know why 
They write, and for what end ; but, note or text, 
I never know the word which will come next. 

XLII. 
So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 

Now pondering : — it is time we should narrate : 
I left Don Juan with his horses baiting — 

Now we'll get o'er the ground at a great rate. 
I shall not be particular in stating 

His journey, we've so many tours of late : 
Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 
That pleasant capital of painted snows : 

XLIII. 

Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
Waving, like sails new shivered in a storm, 

Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room, 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, 

Of yellow kerseymere we may presume, 
White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk, 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk. 

XLIV. 

Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand, 
Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor — 

That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 
Beauty springs forth, and nature's self turns paler, 

Seeing how art can make her work more grand, 
(When she don't pui men's limbs in like a 

Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He [jailer) — 

Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery. 

XLV. 

His bandage slipp'd clown into a cravat ; 

His wings subdued to epaulets ! his quiver 
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 

His side as a small-sword, but sharp as ever; 
His bow converted into a cock'd hat ; 

But still so like, Psyche were more clever 
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) 
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 

XLVI. 

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 
The empress smiled; the reigning favorite frown'd : 

I quite forgot which of them was in hand 

Just then, as they are rather numerous found, 

Who took by turns that difficult command, 
Since first her majesty was singly crown'd : 

But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 

All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 



XLVII. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 

Blushing and beardless ; and yet ne'ertheless 
There was a something in his turn of limb, 

And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express- 
That thougl. he look'd one of the seraphim, 

There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. 
Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, 
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi : 4 

XLVIII. 
No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, 

Or Scherbatoff, or any other off, 
Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
For a new flame ; a thought to cast off gloom enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
Of him who, in the language of his station, 
Then held that "high official situation." 

XLIX. 
Oh, gentle ladies ! should you seek to know 

The import of this diplomatic phrase, 
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show 

His parts of speech ; 3 and in the strange displays 
Of that odd string of words all in a row, 

Which none divine, and every one obeys, 
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning, 
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 

L. 

I think I can explain myself without 
That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 

That sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, 
Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 

That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 
Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh ! 

And here I must an anecdote relate, 

But luckily of no great length or weight. 

LI. 

An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 
What were the actual and official duties 

Of the strange thing some women set a value on, 
Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 

Call'd " Cavalier Servente ? " — a Pygmalion 
Whose statues warm (I fear, alas ! too true 'tis) 

Beneatli his art. The dame, press'd to disclose 

Said — "Lady, I beseech you to suppose them." [them 

LII. 

And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
And mildest, matron-like interpretation, 

Of the imerial favorite's condition. 

'Twas a high place, the highest in the nation 

In fact, if not in rank ; and the suspicion 
Of any one's attaining to his station, 

No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, 

If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 

liii. 

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, 
And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 

The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, 

With beard and whiskers, and the like, the fond 

Parisian aspect, which upset all Troy 

And founded Doctors' Commons ; — I have confin'd 

The history of divorces, which, though checker'd, 

Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. 



DON JUAN. 



677 



LIV. 



And Catherine, who loved all things, (save her lord, 
Who was gone to his place,) and pass'd for much, 

Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) 
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 

Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 
Was the lamented Lsxiskoi, who was such 

A lover as had cost her many a tear, 

And yet but made a middling grenadier. 

LV. 

Oh, thou " teterrima causa " of all "belli!" — 
Thou gate of life and death ! — thou nondescript ! 

Whence is our exit and our entrance, — well I 
May pause in pondering how all souls arc dipp'd 

In thy perennial fountain ! — how man fell, I 
Know not, since knowledge saw her branches 
stripp'd 

Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises 

Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 

LVI. 

Some call thee " the worst cause of war," but I 
Maintain thou art the best : for, after all, 

From thee we CQme, to thee we go ; and why, 
To get at thee, not batter down a wall, 

Or waste a world ? Since no one can deny 
Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 

With, or without thee, all things at a stand 

Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry lan4 ! 

LVII. 

Catherine, who was the grand epitome 

Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 

You please, (it causes all the things which be, 
So you may take your choice of this or that) — 

Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 

The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 

Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 

With his desoatch, forgot to break the seal. 

LVIII. 

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 

Forgetting quite the woman, (which composed 

At least three parts of this great whole,) she tore 
The letter open with an air which posed 

The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, 
Until a royal smile at length disclosed 

Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, 

Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. 

LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys ; the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
As an East Indian sunrise on the main. 

These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst — 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 

In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 

Blood only serves to wash ambition's hands ! 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
Into a Russian couplet, rather dull, 

The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. 
Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder which runs naturally through 
Our veins, when things called sovereigns think it best 
To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 



LXI. 



The two first feelings ran their course complete, 
And lighted first her eye and then her mouth : 

The whole court look'd immediately most sweet, 
Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth : — 

But when on the lieutenant, at her feet, 
Her majesty — who liked to gaze on youth 

Almost as much as on a new despatch — 

Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 

LXII. 
Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, 

When wroth; while pleased, she was as fine a figuro 
As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, 

Would wish to look on, while they are in vigor. 
She could repay each amatory look you lent 

With interest, and in turn was wont with rigor 
To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 
At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 

LXIII. 
With her the latter, though at times convenient, 

Was not so necessary : for they tell [lenient, 

That she was handsome, and, though fierce, look'd 

And always used her favorites too well. 
If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, 

Your " fortune " was in a fair way " to swell 
A man," as Giles says ; 6 for, though she would widow 
Nations, she liked man as an individual. [all 

LXIV. 

What a strange thing is man ! and what a stranger 
Is woman ! What a whirlwind is her head, 

And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger 
Is all the rest about her ! whether wed, 

Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her 
Mind like the wind ; whatever she has said 

Or done, is light to what she'll say or do ; — 

The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 

LXV. 

Oh, Catherine ! (for of all interjections 
To thee both oh ! and ah ! belong of right 

In love and war) how odd are the connections 
Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight ! 

Just now yours were cut out in different sections : 
First, Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite ; 

Next, of new knights the fresh and glorious batch j 

And thirdly, he who brought you the despatch ! 

LXVI. 

Shakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 

New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; " 
And some such visions cross'd her majesty, 

While her young herald knelt before her still. 
'Tis very true the hill seem'd rather high 

For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill [blessing, 
Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and, by God's 
With youth and health all kisses are "heaven-kiss- 
ing." 

LXVII. 
Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up — 

And so they fell in love ; — she with his face, 
His grace, his God-knows-what : for Cupid's cup 

With the first draught intoxicates apace, 
A quintessential laudanum or "black drop," 

Which makes one drunk at once, without the base 
Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye 
In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. 



678 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXVIII. 

He, oa the other hand, if not in love, 
Fell into that no less imperious passion, 

Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 
Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 

Or duchess, princess, empress, " deigns to prove," 7 
(Tis Pope's phrase,) a great longing, though a 

For one especial person out of many, [rash one, 

Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 

LXIX. 

Besides, he was of that delighted age 

Which makes all female ages equal — when 

We don't much care with whom we may engage, 
As bold as Daniel in the lions' den, 

So that we can our native sun assuage 

In the next ocean, which may flow just then, 

To make a twilight in — just as Sol's heat is 

Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 

LXX. 

And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine) 
Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 

Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, 
Because each lover look'd a sort of king, 

Made up upon an amatory pattern — 
A royal husband in all save the ring — 

Which being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 

Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 

LXXI. 

And when you add to this, her womanhood 
In its meridian, her blue eyes, or gray — 

(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 
Or better, as the best examples say : 

Napoleon's, Mary's, (Queen of Scotland,) should 
Lend to that color a transcendent ray ; 

And Pallas also sanctions the same hue — 

Too wise to look through optics black or blue) — 

LXXII. 
Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 

Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, 
Her preference of a boy to men much bigger, 

(Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension,) 
Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigor, 

With other extras which we need not mention, — 
All these, or any one of these, explain 
Enough to make a stripling very vain. 

LXXIII. 

And that's enough, for love is vanity, 

Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
Except where 'tis a mere insanity, 

A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
Itself with beauty's frail inanity, 

On which the passion's self seems to depend : 
And hence some heathenish philosophers 
Make love the mainspring of the universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 

Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with dove, 
That good old steamboat which keeps verses mov- 

'Gainst reason— reason ne'er was hand-and-glove [ing 
With rhyme, but always lean'd less to improving 

The sound than sense) — besides all these pretences 

To love, there arc those things which words name 
senses ; 



LXXV. 

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies 
Which make all bodies anxious to get out 

Of their own sandpits to mix with a goddess — 
For such all women are at first, no doubt. 

How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 
That fever which precedes the languid rout 

Of our sensations ! What a curious way 

The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay ! 

LXXVI. 

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
To end or to begin with ; the next grand 

Is that which may be christen'd love canonical, 
Because the clergy take the thing in hand ; 

The third sort to be noted in our chronicre, 
As flourishing in every Christian land, 

Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 

Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise. 

LXXVII. 

Well, we won't analyze — our story must 
Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, 

Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust ; — 
I cannot stop to alter words once written, 

And the two are so mix'd with human dust, 
That he who names one, both perchance may hit oa : 

But in such matters Russia's mighty empress 

Behaved no belter than a common sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The whole court malted into one wide whisper, 
And all lips were applied unto all ears ! 

The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper 
As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 

On one another, and each lovely lisper 

Smil'd as she talk'd the matter o'er ; but tears 

Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 

Of all the standing army who stood by. 

LXXIX. 

All the ambassadors of all the powers 

Inquired, who was this very new young man, 

Who promised to be great in some few hours ? 
Which is full soon, (though life is but a span.) 

Already they beheld the silver showers 
Of roubles rain, as fast as specie can, 

Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 

Of several ribbands and some thousand peasants. 

LXXX. 

Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are ; 

Love, that great opener of the heart and all 
The ways that lead there, be. they near or far : 

Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 
Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war, 

And was not the best wife, unless we call 
Such Clytemnestra ; though perhaps 'tis better 
That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) — 

LX^XXI. 

Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, 
Unlike our own half chaste Elizabeth, 

Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, 
If history, the grand liar, ever saith [shorten, 

The truth; and though grief her old age might 
Because she put a favorite to death, 

Her vile ambiguous method of flirtation, 

And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station 



DON JUAN. 



679 



LXXXII. 

But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 
In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 

Ambassadors began as 'twere to hustle 
Round the young man with their congratulations, 

Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 

It is to speculate on handsome faces, 

Especially when such lead to high places. 

LXXXIII. 

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 

A general object of attention, made 
His answers with a very graceful bow, 

As if born for the ministerial trade. 
Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 

Nature had written " Gentleman." He said 
Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
Flung holering graces o'er him like a banner. 

LXXXIV. 

An order from her majesty consign'd 
Our young lieutenant to the genial care 

Of those in office : all the world look'd kind, 
(As it will look sometimes with the first stare, 

Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind ;) 
As also did Miss Protasoff then there, 

Named, from her mystic office, " l'Eprouveuse," 

A term inexplicable to the Muse. 

LXXXV. 

With her, then, as in humble duty bound, 

Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 

We have just lit on a " heaven-kissing hill," 
So lofty that I feel my brain turn round, 

And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain 
To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 



CANTO X. 



1. 



When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
In that s ight startle from his contemplation- 

'Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground 
For any sage's creed or calculation) — 

A mode of proving that the earth turn round 
In a most natural whirl, call'd " gravitation ; ' 

And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, 

Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple. 



II. 

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
If this be true ; for we must deem the mode 

In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose, 

Through the then unpaved stars, the turnpike road, 

A thing to counterbalance human woes ; 
For, ever since, immortal man hath glow'd 

With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 

Steam engines will conduct him to the moon. 



III. 



And wherefore this exordium ? — Why, just now, 
In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 

My bosom underwent a glorious glow, 
And my internal spirit cut a caper : 

And though so much inferior, as I know, 

To those who, by the dint of glass and vapor, 

Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 

I wish to do as much by poesy. 

IV. 

In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; hut for 
The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 

But at the least I've shunn'd the common shore, 
And, leaving land far out of sight, would skim 

The ocean of eternity : the roar 

Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, 

But still sea- worthy skiff; and she may float 

Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 

V. 

We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom 
Of favoritism, but not yet in the blush; 

And far be it from my Muses to presume 
(For I have more than one Muse at a push J 

To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 
It is enough that fortune found him flush 

Of youth and vigor, beauty, and those things 

Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 

VI. 
But soon they grow again, ana leave their nest. 

" Oh ! " saith the Psalmist, " that I had a dove's 
Pinions, to flee away and be at rest ! " 

And who, that recollects young years and loves, 1 — 
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, 

And palsied fancy, which no longer roves [rather 
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would much 
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather ? 

VII. 

But sighs subside, and tears (even widow's) shrink 
Like Arno, in the summer, to a shallow, 

So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 

Which threatens inundations deep and yellow ! 

Such difference doth a few months make. You'd think 
Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow ; 

No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, 

Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 

VIII. 
But coughs will come when sighs depart — and now 

And then before sighs cease ; for oft the one 
Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 

Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sum 
Of life reach ten o'clock : and while a glow, 

Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 
O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, 
Thousands blaze, love, hope, die — how happy they!— 

IX. 

But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 

We left him in the focus of such glory 
As may be won by favor of the moon, 

Or ladies' fancies — rather transitory 
Perhaps : but who would scorn the month of June, 

Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
Must come ? Much rather should he court the ray, 
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day 



680 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



X. 



Besides, he had some qualities which fix 

Middle-aged ladies even more than young : [chicks 

The former know what's what ; while new fledg'd 
Know little more of love than what is sung 

In rhymes, or dream'd, (for fancy will play tricks,) 
In visions of those skies from whence love sprung. 

Some reckon women by their suns or years — 

I rather think the moon should date the dears. 

XL 

And why ? because she's changeable and chaste. 

I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, 

May choose to tax me with ; which is not fair, 
Nor flattering to "their temper or their taste," 

As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air : 
However, I forgive him, and I trust 
He will forgive himself; — if not, I must. 

XII. 

Old enemies who have become new friends 
Should so continue — 'tis a point of honor ; 

And I know nothing which could make amends 
For a return to hatred : I would shun her 

Like garlic, howsoever she extends 
Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 

Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 

Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 

XIII. 
This were the worst desertion : renegadoes, 

Even shuffling Southey — that incarnate lie — 
AVould scarcely join again the "reformadoes," 1 

"Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty : 
And honest men, from Iceland to Barbadoes, 

Whether in Caledon or Italy, 
Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize, 
To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 

XIV. 

The lawyer and the critic but behold 
The baser sides of literature and life, 

A.nd nought remains unseen, but much untold, 
By those who scour those double vales of strife. 

While common men grow ignorantly old, 
The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, 

Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 

And with it all the process of digestion. 

\ 

XV. 

A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, 
And that's the reason he himself s so dirty ; 

The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
Than can be feid by altering his shirt ; 2 he 

Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper — 
At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, 

In all their habits : not so you, I own ; 

As Ca;sar wore his robe you wear your gown. 

XVI. 

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, 
Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe, 

(As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
Tc m\ke such puppets of us things below,) 

Are over: Here's a health to " Auld Lang Syne ! " 
I do not know you, and may never know 

Your face, — but you have acted on the whole 

Most nobly, and I own it from my soul. 



XVII. 

And when I use the phrase of " Auld Lang Syne !" 
'Tis not address'd to you — the more's the pity 

For me, for I would rather take my wine [city ; 

With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud 

But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy's whine, 
And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, 

But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 

A whole one, and my heart flies to my head — 

XVIII. 

As " Auld Lang Syne " brings Scotland one and all, 
Scotch plaid, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and 
clear streams, 

The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's Brig's black wall,* 
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 

Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, 
Like Banquo's offspring — floating past me seems 

My childhood in this childishness of mine : 

I care not — 'tis a glimpse of " Auld Lang Syne." 

XIX. 

And though, as you remember, in a fit 

Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly. 

I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 
Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 

Yet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit — 

They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early : 

I " scotch'd, not kill'd," the Scotchman in my blood, 

And love the land of "mountain and of flood." 

XX. 

Don Juan, who was real or ideal, — 

For both are much the same, since what men thi)ik 
Exists when the once thinkers are less real, 

Than what they thought, for mind can never sink. 
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal; 

And yet 'tis very puzzling on the brink 
Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, 
And know no more of what is here than there : — 

XXI. 
Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — 

How we won't mention, ichy we need not say : 
Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 

Of any slight temptation in their way ; 
But his just now were spread as is a cushion 

Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honor : gay 
Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 
Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 

XXII. 
The favor of the empress was agreeable ; 

And though the duty wax'd a little hard, 
Young people at his time of life should be able 

To come oft' handsomely in that regard. 
He was now growing up like a green tree, able 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

XXIII. 

About this time, as might have been anticipated, 
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 

Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated ; 
Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 

On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated 
With all kinds of incorrigible samples 

Of frail humanity — must make us selfish, 
'And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. 



DON JUAN. 



681 



XXIV. 
This we pass over. We will also pass 

The usual progress of intrigues between 
Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 

A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 
But one who is not so youthful as she was 

In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 
Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, 
And wrinkles (the d d democrats) won't flatter. 

XXV. 

And Death, the sovereigns' sovereign, though the 
Gracchus of all mortality, who levels [great 

With his Agrarian laws, the high estate 
Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, 

To one small grass-grown patch (which must await 
Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils 

Who never had a foot of land till now, — 

Death's a reformer, all men must allow. 

XXVI. 

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry [glitter, 
Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and 

In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
Which (though I hate to say a thing that's bitter) 

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, 
Through all the " purple and fine linen,", fitter 

For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 

And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 

XXVII 

And this same state we won't describe : we could 
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 

But getting nigh grim Dante's " obscure wood," 
That horrid equinox, that hateful section 

Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 
Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspec- 

Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier [tion 

Of age, and, looking back to youth, give one tear ; — 

XXVIII. 
I won't describe — that is, if I can help 

Description : and I won't reflect — that is, 
If I can stave off thought, which — as a whelp 

Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyss 
Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 

Holds by the 1 rock ; or as a lover's kiss 
Drains its first draught of lips : but, as I said, 
I zcon't philosophize, and will be read. 

XXIX. 

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, 
A thing which happens rarely ; this he owed 

Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valor ; much also to the blood he show'd, 

Like a racehorse ; much to each dress he sported, 
Which set the beauty ofF in which he glow'd, 

As purple clouds befringe the sun ; but most 

He owed to an old woman and his post. 

XXX. 

He wrote to Spain : — and all his near relati6ns, 
Perceiving he was in a handsome way 

Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
For cousins also, answer'd the same day. 

Several prepared themselves for emigrations ; 
And, eating ices, were o'erheard to say, 

lhat with the addition of a slight pelisse, 

Madrid's and'Moscow's climes were of a piece. 
86 



XXXI. 

His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too, 
That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, 

Where his assets were waxing rather few, [cnor, 
He had brought his spending to a handsome an- 

Replied, " that she was glad to see him through 
Those pleasure after which wild youth will hanker ; 

As the sole sign of man's being in his senses 

Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 

XXXII. 

" She also recommended him to God, 
And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, 

Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd 
In Catholic eyes ; but told him too to smother 

Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad : 
Inform'd him that he had a little brother 

Born m a second wedlock ; and above 

All, praised the empress's maternal love. 

XXXIII. 
" She could not too much give her approbation 

Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men 
Whose age, and, what was better still, whose nation 

And climate, stopp'd all scandal, (now and then :) 
At home it might have given her some vexation ; 

But where thermometers sunk down to ten, 
Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 
Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river." 

XXXIV. 

Oh, for a forty-parson power* to chant 
Thy praise, hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 

Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, 
Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim ! 

Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 

Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 

Drew quiet consolation through its hint, 

When she no more could read the pious print. 

XXXV. 

She was no hypocrite, at least, poor soul ! 

But went to heaven in as sincere a way 
As any body on the elected roll, 

Which portions out upon the judgment day 
Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, 

Such as the Conqueror William did repay 
His knights with, lotting others' properties- 
Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 

XXXVI. 

1 can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
Erneis, Radulphus — eight-and-forty manors 

(If that my memory doth not greatly err) 
Were their reward for following Billy's banners ; 

And, though I can't help thinking 'twas scarce fair 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes, b like tanners. 

Yet as they founded churches with the produce, 

You'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 

XXXVII. 

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
He felt like other plants — call'd sensitive, 

Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from 
Save such as Southey can afford to give, [rhymes, 

Perhaps he long'd, in bitter frosts, for climes 
In which the Neva's ice would cease to live 

Before May-day : perhaps, despite his duty, 

In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty : 



682 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXVIII. 

Perhaps, — but, sans perhaps, we need not seek 
For causes young or old : the canker-worm 

"Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, 
As well as further drain the wither' d form : 

Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
His bills i-i, and, however we may storm, 

They must te paid : though six days smoothly run, 

The seventh w>ill bring blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 

(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 

Which augur'd of the dead, however quiclc 
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 

At which the whole court was extremely troubled, 

The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 

XL. 
Low were the whispers, manifold the rumors : 

Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin ; 
Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumors, 

Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 
Some said 'twas a concoction of the humors, 

Which with the blood too readily will claim kin ; 
Others again were ready to maintain, 
" 'Twas only the fatigue of last campaign." 
• 

XLI. 
"But here is one prescription out of many : 

" Soda? sulphat. 3vj. 3 fs. Mannas optim. 
Aq. fervent, f. oifs. 3 1 j . tinct. Senna? [him) 

Haustus " (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd 
" R. Pulv. Com. gr. iij. Ipecacuanha? " 

(With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em.) 
"Bolus Potassa? Sulphuret. sumendus, 
Et haustus ter in die capicndus." 

XLII. 

This is the way physicians mend or end us, 
Secundum artem : but although we sneer 

In health — when ill, we call them to attend us, 
Without the least propensity to jeer : 

While that " hiatus maxime deflendus," 
To be fill'd up by spade or mattock, 's near, 

Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 

We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. 

4 

XLIII. 

Juan demurr'd at this first notice to [tion, 

Quit ; and, though death had threaten'd an ejec- 

His youth and constitution bore him through, 
And sent the doctors in a new direction. 

But still his state was delicate : the hue 

Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection 

Along his wasted check, and seem'd to gravel 

The faculty — who said that he must travel. 

XLIV. 

The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 
Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 

Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, 
Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 

But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim, 

And drooping like an eagle's with clipp'd pinion, 

She then resolved to send him on a mission, 

But in a style becoming his condition. 



XLV. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation 
Between the British cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain'd wkh all the due prevarication [on ; 
With which great states such things are apt to push 

Something about the Baltic's navigation, 
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
Which Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 

XLVI. 

So Catherine, who had a handsome way 

Of fitting out her favorites, conferr'd 
This secret charge on Juan, to display 

At once her royal splendor, and reward 
His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 

Received instructions how to play his card, 
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honors, 
Which show'd what great discernment was the 
donor's. 

XLVII. 
But she was lucky, and luck's all. Your queens 

Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 
Which puzzles us to know what fortune means. 

But to continue : though her years were waning, 
Her climacteric teased her like her teens ; 

And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, 
So much did Juan's setting off distress her, 
She could not find at first a fit successor. 

XLVIII. 

But time, the comforter, will come at last; 

And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number 
Of candidates requesting to be placed, 

Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber : 
Not that she meant to fix again in haste, 

Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 
But, always choosing with deliberation, 
Kept the place open for their emulation. 

XLIX. 

While this high post of honor's in abeyance, 
For one or two days, reader, we request 

You'll mount with our young hero the conveyance 
Which wafted him from Petersburgh ; the best 

Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
The fair Czarina's autocratic crest* 

(When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris,) 

Was given to her favorite, 6 and now bore his. , 



A bull-dog, and a bull-finch, and an ermine, 
All private favorites of Don Juan ; for 

(Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
He had a kind of inclination, or 

Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin—* 
Live animals : — an old maid of threescore 

For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 

Although he was not old, nor even a maid. 

LI. 

The animals aforesaid occupied 

Their station : there were valets, secretaries, 
In other vehicles ; but at his side 

Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
He made 'gainst Cossack sabres, in the wide 

Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varie* 
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. 



DON JUAN. 



683 



LII. 



Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile, 
And with that gentle, serious character, 

As rare in living beings as a fossil [Cuvier! " 

Man, 'mid thy mould}' mammoths, " grand 

111 fitted was her ignorance to jostle 
With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err: 

But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 

Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. 

LIII. 

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 

I cannot tell exactly what it was ; 

lie was not yet quite old enough to prove 

Parental feelings, and the other class, 
Call'd brotherly affection, could not move 

His bosom — for he never had a sister : 

Ah ! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her ! 

LIV. 
And still less was it sensual ; for besides 

That he was not an ancient debauchee, 
(Who like sour fruit to stir their veins' salt tides, 

As acids rouse a dormant alkali,) 
Although {'twill happen as our planet guides) 

His youth was not the chastest that might be, 
There was the purest Platonism at bottom 
Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 

LV. 

Just now there was no peril of temptation ; 

He loved the infant orphan he had saved, 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 

His pride too felt that she was not enslaved, 
Owing to him; — as also her salvation, [paved. 

Through his means and the church's, might be 
But one thing's odd, which here must be inserted— ■- 
The little Turk refused to be converted. 

LVI. 

'Twas strange enough she should retain the im- 
pression [slaughter ; 

Through such a scene of change, and dread, and 
But, though three bishops told her the transgression, 

She show'd a great dislike to holy water : 
She also had no^passion for confession ; 

Perhaps she had nothing to confess ; — no matter 
Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it — 
She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 

LVII. 
In fact, the only Christian she could bear 

Was Juan, whom she seem'd to have selected 
In place of what her home and friends once were. 

He naturally loved what he protected ; 
And thus they form'd ajrather curious pair : 

A guardian green in years, a ward connected 
In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender ; 
And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. 

LVIII. 
They journey'd on through Poland and through 
Warsaw, 
Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw 
Which gave her dukes 7 the graceless name of 
"Biron." [saw, 

'Tis the same landscape which the modern Mars 
Who marched to Moscow, led by fame, the syren ! 
To lose, by one month's frost, some twenty years 
Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 



LIX. 



Let not this seem an anti-climax : — " Oh ! [clay— 
My guard ! my old guard ! " exclaim'd that god of 

Think of the Thunderer's falling down below 
Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 

Alas ! that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 
But, should we wish to warm us on our way 

Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 

Might scatter fire through ice, like Hccla's flame. 

LX. 
From Poland they came on through Prussia proper, 

And Konigsbcrg the capital, whose vaunt, 
Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 

Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 
Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 

About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 
To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 
Have princes who spur more than their postillions. 

LXI. 

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 
Until he reached the castellated Rhine : — 

Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
All phantasies, not even excepting mine: 

A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, 
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 

Between the present and past worlds, and hover 

Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 

LXII. 
But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 

Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre 
Of the goi^i feudal times for ever gone, 

On which I have not time just now to lecture. 
From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, 

A city which presents to the inspector 
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 
The greatest number flesh hath ever known.'' 

LXIII. 
From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluy* 

That water land of Dutchmen and of ditches, 
Where Juniper expresses its best juice — 

The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 
Senates and sages have condemn'd its use — 

But to deny the mob a cordial which is 
Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, 
Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 

LXIV. 

Here he embark'd, and, with a flowing sail, 
Went bounding for the island of the free, 

Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale 
High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea 

And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale : 
But Juan, season'd, as he well might be 

By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs 

Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs 

LXV. 

At length they rose, like a white wall along 
The blue sea's border ; and Don Juan felt — 

What even young strangers feel a little strong 
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — 

A kind of pride that he should be among 

Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt 

Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole. 

And made the very billows pay them toll. 



684 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXVI. 
I've no great cause to love that spot of earth, 

Which holds what might have been the noblest 
But though I owe it little but my birth, [nation ; 

I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 
For its decaying fame and former worth. 

Seven years (the usual term of transportation) 
Of absence lay one's old resentments level, 
When a man's country's going to the devil. 

LXVII. 
Alas ! could she but fully, truly know 

How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd; 
How eager all the earth is for the blow 

Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword ; 
How all the nations deem her their worst foe, 

That worse than worst of foes, the once adored 
False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, 
And now would chain them, to the very mind : — 

LXYIII. 
Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 

Who is but first of slaves ? The nations are 
In prison, — but the jailer, what is he ? 

No less a victim to the bolt and bai- 
ls the poor privilege to turn the key 

T^pon the captive, freedom ? He's as far 
From the enjoyment of the earth and air 
Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties, 
Thy cliffs, dear Dover ! harbor, and hotel ; 

Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties ; 
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 

Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
To those^who upon land or water dwell ; 

And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, 

Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 

LXX. 

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, 
And rich in roubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, 

Who did not limit much his bills per week, 
Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it — 

(His maggior duomo, a smart subtle Greek, 
Refore him summ'd the awful scroll and read it :) 

But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 

Is free, the respiration's worth the money. 

LXXI. 

On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! 

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash 
through puddle ; 
Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry ! 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
Along the road, as if they went to bury 

Their fare ; and also pause, besides, to fuddle 
With " schnapps " — sad dogs ! ! whom " Hundsfot " 

or " Ferflucter " 
Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 

LXXII. 

Now, there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 
Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry, 

As going at full speed — no matter where its 
Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry, 

&.nd merely for the sake of its own merits : 
For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 

The greater is the pleasure in arriving 

At the great end of travel — which is driving. 



LXXIII. 

They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral ; 

Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone, 
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, 

In the same quaint, uninterested tone : 
There's glory again for you, gentle reader ! all 

Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 
Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias, 
Which form that bitter draught, the human species. 

LXXIV. 

The effect on Juan was of course sublime : 
He breathed a thousand Cressays, as he saw 

That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time. 
Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, 

Who died in the then great attempt to climb 
O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law, 

Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, 

And asked why such a structure had been raised : 

LXXV. 

And being told it was " God's house," she said 
He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 

He suffer'd infidels in his homestead, 
The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 

His holy temples in the lands which bred 
The true believers ; — and her infant brow 

Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 

A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 

LXXYI. 

On, on ! through meadows, managed like a garden, 
A paradise of hops and high production ; 

For, after years of travel by a bard in 

Countries of greater heat but lesser suction, 

A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 
The absence of that more sublime construction 

Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, 

Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices 

LXXVII. 

And when I think upon a pot of beer — 

But I won't weep ! — and so, drive on, postillions! 

As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
Juan admired these highways of §ree millions ; 

A country in all senses the most dear 

To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, 

Who "kick against the pricks" just at this juncture 

And for their pains get only a fresh puncture 

LXXVIII 

What a delightful thing's a turnpike road ! 

So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 

Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
With the York mail ; — but, onward as we roll, 
" Surgit amari aliquid" — the toll ! 

LXXIX. 

Alas ! how deeply painful is all payment ! [purses, 
Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's 

As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 
Such is the shortest way to general curses. 

They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 
On that sweet ore, which every body nurses ■ — 

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it — 

But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. 



DON JUAN. 



685 



LXXX. 

So said the Florentine : ye monarchs, hearken 
To your instructor. Juan now was borne, 

Just as the day began to wane and darken, 

O'er the high hill which looks with pride or scorn 

Toward the great city : — ye who have a spark in 
Your veins of cockney spirit, smile or mourn, 

According as you take things well or ill — 

Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill ! 

LXXXI. 

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 
A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 

Which well beseem'd the " Devil's drawing-room," 
As some have qualified that wondrous place. 

But Juan felt, though not approaching home, 
As one who, though he were not of the race, 

Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, 

Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other. 

LXXXII. 

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 

In sight, then lost amid the forestry 
Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 

On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; 
A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
On a fool's head — and there is London town ! 

LXXXIII. 

But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapor 

Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 
The wealth of worlds, (a wealth of tax and paper ;) 

The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 

Were nothing but the natural atmosphere — 

Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 



LXXXVII. 

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, 
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 

To set up vain pretences of being great, 
'Tis not so to be good ; and be it stated, 

The worthiest kings have ever loved least state ; 
And tell them— but you won't, and 1 have prated 

Just now enough ; but by and by I'll prattle 

Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle. 



CANTO XI. 



LXXXIV. 

He paused — and so will I — as doth a crew 
Before they give their broadside. By and by, 

My gentle countrymen, we will renew 

Our old acquaintance, and at least I'll try 

To tell you truths you will not take as true, 
Because they are so, — a male Mrs. Fry, 

With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, 

And brush a web or two from off the walls. 

LXXXV. 

Oh, Mrs. Fry ! why go to Newgate ? Why 

Preach to poor rogues ? And wherefore not begin 

With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try 
Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 

To mend the people's an absurdity, 
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, 

Unless you make their betters better : — Fie ! 

I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach them the decencies of good threescore : 
Cure them of tours, Hussar and Highland dresses : 

Tell them that youth once gone returns no more ; 
That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses : 

Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, 
Too dull even for the dullest of excesses — 

The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, 

A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all, — 



When Bishop Berkley said " there was no matter," 
And proved it — 'twas no matter what he said : 

They say his system itis in vain to batter, 
Too subtle for the airiest human head ; 

And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter, 
Gladly, all matters down to stone or lead, 

Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, 

And wear my head, denying that I wear it. 

II. 

What a sublime discovery 'twas, to make the 

Universe universal egotism ! 
That all's ideal — all ourselves f I'll stake the 

World (be it what you will) that that's no schism. 
Oh, doubt ! — if thou be'st doubt, for which some take 

But which I doubt extremely — thou sole prism [thee, 
Of the truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit ! 
Heaven's brandy — though our brain can hardly bear 
it. 

III. 
For, ever and anon comes indigestion, 

(Not the most " dainty Ariel,") and perplexes 
Our soarings with another sort of question : 

And that which, after all, my spirit vexes 
Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, 

Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, 
Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 
The world, which at the worst's a glorious blunder — 

IV. 

If it be chance ; or if it be according 

To the old text, still better ! lest it should 

Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gainst the wording, 
As several people think such hazards rude: 

They're right ; our days are too brief for affording 
Space to dispute what no one ever could 

Decide, and every body one day will 

Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 



And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
Discussions, which is neither here and there : 

If I agree that what is, is — then this I call 
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. 

The truth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical, 
I don't know what the reason is — the air 

Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 

Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 



S86 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VI. 



The first attack at once proved the divinity, 
(But that I never doubted, nor the devil;) 

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity ; 
The third, the usual origin of evil; 

The fourth at once established the whole Trinity 
On so incontrovertible a level, 

That I devoutly wished the three were four, 

On purpose to believe so much the more. 

VII. 

To our thame : — The man who has stood on the 
And look'd down over Attica ; or he [Acropolis 

Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, 
Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 

In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis, 
Or sat amid the bricks of Nineveh, 

May not think much of London's first appearance — 

But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence ? 

VIII. 
Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill — 

Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 
Which looks along that vale of good and ill 

Where London streets ferment in full activity, 
While every thing around was calm and still, [he 

Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot 
Heard — and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum 
Of cities, that boil over with their scum : — 

IX. 

I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 

Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, 

And, lost in wonder of so great a nation, 

Gave way to't, since he could not overcome it. 

"And here," he cried, "isFreedom's chosen station ; 
Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 

Racks, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 

Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 

X. 

" Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here people pay 
But what they please ; and if that things be dear, 

'Tis only that they love to throw away 
Their cash, to show how much they have a year. 

Here laws are all inviolate ; none lay 

Traps for the traveller, every^ highway's clear : 

Here " he was interrupted by a knife, 

With " Damn yotir eyes ! your money or your life !" 

XL 
These freeborn sounds pioceeded from four pads, 

In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 
Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads, 

Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, 
In which the heedless gentleman who gads 

Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, 
May find himself, within that isle of riches, 
Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 

XII. 
Juan, who did not understand a word 

Of English, save their shiboleth, " Goddamn ! " 
And even that he had so rarely heard, 

He sometimes thought 'twas only their " salam," 
Or "God be with you," — and 'tis not absurd 

To think so ; for, half English as I am, 
(To my misfortune,) never can I say 
I heard them wish " God with you," save that way : 



XIII. 

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, 

And, being somewhat choleric and sudden, 
Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture, 

And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, 

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in, 
Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
" Oh Jack ! I'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody French- 
man ! " 

XIV. 
On which Jack and his train set off at speed, 

And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, 
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed, 

And offering, as usual, late assistance. 
Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 

As if his veins would pour out his existence, 
Stood calling out for bandages and lint, 
And wish'd he'd been less hasty with his flint. 

XV. 

" Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's wont 
To welcome foreigners in this way : now 

I recollect some innkeepers who don't 
Differ, except in robbing with a bow, 

In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
But what is to be done ? I can't allow 

The fellow to lie groaning on the road : 

So take him up ; I'll help you with the load." 

XVI. 

But, ere they could perform this pious duty, 

The dying man cried, " Hold ! I've got my gruel! 

Oh ! for a glass of max ' We've miss'd our booty ; 
Let me die where I am . " And, as the fuel 

Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty 
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew 

His breath, he from his swelling throat untied [ill 

A kerchief, crying, " Give Sal that ! " — and died. 

XVII 

The cravat, stain'd with bloody drops, fell down 
Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 

Exactly why it was before him thrown, • 

Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. 

Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 
A thorough varmint, and a real swell, 

Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled — 

His pockets first, and then his body riddled. 

XVIII. 

Don Juan, having done the best he could 

In all the circumstances of the case, 
As soon as "crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued 

His travels to the capital apace ; 
Esteeming it a little hard he should 

In twelve hours' time, a very little space, 
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native 
In self-defence : this made him meditative. 

XIX. 

He from the world had cut off a great man, 
Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, 
Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle ? 

Who queer a flat ? Who (spite of Bow-street's ban) 
On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle ? 

Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal, (his blowing,) 

So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing ? l 



DON JUAN. 



S87 



XX. 



But Tom's no more — and so no more of Tom. 

Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing, 'tis 
Not long before the most of them go home. 

Hail ! Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
Through Kennington and all the other " tons," 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; 

XXI. 

Ihn "?gh groves, so call'd as being void of trees, 
(Like lucus from no light;) through prospects 
named 

Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, 
Nor much to climb ; through little boxes framed 

Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 
AVith " To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd ; 

Through " rows " most modestly call'd " Paradise," 

Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice ; — 

XXII. 

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a 
Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion; [whirl 

Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl," 
There mails fast flying off like a delusion ; 

There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 
In windows ; here the lamp-lighter's infusion 

Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass, — 

(For in those days we had not got to gas:) 

XXIII. 

Through this, and much, and more, is the approach 

Of travellers to mighty Babylon: 
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, 

With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
I could say more, but do not choose to encroach 

Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun 
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge. 

XXIV. 

That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis — 
Who vindicates a moment too his stream — [mes" 

Though hardly heard through multifarious "dam'- 
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam 

The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where 
A spectral resident — whose pallid beam [Fame is 

In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 

Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 

XXY. 

The Druids' groves are gone — so much the better ; 

Stone-Henge is not — but what the devil is it ? — 
But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 

That madmen may not bite you on a visit ; 
The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor ; 

The mansion-house, too, (though some people quiz 
To me appears a stiff yet grand erection : [it,) 

But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection. 

XXVI. 

The line of lights, too, up to Charing-Cross, 
Pail-Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation, 

Like gold as in comparison to dross, 

Match'd with the continent's illumination, 

Whose cities night by no means deigns to gloss : 
The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, 

And when they grew so — on their new-found lantern, 

Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. 



XXVII. 

A row of gentleman along the streets 
Suspended, may illuminate mankind, 

As also bonfires made ot country-seats ; 
But the old way is best for the purblind : 

The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 
A sort of ignis-fatuus to the mind, 

Which, though 'tis certain to perplex and frighten, 

Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 

t XXVIII. 
But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes 

Could recommence to hunt his honest man, 
And found him not amid the various progenies 

Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
'Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 

Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can, 
I've done to find the same throughout life's journey, 
But see the world is only one attorney. 

XXIX. 
Over the stones still rattling, up Pail-Mall, 

Through crowds and carriages — but waxing thinner 
As thunder'd knockers broke the long-seal'd spell 

Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 
Admitted a small party as night fell, — 

Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, 
Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 
St. James's Palace and St. James's "Hells." 2 

XXX. 

They reach'd the hotel : forth stream'd from the front 
A tide of well-clad waiters, and around [door 

The mob stood, and as usual several score 
Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 

In decent London when the daylight's o'er; 
Commodious but immoral, they are found 

Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage : 

But Juan now is stepping from his carriage, 

XXXI. 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels, 
Especially for foreigners— and mostly 

For those whom favor or whom fortune swells, 
And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 

There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells, 
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie,) 

Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 

And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 

XXXII. 

Juan, whose was a delicate commission, 
Private, though publicly important, bore 

No title to point out with due precision 
The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 

'Twas merely known that on a secret mission 
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, 

Young, handsome, and accomplished, who was said' 

(In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head. 

XXXIII. 

Some rumor also of some strange adventures 
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves ; 

And as romantic heads are pretty painters, 
And above all, an English woman's roves 

Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves, 

He found himself extremely in the fashion, 

Which serves our thinking people for a passion. 



688 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



m XXXIV. 

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 

The contrary ; but then 'tis in the head ; 
Yet, as the consequences are as bright 

As if they acted with the heart instead, 
What after all can signify the site 

Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 
In safety to the place for which you start, 
What matters if the road be head or heart ? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place, 
To proper placemen, every Russ credential ; 

And was received with all the due grimace, 
By those who govern in the mood potential, 

Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, 
Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) 

That they as easily might do the youngster, 

As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 

XXXVI. 

They err'd, as aged men will do ; but by 
And by we'll talk of that; and if we don't, 

'Twill be because our notion is not high 
Of politicians and their double front, 

Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 
Now what I love in women is, they w T on't 

Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 

So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 

XXXVII. 

And, after all, what is a lie ? 'Tis but 
The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 

Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
A fact without some leaven of a lie. 

The very shadow of true truth would shut 
Up annals, revelations, poesy, 

And prophecy — except it should be dated 

Some years before the incidents related. 

XXXVIII 
Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 

Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy ? 
She rings the world's " Te Deum," and her brow 

Blushes for those who will not : — but to sigh 
Is idle ; let us, like most others, bow, 

Kiss hands, feet — any part of Majesty, 
After the good example of " Green Erin," 
Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wear- 
ing. 

XXXIX. 

Don Juan was presented, and his dress 
And mien excited general admiration — 

I don't know which was more admired or less : 
One monstrous diamond drew much observation, 

Which Catherine, in a moment of " ivresse," 
(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation,) 

Bestow'd upon him as the public learn'd ; 

And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 

XL. 

Besides the ministers and underlings, 
Who must be courteous to the accredited 

Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 
Until their royal riddle's fully read, 

The very clerks — those somewhat dirty springs 
Of office, or the house of office, fed 

By fou 1 corruption into streams — even they 

Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay : 



XLI. 



And insolence no doubt is what they are 
Employ'd for, since it is their daily labor, 

In the dear offices of peace or war ; [neighbor, 

And should you doubt, pray ask of your next 

When for a passport, or some other bar 
To freedom, he applied, (a grief and a bore,) 

If he found not this spawn of tax -born riches, 

Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b s. 

XLII. 

But Juan was received with much " empressment ; 
These phrases of refinement I must borrow [man, 

From our next neighbor's land, where, like a chess- 
There is a move set down for joy or sorrow, 

Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man, 
In islands, is, it seems, downright and thorough, 

More than on continents — as if the sea 

(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. 

XLIII. 

And yet the British " dam'me " 's rather Attic : 
Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 

And turn on things which no aristocratic [anent 3 
Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't 

This subject quote, as it would be schismatic 

In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't : — 

But "dam'me" 's quite ethereal, though too daring — 

Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 

XLIV. 

For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 

For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam — 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
You leave behind, the next of much you come 

To meet. However, 'tis no time to chat 
On general topics : poems must confine 
Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 

XLV. 

In the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
Mcaneth the west or worst end of a city, 

And about twice two thousand people bred 
By no means to be very wise or witty, 

But to sit up while others lie in bed, 

And look down on the universe with pity — 

Juan, as an inveterate patrician, 

Was well received by persons of condition. 

XLVI. 

He was a bachelor, which is a matter 
Of import both to virgin and to bride, 

The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter ; 

And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 

'Tis also of some moment to the latter : 
A rib's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, 

Requires decorum, and is apt to double 

The horrid sin — and, what's still worse, the trouble. 

XLVII. 

But Juan was a bachelor — of arts. [had 

And parts, and hearts: he danced and sung, and 

An air as sentimental as Mozart's 

Softest of melodies ; and could be sad 

Or cheerful, without any "flaws or starts," 
Just at the proper time ; and, though a lad, 

Had seen the world — which is a curious sight, 

And very much unlike what people write. 



DON JUAN. 



689 



XLVIII. 
Faiv virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames 

Bloom'd also in less transitory hues ; 
For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 

The painting and the painted ; youth, ceruse, 
Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims, 

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 
Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 

The milliners who furnish " drapery misses "* 
Throughout the season, upon speculation 

Of payment ere the honeymoon's last kisses 
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 

Thought such an opportunity as this is, 
Of a rich foreigner's initiation, * 

Not to be overlook'd, and gave such credit, 

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid 
it. 

L. 

The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, 
And with the pages of the last review 

Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, 
Advanced in all their azure's highest hue : 

They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its 
Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two ; 

And which was softest, Russian or Castilian ? 

And whether in his travels he saw Ilion ? 

LI. 

Juan, who was a little superficial, 

And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 

Examined by this learned and especial 

Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer : 

His duties warlike, loving, or official, 
His steady application as a dancer, 

Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 

Which now he found was blue instead of green. 

LII. 

However, he replied at hazard, with 

A modest confidence and calm assurance, 

"Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, 

And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 

That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith, 

(Who at sixteen, translated "Hercules Furens " 

Into as furious English,) with her best look, 

Set down his sayings in her common-place book. 

Lin. 

Juan knew several languages — as well 

He might — and brought them up with skill, in time 
To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, 

Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 
There wanted but this requisite to swell 

His qualities (with them) into sublime : 
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Mscvia Mannish, 
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 

LIV. 
However he did pretty well, and was 

Admitted as an aspirant to all 
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass, 

At great assemblies or in parties small, 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass, - 

That being about their average numeral ; 
Also the eighty " greatest living poets," 
As every paltry magazine can show its. 
87 



LV. 



In twice five years the " greatest living poet," 
Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 

Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, 
Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 

Even I — albeit I'm sure 1 did not know it, 
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king — 

Was reckon'd. a considerable time, 

The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

LVI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 

My Leipsic, and my Mont-Saint-Jean seems Cain ; 

" La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at zero, 
Now that the lion's fall'n, may rise again: 

But I will fall at lea^t as fell my hero ; 
Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 

Or to some lonely isle of jailers go, 

With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 

LVIL 

Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbell 
Before and after ; but now, grown more holy, 

The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; 

And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble 

Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, 

Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, 

A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts ! 

LVIII. 

Still he excels that artificial hard 

Laborer in the same vineyard, though the viae 
Yields him but vinegar for his reward, — 

That neutralized dull Dorus of the Nine ; 
That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard ; 

That ox of verse, who ploughs for every line : — 
Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least 
The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest. — 

LIX. 

Then there's my gentle Euphues, who, they say, 
Sets up for being a sort of moral me; 

He'll find it rather difficult some day 
To turn out both, or either, it may be. 

Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway, 
And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; 

And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian, "Savage Landor," 

Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 

LX. 

John Keats — who was kill'd off by one critique, 
Just as he really promised something great, 

If not intelligible, without Greek 

Contrived to talk about the gods of late 

Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
Poor fellow ! his was an untoward fate : 

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 5 

Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. 

LXI. 

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
To that which none will gain — or none will know 

The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time renders 
His last award, will have the long grass grow 

Above his burnt-out brain and sapless cinders. 
If I might augur, I should rate but low 

Their chances ; they're too numerous, like the thirt " 

Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty 



690 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXII. 

This is the literary lower empire, 

Where the Preetorian bands take up the matter ; — 
A "dreadful trade," like his who "gathers sam- 

The insolent soldiery to sooth and flatter, [phire," 
With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire. 

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
I'd try conclusions with those janizaries, 
And show them tohat an intellectual war is. 

LXIII. 
I think I know a trick or two, would turn 

Their flanks ; — but it is hardly worth my while 
With such small gear to give myself concern : 

Indeed I've not the necessary bile ; 
My natural temper's really aught but stern, 

And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile ; 
And then she drops a brief and modest curtsy, 
And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 

LXFv'. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 

Among live poets and blue ladies, pass'd 

With some small profit through that field so sterile. 
Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 

Left it before he had been treated very ill ; 

And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd 

Among the higher spirits of the day, 

The sun's true son — no vapor, but a ray. 

LXV. 

His morns he pass'd in business — which, dissected, 
"Was like all business, a laborious nothing, 

That leads to lassitude, the most infected 
And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, 

And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, 
And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 

All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 

Which grows no better, though 'tis time it should. 

LXVI. 

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, 
Lounging, and boxing ; and the twilight hour 

In riding round those vegetable puncheons, [flower 
Call'd " Parks," where there is neither fruit nor 

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munching? ; 
But, after all, it is the only " bower " 

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 

Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 

LXVII. 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world ! 

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, 

then roar [hurl'd 

Through street and square fast-flashing chariots, 

Like harness'd meteors ! then along the floor 
Chalk mimics painting ; then festoons are twirl'd ; 

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
Which opens to the thousand happy few 
An earthly paradise of " Or Molu." 

LXVIII. 
There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 

With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the 
waltz— 
The only dance which teaches girls to think — 

Makes one in love even with its very faults. 
Saloon, room, hall o'erflow beyond their brink, 

And long the latest of arrivals halts, 
'Mid royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb, 
And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 



LXIX. 

Thrice happy he who, after a survey 

Of the good company, can win a corner, 

A door that's in, or boudoir out of the way, 

Where he may fix himself, like small " Jack 

And let the Babel round run as it may, [Horner," 
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 

Or an approver, or a mere spectator, 

Yawning a little as the night grows later. 

LXX. 

But this won't do, save by and by ; and he 
Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, 

Must steer with care through all that glittering sea 
Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where 

He deems it is his proper place to be ; 
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, 

Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill,* 

Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille. 

LXXI. 

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
Upon an heiress or his neighbor's bride, 

Let him take care that that which he pursues 
Is not at once too palpably descried. 

Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 

His haste : impatience is a blundering guide, 

Amongst a people famous for reflection, 

Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXII. 

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper ; 

Or, if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle. — 
Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always upper 

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, 
Which sits forever upon memory's crupper, 

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue ! 211 
Can tender souls relate the rise aud fall 
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 

LXXIII. 

But these precautionary hints can touch 
Only the common run, who must pursue, 

And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much 
Or little overturns ; and not the few 

Or many (for the number's sometimes such) 
Whom a good mien, especially if new, 

Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, 

Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since. 

LXXIV. 

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, 

Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom, 
Before he can escape from so much danger 

As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 
Talk about poetry, and " rack and manger," 

And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ; — 

I wish they knew the life of a young noble. 

LXXV. 

They are young, but know not youth — it is antici- 
pated ; 

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sous ; 
Their vigor in a thousand arms is dissipated ; [Jew ; 

Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to, a 
Both senates see their nightly votes participated 

Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew ; 
And, having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and 
The family vault receives another lord. [whored 



DON JUAN. 

LXXVI. 

"Where is the -world?" cries Young, at eighty — 
"Where 

The world in which a man was born ? " Alas ! 
Where is the world of eight years past ? ' Twas there — 

I look for it — 'tis gone, a globe of glass ! 
Crack'dj shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere 

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 

LXXVII. 

Where is Napoleon the Grand ? God knows : 
Where little Castlereagh ? The devil can tell : 

Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 
Who bound the bar or senate in their spell ? 

Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes ? 
And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved 
well ? 

Where are those martyr'd saints, the Five per Cents ? 

And where — oh, where the devil are, the Rents ? 

LXXVIII. 

Where's Brummel ? Dish'd. Where's Long Pole 
Wellesley ? Diddled. [the Third ? 

Where's Whitbread ? Rommily ? Where's George 
Where is his will ? (That's not so soon unriddled.) 

And where is "Fum" the Fourth, our "royal bird ?" 
Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled 

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard: [ing 
"Cawme, caw thee," for six months hath been hatch- 
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 

LXXIX. 

Where is Lord This ? And where my Lady That ? 

The Honorable Mistresses and Misses r 
Some laid aside like an old opera hat, 

Married, unmarried, and remarried : (this is 
An evolution oft perform'd of late.) 

Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses ? 
Where are the Grenvilles ? Turned as usual. Where 
My friends the Whigs ? Exactly where they were. 

LXXX. 
Where the Lady Carolines and Franceses ? 

Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals 
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is, — 

Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels 
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies [nels ? 

Of fashion, — say what streams now fill those chan-. 
Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent, 
Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 

LXXXI. 
Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes, 

Have taken up at length with younger brothers ; 
Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks: [mothers; 

Some maids have been made wives — some merely 
Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks : 

In short, the list of alterations bothers. [is 

There's little strange in this, but something strange 
The unusual quickness of these common changes. 

LXXXII. 
Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 

I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 
The humblest individual under heaven, 

Than might suffice a moderate century through. 
I knew that nought was lasting, but not even 

Change grows too changeable, without being new. 
Nought's permanent among the human race, 
Except the Whigs not getting into place. 



691 
LXXXIII. 

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, 
Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke 

(No matter which) turn politician stupider, 
If that can well be, than his wooden look. 

But it is time that I should hoist my " blue Peter," 
And sail for a new theme : I have seen — and shook 

To see it — the king hiss'd, and then caress'd; 

But don't pretend to settle which was best. 

LXXXIV. 

I have seen the landholders without a rap — 
I have seen Joanna Southcote— I have seen 

The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap- 
I have seen that sad affair of the late queen • 

I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap — 
I have seen a Congress doing all that's mean — 

I have seen some nations, like o'erloaded asses, 

Kick off their burdens — meaning the high classes. 

LXXXV. 

I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 

I have seen the funds at war with house and land — 
I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers — 

I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand 

By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquors 

Exchang'd for " thin potations " by John Bull — 

I have seen John half detect himself a fool. 

LXXXVI. 

But " carpe diem," Juan, " carpe, carpe ! " 

To-morrow sees another race as gay 
And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 

" Life's a poor player "—then " play out the play, 
Ye villains ! " and, above all, keep a sharp eye 

Much less on what you do than what you say : 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
Not what you seem, but always what you see. 

LXXXVII. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 

Of what befell our hero, in the land 
Which 'tis the common cry and lie to vaunt as 

A moral country ? But I hold my hand — 
For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 

But 'tis as well at once to understand, 
You are not a moral people, and you know it 
Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 

LXXXVIIL, 

What Juan saw and underwent shall be' 
My topic, with, of course, the due restriction 

Which is required by proper courtesy ; 
And recollect the work is only fiction, 

And that I sing of neither mine nor me. • 
Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, 

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 

This — when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out. 

LXXXIX. 

Whether he married with the third or fourth [ess - 
Offspring of some sage, husband-hunting count 

Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in fortune's matrimonial bounties) 

He took to regularly peopling earth, 
Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is — 

Or whether he was taken in for damages, 

For being too excursive in his homages — 



692 



XC. 



JBYRON'S 
l 



WORKS. 



Is yet within the unread events of time. 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will hack 
Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 

For being as much the subject of attack 
As ever yet was any work sublime, 

By those who love to say that white is black. 
So much the better ! — I may stand alone, 
But would not change my free thoughts for a throne. 



CANTO XII. 



Of all the barbarous middle ages, that 
Which is most barbarous is the middle age 

Of man ; it is — I really scarce know what ; 
But when we hover between fool and sage, 

And don't know justly what we would be at — 
A period something like a printed page, 

Black-letter upon foolscap, while our hair 

Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were ; — 

II. 

Too old for youth — too young, at tmrty-five, 
To herd with boys, or hoard with good threscore — 

I wonder people should be left alive ; 

But, since they are, that epoch is a bore : 

Love lingers still, although 'twere late to wive; 
And as for other love, the illusion's o'er ; 

And money, that most pure imagination, 

Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. 

III. 

Oh gold ! why call we misers miserable ? 

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 
Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain cable 

Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. 
Ye who but see the saving man at table, 

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, 
Know not what visions spring from each cheese- 
paring. 

• IV. 

Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker ; 

Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss ; 
But making money, slowly first, then quicker, 

And adding still a little through each cross 
(Which will come over things,) beats love or liquor, 

The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross. 
Oh gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper, 
Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapor. 



Who hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 
O'er Congress, whether royalist or liberal ? 

Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain [ber all i 
That make old Europe's journals squeak and gib- 

Whc keep the world, both old and new, in pain 
Or pleasure ? Who make politics run glibber all ? 

The shade of Bonaparte's noble daring ? — 

Jew Rothschild, and his fellow, Christian Baring. 



VI. 



Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 
Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan 

Is not a merely speculative hit, 

But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 

Republics also get involved a bit ; 

Colombia's stock hath holders not unknown 

On 'Change ; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 

Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 

VII. 
Why call the miser miserable ? as 

I said before : the frugal life is his, 
Which in a saint or cynic ever was 

The theme of praise : a hermit would not miss 
Canonization for the self-same cause, 

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities ? 
Because, you'll say, nought calls for such a trial ;- 
Then there's more merit in his self-denial. 

VIII. 
He is your only poet ; — passion, pure 

And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays 
Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure 

Nations athwart the deep : the golden rays 
Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure ; 

On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze; 
While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dyes 
Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 

IX. 

The lands on either side are his : the ship 
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads 

For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, 

And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip ; 
His very cellars might be kings' abodes ; 

While he, despising every sensual call, 

Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 



Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
To build a college, or to found a race, 

A hospital, a church— rand leave behind 

Some dome surmounted by his meagre face : 

Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 
Even with the very ore which makes them base ; 

Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, 

Or revel in the joys of calculation. 

XI. 

But whether all, or each, or none of these 

May be the hoarder's principle of action, 
The fool will call such mania a disease : — 

What is his oion f Go — look at each transaction, 
Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more ease 

Than the mere plodding through each" vulgar 
Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! [fraction?" 
Let spendthrift's heirs inquire of yours — who's 
wiser ? 

XII. 
How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 

Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 
(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 

Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, 
But) of fine unclipp'd gold, where dully rests 

Some likeness which the glittering cirque confines, 
Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp : — 
Yes ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 



DON JUAN. 



XIII. 
"Love rules the camp, the court, the grove ;" for love 

Is heaven, and heaven is love :" — so sings the bard ; 
Which it were rather difficult to prove, 

(A thing with poetry in general hard.) 
Perhaps there may be something in " the grove," 

At least it rhymes to " love ; " but I'm prepared 
To doubt no less than landlords of their rental) 
If " courts " and " camps " be quite so sentime.ntal. 

XIV. 
But if love don't, cash does, and cash alone : 

Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides : 
Without cash, camps were thin and courts were none; 

"Without cash, Malthus tells you, "take no brides." 
So cash rules love the ruler, on his own 

High ground, as Virgin Cynthia sways the tides ; 
And, as for "heaven" being "love," why not say 
Is wax ? Heaven is not love, 'tis matrimony, [honey 

XV. 

Is not all love prohibited whatever, 

Excepting marriage ? which is love, no doubt, 
After a sort : but somehow people never [out : 

With the same thought the two words have help'd 
Love may exist with marriage, and should ever, 

And marriage also may exist without, 
But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, 
And ought to go by quite another name. 

XVI. 

Now if the " court" and " camp " and "grove " be 
Recruited all with constant married men, [not 

Who never coveted their neighbor's lot, 
I say that line's a lapsus of the pen : — 

Strange too in my " buon camerado " Scott, 
So celebrated for his morals, when 

My Jeffrey held him up as an example 

To me, — of which these morals are a sample. 

XVII. 

Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded, 
And that's enough ; succeeded in my youth, 

The only time when much success is needed : 
And my success produced what I in sooth 

Cared most about ; it need not now be pleaded — 
Whate'er it was, 'twas mine ; I've paid, in truth, 

Of late, the penalty of such success, 

But have not learn'd to wish it any less. 

XVIII. 

That suit in Chancery, — which some persons pleaded 
In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, 

In the faith of their procreative creed, 
Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 

To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 
To lean on for support in any way ; 

Since odds are that posterity will know 

No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 

XIX. 

Why, I'm posterity — and so are you ; 

And whom do we remember ? Not a hundred. 
Were every memory written down all true, [der'd : 

The tenth or twentieth name would be but blun- 
Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few, 

And 'gainst those few your annalists have thun- 
And Mitford, in the nineteenth century, [der'd ; 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 1 



XX. 

Good people all, of every degree, 
Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 

In this twelfth canto 'tis my wish to be 
As serious as if I had for inditers 

Malthus and Wilberforce : the last set free 
The negroes, and is worth a million fighters ; 

While Wellington has but enslaved the whites, 

And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes, 

XXI. 

I'm serious — so are all men upon paper : 
And why should I not form my speculation, 

And hold up to the sun my little taper ? 

Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 

On constitutions and steamboats of vapor ; 
While sages write against all procreation, 

Unless a man can calculate his means 

Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 

XXII. 

That's noble ! that's romantic ! For my part, 
I think that " philo-genitiTeness " is — 

(Now here's a word quite after my own heart, 
Though there's a shorter a good deal than this, 

If that politeness set it not apart : 

But I'm resolved to say nought that's amiss) — 

I say, methinks, that "philo-genitiveness " 

Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 

XXIII. 

And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan ! 

Thou art in London — in that pleasant place 
Where every kind of mischief's daily brewing, 

Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
'Tis true, that thy career is not a new one ; 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
Of early life ; but this is a new land, 
Which foreigners can never understand. 

XXIV. 

WTiat with a small diversity of climate, 

Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 
I could send forth my mandate like a primate, 

Upon the rest of Europe's social state ; 
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, 

Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate : 
All countries have their " lions," but in thee 
There is but one superb menagerie. 

XXV. 

But 1 am sick of politics. Begin 

'SPaulo major a." Juan, undecided 
Among the paths of being " taken in," 

Above the ice had like skater glided : 
When tired of play, he flirted without sin 

With some of those fair creatures who have prided 
Themselves on innocent tantalization, 
And hate all vice except its reputation. 

XXVI. 

But these are few, and in the end they make 
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 

That even the purest people may mistake 

Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows: 

And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows 

Quicksilver small-talk, ending (if you note it) 

With the kind world's amen — "Who would have 
thought it ? " 



694 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXVII. 

The little Leila, with her orient eyes, 

And taciturn Asiatic dispostion, 
(Which saw all western things with small surprise 

To the surprise of people of condition, 
Who think that novelties are butterflies 

To be pursued as food for inanition,) 
Her charming figure and romantic history, 
Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

XXVIII. 

The women much divided — as is usual 

Among the sex in little things or great. [all — 
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you 

I have always liked you better -than I state, 
Since I've grown moral : still I must accuse you all 

Of being .apt to talk at a great rate ; 
And now there was a general sensation 
Among you, about Leila's education. 

XXIX. 

In one point only were you settled — and 

You had reason ; 'twas that a young child of grace, 

As beautiful as her own native land, 
And far away, the last bud of her race, 

Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command 
Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, 

Would be much better taught beneath the eye 

Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 

XXX. 

So first there was a generous emulation, 
And then there was a general competition 

To undertake the orphan's education. 
As Juan was a person of condition, 

It had been an affront on this occasion 
To talk of a subscription or petition, 

But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, 

Whose tale belongs to " Hallam's Middle Ages," 

XXXI. 

And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough — 

Begg'd to bring up the little girl, and " out" — 
For that's the phrase that settles all things now, 

Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 

And all her points as thorough-bred to show : 

And I assure you, that like virgin honey 

Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money.) 

XXXII. 
How all the needy honorable misters, 

Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 
The watchful mothers and the careful sisters, 

(Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy 
At making matches, where " 'tis gold that glisters," 

Than their he relatives,) like flies o'er candy, 
Buzz round " the Fortune " with their busy battery, 
To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery ! 

XXXIII. 

Each aunt, each cousin hath her speculation ; 

Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 

I've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
" Tantaene ! " Such the virtues of high station, 

Even in the hopeful isle, whose outlet 's "Dover ! " 
While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, 
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 



XXXIV. 

Some are soon bagg'd, but some reject three dozen. 

'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals 
And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin, 

(Friends of the party,) who begin accusals 
Such as — " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have 
chosen 

Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 
To his billets ? Why waltz with him ? Why, I pray, 
Look yes last nieht, and yet say no to-day ? 

XXXV. 

"Why ? — Why ? — Besides, Fred, really was attach' d; 

'Twas not her fortune — he has enough without : 
The time will come she'll wish that she had snatch'd 

So good an opportunity, no doubt : — 
But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 

As I'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 
And after all poor Frederick may do better — 
Pray, did you see her ans.wer to his letter ? " 

XXXVI. 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 
Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 

After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
Upon the sweep-stakes for substantial wives : 

And when at last the pretty creature gets 

Some gentleman who fights, or writes, or drives, 

It sooths the awkward squad of the dejected 

To find how very badly she selected. 

XXXVII. 
For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 

Worn out with importunity ; or fall 
(But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 

To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
A hazy widower turn'd of forty's sure 2 

(If 'tis not vain examples to recall) 
To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got her, I 
See nought more strange in this than t'other lottery 

XXXVIII. 

I, for my part — (one "modern instance" more,) 
"True, 'tis a pity — pity 'tis, 'tis true" — 

Was chosen from out an amatory score, 

Albeit my years were less discreet than few ; 

But though I also had reform'd before 

Those became one who soon were to be two, 

I'll not gainsay the generous public's voice — 

That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 

XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon my digression — or at least 
Peruse ! 'Tis always with a moral end 

That I dissert, like grace before a^feast : 
For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, 

A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest, 
My Muse by exhortation means to mend 

All people, at all times, and in most places, 

Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 

XL. 

But now I'm going to be immoral ; now 
I mean to show things really as they are, 

Not as they ought to be : for I avow, 
That till we see what's what in fact, we're far 

From much improvement with that virtuous plough 
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 

Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 

Only to keep its corn at the old price. 



DON JUAN. 



695 



XLI. 

But first of little Leila we'll dispose ; 

For, like a day-dawn, she was young and pure, 
Or like the old comparison of snows 

Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure. 
Like many people every body knows, 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
Who might not profit much by being at large. 

XLII. 

Besides, he had found out he was no tutor, 
(I wish that others would find out the same :) 

And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, 
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 

So, when he saw each ancient dame a suitor, 
To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 

Consulting the " Society for Vice 

Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 

XLIII. 

Olden she was — but had been very young : 
Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe. 

Although the world has such an evil tongue 
That — but my chaster ear will not receive 

An echo of a syllable that's wrong: 

In fact, there's nothing makes me so much grieve 

As that abominable tittle-tattle, 

Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 

XLIV. 
Moreover I've remark'd, (and I was once 

A slight observer in a modest way,) 
And so may every one except a dunce, 

That ladies in their youth a little gay, 
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 

Of the sad consequence of going astray, 
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the wo 
Which the mere passionless can never know. 

XLV. 

While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
By railing at the unknown and envied pasbion, 

Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you, 
Or whafs still worse, to put you out of fashion, — 

The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, 
Entreating you to pause before you dash on ; 

Expounding and illustrating the riddle 

Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 

XLVI. 

Now, whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, 
As better knowing why they should be so, 

I think you'll find from many a family picture, 
That davighters of such mothers as may know 

The world by experience rather than by lecture, 
Turn out much better for the Smithfield show 

Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, 

Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 

XLVII. 

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about — 
As who has not, if female, young, and pretty ? 

But now no more the ghost of scandal stalk'd about ; 
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty, 

And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about ; 
Then she was given to charity and pity, 

And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 

For being a most exemplary wife. 



XLVIII. 

High in high circles, gentle in her own, 
She was the mild reprover of the young, 

Whenever — which means every day — they'd shown 
An awkward inclination to go wrong. 

The quantity of good she did's unknown, 

Or, at the least, would lengthen out my song : — 

In brief, the little orphan of the East 

Had raised an interest in her which increased. 

XLIX. 

Juan, too, was a sort of favorite with her, 

Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, 

A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; 

Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, 

And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither : 
Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 

At least entirely — for he had seen too many 

Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 



And these vicissitudes tell best in youth ; 

For when they happen at a riper age, 
People are apt to blame the fates, forsooth, 

And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
Adversity is the first path to truth : 

He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, 
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty. 

LI. 

How far it profits is another matter, — 
Our hero gladly saw his little charge 

Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter 
Being long married, and thus set at large, 

Had left all the accomplishments she taught her 
To be transmitted, like the lord mayor's barge, 

To the next comer ; or — as it will tell 

More Muse-like — like Cytherea's shell. 

HI. 

I call such things transmission ; for there is 
A floating balance of accomplishment 

Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
According as their minds or backs are bent. 

Some waltz ; some draw ; some fathom the abyss 
Of metaphysics; others are content 

With music ; the most moderate shine as wits, 

While others have a genius turn'd for fits. 

LIII. 

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 

Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, 
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 

With regular descent, in these our days, 
The last year to the new transfers its hoards ; 

New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise 
Of "elegant" et cetera, in fresh batches — 
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches. 

LIV. 
But now I will begin my poem. 'Tis 

Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, 
That from the first of cantos up to this, 

I've not begun what we have to go through. 
These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 

Preludios, trying just a string or two 
Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure ; 
And when so, you shall have the overture. 



696 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LV. 



My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 

About what's cali'd success, or not succeeding. 

Such thoughts are quite below the strain they've 
chosen ; 
'Tis a "great moral lesson" they are reading. 

l> thought, at setting off, about two dozen 
Cantos would do ; but, at Apollo's pteading, 

[f that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 

I think to canter gently through a hundred. 

LVI. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 

Yclept the great world ; for it is the least, 
Although the highest : but as swords have hilts 

By which their power of mischief is increased, 
When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, 

Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, 
Must still obey the high — which is their handle, 
Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing 
candle. 

LVII. 
He had many friends who had many wives, and was 

Well look'd upon hy both, to that extent 
Of friendship which you may accept or pass ; 

In does nor good nor harm, being merely meant 
To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 

And draw them nightly when a ticket's sent: 
And what with masquerades, and futes, and balls, 
For the first season such a life scarce palls. 

LVIII. 
A young unmarried man, with a good name 

And fortune, has an awkward part to play; 
For good society is but a game, 

"The royal game of goose," as I may say, 
Where every body has some separate aim, 

An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 
The single ladies wishing to be double, 
The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 

LIX. 

I don't mean this as general, but particular 
Examples may be found of such pursuits : 

Though several also keep their perpendicular 
Like poplars, with good principles for roots; 

Yet many have a method more reticular — 

" Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lutes ; 

For talk six times with the same single lady, 

And you may get the wedding-dresses ready. 

LX. 
Perhaps you'll have a letter from the mother, 

To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd; 
Perhaps you'll have a visit frem the brother, 

All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 
What " your intentions are ? " — One way or other 

It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand ; 
And between pity for her case and yours, 
You'll add to matrimony's list of cures. 

LXI. 

I've known a dozen weddings made even thus, 
And some of them high names : I have also known 

Young men who — though they hated to discuss 
Pretensions which they never dream'd to have 

Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, [shown 

Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, 

And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, 

In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 



LXII. 

There's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
A peril — not indeed like love or marriage, 

But not the less for this to be depreciated : 
It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 

The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 

It adds an outward grace unto their carriage — 

But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 

" Couleur de rose," who's neither white nor scarlet. 

LXIII. 

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say " No," 
And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and 

On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow — [off-ing, 

Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward 

This works a world of sentimental wo, [scoffing ; 
And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin ; 

But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 

Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 

LXIV. 

"Ye gods, I grow a talker ! " Let us prate. 

The next of perils, though I place it sternest, 
Is when, without regard to " Church or State," 

A wife l^akes or takes love in upright earnest. 
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 

(Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou learnest) — 
But in old England, when a young bride errs, 
Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers ; 

LXV. 

For 'tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 

Country, where a young couple of the- same ages 

Can't form a friendship but the world o'erawes it. 

Then there's the vulgar trick of those d d 

damages ! 

A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it ! — - 
Forms a sad climax to romantic homages ; 

Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, 

And evidences which regale all readers ! 

LXVI. 

But they who blunder thus are raw beginners ; 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, 

The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy ; 
You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
Aud all by having tact as well as taste. 

LXVII. 
Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 

Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 
For he was sick — no, 'twas not the word sick I meant ■ 

But he had seen so much good love before, 
That he was not in heart so very weak ; — I meant 

But this much, and no sneer against the shore 
Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stock- 
ings, 
Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings 

LXVIII. 

But coming young from lands and scenes romantic 
Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for pas 

And passion's self must have a spice of frantic, [sion 
Into a country where 'tis half a fashion, 

Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 
Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation ; 

Besides, (alas ! his taste — forgive and pity !) 

At first he did not think the women pretty. 



DON JUAN. 



697 



LXIX. 

I say at Jirst — for he found out at last, 
But by degrees, that they were fairer far 

Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 
Beneath the influence of the Eastern star — 

A further proof we should not judge in haste ; 
Yet inexperience could not be his bar 

To taste : — the truth is, if men would confess, 

That novelties please less than they impress. 

LXX 
Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 

Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, 
To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo, 

Where geography finds no one to oblige her 
With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 

For Europe ploughs in Al'ric like " bos piger : " 
But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there 
No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 

LXXI. 

It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 

But I suspect in fact that white is black, 
And the whole matter rests upon eyesight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. You'll attack 
Perhaps this new position — but I'm right ; 

Or if I'm wrojig, I'll not be ta'en aback : — 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within ; and what seest thou ? A dubious spark. 

LXXII. 

But I'm relapsing into metaphysics, 

That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics, 
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame ; 

And this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame, 

Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 

Those Polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 

LXXIII. 
Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 

Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes ; — 
Not that there's not a quantity of those 

Who have a due respect for their own wishes, 
Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows 3 

Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious : 
They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, 
Asa reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

LXXIV. 

But this has nought to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think them pretty 
At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions — probably from pity — 
And rather calmly into the heart glides, 

That storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) 
She keeps it for you like a true ally. 

LXXV. 

She cannot step as does an Arab barb, 
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 

Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb, 
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning ; 

Her voice, though sweet, is not sj fit to warb- 
le those bravuras (which I still am learning 

To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, 

And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily)— 



LXXVI. 

She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
Others, in that off-hand and dashing style 

Which takes so much— so give the devil his due ; 
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 

Nor settles all things in one interview, 

(A thing approved as saving time and toil,) 

But though the soil may give you time and trouble 

Well cultivated, it will render double. 

LXXVII. 

And if in fact she takes to a " grande passion," 

It is a very serious thing indeed ; 
Nine times in ten 'tis but caprice or fashion, 

Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, 
The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, 

Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed ; 
But the tenth instance will be a tornado, 
For there's no saying what they will or may do. 

LXXVIII. 

The reason's obvious : if there's an eclat, 
They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias ; 

And when the delicacies of the law [various, 

Have fill'd their papers with their comments 

Society, that china without flaw, 
(The hypocrite !) will banish them like Manus, 

To sit amid the ruins of their guilt : 

For Fame's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 

LXXIX. 

Perhaps this is as it should be ; — it is 
A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no more, 

And be thy sins forgiven : " — but upon this 
I leave the saints to settle their own score. 

Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, 
An erring woman finds an opener door 

For her return to virtue — as they call 

The lady who should be at home to all. 

LXXX. 

For me, I leave the matter where I find it, 
Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 

People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 
And care but for discoveries and not deeds. 

And as for chastity, you'll never bind it 
By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 

But aggravate the crime you have not prevented 

By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 

LXXXI. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 
Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 

Besides, he had not seen, of several hundred, 
A lady altogether to his mind. 

A little " blase " — 'tis not to be wonder'd 
At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 

And though not vainer from his past success, 

No doubt his sensibilities were less. 

LXXXII. 

He also had been busy seeing sights — 
The parliament and all the other houses; 

Had sate beneath the gallery at nights, 
To hear debates whose thunder roused not {rouses) 

The world to gaze upon those northern lights, 4 
Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bul. 
browses : 

He had also stood at times behind the throne; — 

But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. 



698 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXIII. 



He saw, however, at the closing session, 
That noble sight, when really free the nation, 

A king in constitutional possession 
Of such a throne as is the proudest station, 

Though despots know it not — till the progression 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 

'Tis not mere splendor makes the show august 

To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

lxxxiv. 

There too he saw (whate'er he maybe now) 
A prince, the prince of princes, at the time, 

With fascination in his very bow, 
And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 

Though royalty was written on his brow, 

He had then the grace too, rare in every clime, 

Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 

A finish'd gentleman from top to toe. 

LXXXV. 

And Juan was received, as hath been said, 

Into the best society : and there 
Occur'd what often happens, I'm afraid, 

However disciplined and debonnaire : 
The talent and good humor he display'd, 

Besides the mark'd distinction of his air, 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXVI. 

But what, and where, with whom, and when, and 
Is not to be put hastily together ; [why. 

And as my object is morality, 

(Whatever people say,) I don't know whether 

I'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 

But harrow up his feelings till they wither, 

And hew out a huge monument of pathos, 

As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. 5 

LXXXVII. 

Here the twelfth canto of our introduction 
Ends. When the body of the book's begun, 

You'll find it of a different construction 
From what some people say 'twill be when done : 

The plan at present's simply in concoction. 
I can't oblige you, reader, to read on ; 

That's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 

Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it ; — 

LXXXVIII. 

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
Remember, reader ! you have had before 

The worst of tempests and the best of battles 
That e'er were brew'd from elements of gore, 

Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows what 
else : 
An usurer could scarce expect much more — 

But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 

Will turn upon "political economy." 

LXXXIX. 

That is your present theme for popularity : 
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, 

It grows an act of patriotic charity, 
To show the people the best way to break. 

My plan (but I, if but for singularity, 
Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 

Meantime read all the national debt-sinkers, 

And tell me what you think of our great thinkers. 



CANTO XIII. 



I. 

1 now mean to be serious ; — it is time, 

Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious. 

A jest at vice by virtue's call'd a crime, 
And critically held as deleterious: 

Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime, 
Although when long a little apt to weary us ; 

And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 

As an old temple dwindled to a column. 

II. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, 

And beauteous, even where beauties most abound, 
In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 

III. 

I'll not gainsay them ; it is not my cue : 
I leave them to their taste, no doubt the best : 

An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue, 
Is no great matter, so 'tis in request : 

'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue — 
The kindest may be taken as a test. 

The fair sex should be always fair ; and no man 

Till thirty, should perceive there's a plain woman. 

IV. 

And after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days 

More quiet, when Our moon's no more at full, 
We may presume to criticise or praise ; 

Because indifference begins to lull 

Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways ; 

Also because the figure and the face 

Hint, that 'tis time to give the younger place. 

V. 

I know that some would fain postpone this era, 

Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera, 

For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line ; 
But then they have their clare£ and Madeira 

To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
And county meetings and the Parliament, 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

VI. 

And is there not religion and reform, [tion ? ' 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what's call'd the " na- 

The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? 
The landed and the money'd speculation ? 

The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 
Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 

Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 

Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 





; 



DON JUAN. 



99 



VII. 



Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, 
Right honestly, "he liked an honest hater — " l 

The only truth that yet has been confess'd 
Within these latest thousand years or later. 

Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest ; — 
For my part, I am but a mere spectator, 

And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 

Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles ; 

VIII. 

But neither love, nor hate in much excess ; 

Though 'twas not once so. If I sneer sometimes, 
It is because I cannot well do less, 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 

IX. 

Of all tales, 'tis the saddest — and more sad, 
Because it makes us smile ; his hero's right, 

And still pursues the right; — to curb the bad, 
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight, 

His guerdon, 'tis his virtue makes him mad ! 
But his adventures form a sorry sight : — 

A sorrier still is the great moral taught 

By that real epic unto all who have thought. 

X. 

Redressing injury, revenging wrong, 
To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 

Opposing singly the united strong, 
From foreign yoke to free the helpless native ; — 

Alas : must noblest views, like an old song, 
Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative ? 

A jest, a riddle, fame through thick thin and sought ? 

And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote ? 

XI. 

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 

A single laugh demolished the right arm 
Of his own country ; — seldom since that day [charm, 

Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could 
The world gave ground before her bright array ; 

And therefore have his volumes done such harm, 
That all their glory as a composition 
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 

XII. 

I'm "at my old Limes " — digression, and forget 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville ; 
The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 

Although she was not ejil nor meant ill : 
But Destiny and Passion spread the net, 

(Fate is a good excuse for our own will,) 
And caught them; what do they not catch, methinks? 
But I'm not CEdipus, and life's a sphinx. 

XIII. 

I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 
To venture a solution : " Davus sum ! " 

And now I will proceed upon the pair. 
Sweet Adeline, amid the gay world's hum, 

Was the queen bee, the glass of all that's fair ; 
Whose charms made all men speak, and women 

The last's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, [dumb. 

&.nd since that time there has not been a second. 



XIV. 

Chaste was she to detraction's desperation, 
And wedded unto one she had loved well — 

A man known in the councils of the nation, 
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable, 

Though apt to act with fire upon occasion, 

Proud of himself and her ; the world could tell 

Nought against either, and both seem'd secure • 

She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

XV. 

It chanced some diplomatical relations, 
Arising out of business, often brought 

Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 
Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught 

By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience, 
And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 

And form'd a basis of esteem, 'which ends 

In making men what courtesy calls friends. 

XVI. 

And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 

Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow 

In judging men — when once his judgment was 
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, 

Had all the pertinacity pride has, 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, 

And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 

Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 

XVII. 
His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions, 

Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but 
His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians [more 

And Medes, would ne'errevoke what went before. 
His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians ; 

Of common likings, which make some deplore 
What they should laugh at — the mere ague still 
Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 

XVIII. 
" 'Tis not in mortals to command success ; 

But do you more, Sempronius — don't deserve it." 
And take my word, you won't have any less : 

Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it ; 
Give gently way, where there's too great a press ; 

And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it,— • 
For, like a racer or a boxer training, 
'Twill make, if proved, vast efforts without paining. 

XIX. 

Lord Henry also liked to be superior, 
As most men do, the little or the great ; 

The very lowest find out an inferior. 
At least they think so, to exert their state 

Upon : for there are very few things wearier 
Than solitary pride's oppressive weight, 

Which mortals generously would divide, 

By bidding others carry while they ride. 

XX. 

In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 
O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 

In years he had the advantage of time's sequel ; 
And, as he thought, in country much the same— 

Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill, 
At which all modern nations vainly aim ; 

And the Lord Henry was a great debater, 

So that few members kept the House up later. 



700 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXI. 



These were advantages : and then he thought — 
It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 

That few or none more than himself had caught 
Court mysteries, having been himself a minister : 

He liked to teach that which he had been taught, 
And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir ; 

And reconciled all qualities which grace man, 

Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 

XXII. 

He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity; 

He almost honor'd him for his docility, 
Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity, 

Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
He knew the world, and would not see depravity 

In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, 
If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop, — 
For then they are very difficult to stop. 

XXIII. 
And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 

Constantinople, and such distant places ; 
Where people always did as they were bid, 

Or did what they should not with foreign graces. 
Of courses also spake they : Henry rid 

Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races : 
And Juan, like a trueborn Andalusian, 
Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. 

XXIV. 

And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 
And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 

For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 
As in Freemasonry a higher brother. 

Upon his talent Henry had no doubts, 
His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother; 

And all men like to show their hospitality 

To him whose breeding matches with his quality. 

XXV. 

At Blank -Blank Square — for we will break no squares 
By naming streets : since men are so censorious, 

And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, 
Reaping allusions private and inglorious, 

Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs, 
Which were, or are, or are to be notorious, 

That therefore do I previously declare, 

Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square. 

XXVI. 

Also there bin 2 another pious reason 

For making squares and streets a-nonymous ; 

Which is, that there is scarce a single season 
Which doth not shake some very splendid house 

With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason — 
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 

Such I might stumble over unawares, 

Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 

XXVII. 

'Tis true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
A place where peccadilloes are unknown ; 

But I have motives, whether wise or silly, 
For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 

Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I 
Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, 

A vestal shrine of innocence of heart: 

Such are — but I have lost the London chart. 



XXVIII. 

At Henry's mansion, then, in Blank-Blank Square, 
Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest, 

As many other noble scions were ; 
And some who had but talent for their crest ; 

Or wealth, which is a passport every where ; 
Or even mere fashion, which indeed's the best 

Recommendation, and to be well dress'd 

Will very often supersede the rest. 

XXIX. 

And since " there's safety in a multitude 
Of counsellors," as Solomon has said, 

Or some one for him, in some sage grave mood : — 
Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 

In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, 
Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 

Which is the only cause that we can guess 

Of Britain's present wealth and happiness \ — 

XXX. 

But as " there's safety grafted in the number 
Of counsellors " for men, — thus for the sex 

A large acquaintance lets not virtue slumber : 
Or, should it shake, the choice will more perplex-* 

Variety itself will more encumber. 

'Mid many rocks we guard more against wrecks ; 

And thus with women : howsoe'er it shocks some's 

Self-love, there's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 

XXXI. 

But Adeline had not the least occasion 

For such a shield, which leaves but little merit 

To virtue proper, or good education. 

Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, 

Which judged mankind at their due estimation, 
And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it ; 

Secure of admiration, its impression 

Was faint, as of an every-day possession. 

XXXII. 

To all she was polite without parade : 
To some she show'd attention of that kind 

Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd 
In such a sort as cannot leave behind 

A trace unworthy either wife or maid ; — 
A gentle genial courtesy of mind, 

To those who were, or pass'd for, meritorious, 

Just to console sad glory for being glorious : 

XXXIII. 
Which is in all respects, save now and then, 

A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 
Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men 

Who were or are the purmet shows of praise, 
The praise of persecution. Gaze again 

On the most favor'd ; and, amid the blaze 
Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd, 
What can ye recognise ? — A gilded cloud. 

XXXIV. 

There also was of course in Adeline 

That calm patrician polish in the address, 

Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 
Of any thing which nature would express ; 

Just as a Mandarin finds nothing fine, — 
At least his manner suffers not to guess 

That any thing he views can greatly please. 

Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese— 



DON JUAN. 



701 



XXXV. 

Perhaps from Horace : his " Nil admirari" 
Was what he call'd the " Art of Happiness ; " 

An art on which the artists greatly vary, 
And have not yet attain'd f| much success. 

However, 'tis expedient to be wary : 
Indifference certes don't produce distress ; 

A.nd rash enthusiasm in good society 

Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 

XXXVI. 

But Adeline was not indifferent : for, 
(Now for a common-place !) beneath the snow, 

As a volcano holds the lava more 
Within — et cetera. Shall I go on ? — No. 

I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor : 
So let the often-used volcano go. 

Poor thing ! how frequently, by me and others, 

It hath been stirr'd up, till its smoke quite smothers. 

XXXVII. 

I'll have another figure in a trice : 

What say you to a bottle of champagne ? 

Frozen into a very vinous icp, 
Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, 

Yet in the very centre, past all price, 
About a liquid glassful will remain : 

And this is stronger than the strongest grape 

Could e'er express in its expanded shape : 

XXXVIII. 

'Tis the whole spirit brought to a quintessence ; 

And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 
A hidden nectar under a cold presence, 

And such are many — though I only meant her 
From which I now deduce these moral lessons, 

On which the Muse has always sought to enter : — 
And your cold people are beyond all price, 
When once you've broken their confounded ice. 

XXXIX. 

But after all they are a North-West passage 

Unto the glowing India of the soul ; 
And as the good ships sent upon that message 

Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole, 
(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage,) 

Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal ; 
For if the Pole's not open, but all frost, 
(A chance still,) 'tis a voyage or vessel lost. 

XL. 

And young beginners may as well commence 
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman : 

While those who're not beginners, should have sense 
Enough to make for port, ere Time shall summon 

With his gray signal-flag ; and the past tense, 
The dreary "fuimns " of all things human, 

Must be declined, whilst life's thin thread's spun out 

Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 

XLI. 

But heaven must be diverted : its diversion 
Is sometimes truculent — but never mind : 

The world upon the whole is worth the assertion 
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind : 

&nd that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 
Of the two principles, but leaves behind 

&s many doubts as any other doctrine 

Has ever puzzled faith withal, or yoked her in. 



XLII. 

The English winter — ending in July 
To recommence in August — now was done. 

'Tis the postillion's paradise : wheels fly ; 
On roads east, south, north, west, there is a run. 

But for post-horses who finds sympathy ? 
Man's pity's for himself or for his son, 

Always premising that said son at college 

Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge 

XLIII. 
The London winter's ended in July — 

Sometimes a little later. I don't err 
In this : whatever other blunders lie 

Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 
My Muse a glass of weatherology, 

For Parliament is our barometer ; 
Let Radicals its other acts attack, 
Its sessions form our only almanac. 

XLIV. 

When its quicksilver's down at zero, — lo ! 

Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage ! 
Wheels whirl from Carlton Palace to Soho, 

And happiest they who horses can engage ; 
The turnpikes glow with dust, and Rotten Row 

Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age : 
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, 
Sigh — as the postboys fasten on the traces. 

XLV. 
They and their bills, " Arcadians both," 3 are left 

To the Greek kalends of another session. 
Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft, 

What hope remains ? Of hope the full possession 
Or generous draft, conceded as a gift, 

At a long date — till they can get a fresh one, — 
Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large ; — 
Also the solace of an overcharge. 

XLVI. 

But these are trifles. Downward flies my Lord, 
Nodding beside my Lady in his carriage. 

Away ! away ! " Fresh horses ! " are the word, 
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage ; 

The obsequious landlord hath the change restored ; 
The postboys have no reason to disparage 

Their fee ; but, ere the water'd wheels may hisshence. 

The ostler pleads too for a small reminiscence. 

XLVII. 
'Tis granted ; and the valet mounts the dickey-— 

That gentleman of lords and gentlemen ; 
Also my Lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 

Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 
Can paint, " Cosi viaggino i ricchi! " 

(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 
If but to show I've travell'd ; and what's travel, 
Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil ?) 

XLVIII. 

The London winter and the country summer 
Were well nigh over. 'Tis perhaps a pity, 

When Nature wears the gown that doth become her 
To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 

And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 
Listening debates not very wise or witty, 

Ere patriots their true country can remember; — 

But there's no shooting (save grouse) till Set tember. 



702 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLIX. 
I've done with my tirade. The world was gone ; 

The twice two thousand for whom earth was made 
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone, — 

That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
As many guests or more ; before whom groan 

As many covers, duly, daily, laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 

L. 

Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 

Departed, like the rest of their compeers, 

The peerage, to a mansion very fine; 
The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 

None than themselves could boast a longer line, 
Where time through heroes and through beauties 

And oaks, as olden as their pedigree, [steers ; 

Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 

LI. 

A paragraph in every paper told 

Of their departure : such is modern fame : 

'Tis pity that it takes no further hold 

Than an advertisement, or much the same ; 

When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 
The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim — 

" Departure, for his country-seat to-day, 

Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A. 

LII. 

" We understand the splendid host intends 

To entertain, this autumn, a select 
And numerous party of his noble friends ; [correct, 

'Mid whom, we have heard from sources quite 
The Duke of D- the shooting season spends, 

With many more by rank and fashion deck'd; 
Also a foreigner of high condition, 
The envoy of the secret Russian mission." 

LIII. 

And thus we see — who doubts the Morning Post ? 

(Whose articles are like the " thirty-nine," 
Which those most swear to who believe them most) — 

Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine, 
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host, 

With those who, Pope says, "greatly daring dine." 
'Tis odd but true, — last war, the news abounded 
More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded. 

LIV. 
As tnus : " On Thursday there was a grand dinner ; 

Present, lords A. B. C." — Earls, dukes, by name 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner : 

Then underneath, and in the very same [here 

Column: date, "Falmouth. There has lately been 

The slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame : 
Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
The vacancies are fill'd up — see Gazette." 

LV. 

To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, 
An old, old monastery once, and now 

Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 
Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 

Few specimens yet left us can compare 
Withal : it lies perhaps a little low, 

Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, 

To shelter their devotion from the wind. 



His host, with bu^id arms 'gainst the thunder 
And from beneath hrsboughs were seen to sally 



LVI. 

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak 
Stood like Caractacus in act to rally [stroke; 

huuad 
hisbo 
The dappled foresters — as day awoke, 
The branching stag swept down with all his herd, 
To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird. 

LVII. 

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 

By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
In currents through the calmer water spread 

Around : the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: 

The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 

With their green faces fix'd upon the flood 

LVIII. 
Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, 

Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding 
Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 

Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 
Into a rivulet ; and, thus "allay'd, 

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 
Its windings through the woods ; now clear, now blue, 
According as the skies their shadows threw. 

LIX. 

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile [apart 

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood halt 

In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. 
These last had disappear'd — a loss to art : 

The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, 
And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 

Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's 

In gazing on that venerable arch. [marcji, 

LX. 

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone: 
But these had fallen not, when the friars fell, 

But in the war which struck Charles from his 
When each house was a fortalice — as tell [throne, 

The annals of full many a line undone, — 
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
For those who knew not to resign or reign. 

LXI. 

Bat in a higher* niche, alone, but crown'd, 
The Virgin Mother of the God-born child, 

Witli her son in her blessed arms, look'd round, 
Spared by some chance when all beside was 

She made the earth below seem holy ground, [spoil'd; 
This may be superstition, weak or wild, 

But even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 

LXII. 

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, 
Shorn of its glass of thousand colorings, 

Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, 
Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, 

Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter, 
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings 

The owl his anthem, where the silenced choir 

Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 



DON JUAN. 



702 



LXIII. 

But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 

There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
Is musical — a dying accent driven 

Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. 
Some deem it but the distant echo given 

Back to the night-wind by the waterfall, 

And harmonized by the old choral wall : 

LXIV. 

Others, that some original shape or form, 

Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 

(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm 
In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 

To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. 

Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower : 

The cause I know not, nor can solve ; but such 

The fact : — I've heard it, — once perhaps too much. 

LXV. 

Amid the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 

Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint ; 

The spring gush'd through grim mouths, of granite 
And sparkled into basins, where it spent [made, 

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, 

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

LXVI. 

The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
With more of the monastic than has been 

Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable, 
The cells, too, and refectory, I ween : 

An exquisite small chapel had been aide, 
Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene ; 

The rest had been rcform'd, replaced, or sunk, 

And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 

LXVII. 

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd 
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, 

Might shock a connoisseur ; but, when combined, 
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 

Yet left a grand impression on the mind, 

At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. 

"We gaze upon a giant for his stature, 

Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 

LXVIII. 

Steel barons, mclten the next generation 
To silken rows of gay and gartered earls, 

Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation ; 
And Lady Marys, blooming into girls, 

With fair long locks, had also kept their station; 
And countesses mature in robes and pearls : 

Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 

Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely. 

LXIX. 

Judges, in very formidable ermine, 

Were there, with brows that did not much invite 
The accused to think their lordships would determine 

His cause by leaning much from might to right : 
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 

Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, 
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) 
Of the " Star Chamber " than of " Habeas Corpus." 



LXX. 

Generals, some all in armor, of the old 
And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead; 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed ; 

Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 
Nimrods, whose canvas scarce contain'dthe steed; 

And here and there some stern high patriot stood, 

Who could not get the place for which he sued. 

LXXI. 

But, ever and anon, to sooth your vision, 
Fatigued with these hereditary glories, 

There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's : 4 

Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone 
In Vernet's ocean lights ; and there the stories 

Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 

His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. 

LXXII. 

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 

There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light, 
Or gloom Caravaggio's gloomier stain 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic a»chorite : — 
But lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain 

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight : 
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish 3 
Or Dutch with thirst— What ho ! a flask of Rhenish. 

LXXIII. 

Oh, reader ! if that thou canst read, — and know 
'Tis not enough to spell, or even to read; 

To constitute a reader ; there must go 

Virtues of which both you and I have need. 

Firstly, begin with the beginning, (though 
That clause is hard,) and secondly, proceed; 

Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinning 

In this sort, end at least with the beginning. 

LXXIV. 

But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 
While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 

Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 
Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 

That poets were so from their earliest date, 
By Homer's "Catalogue of Ships" is clear* 

But a mere modern must be moderate — 

I spare you, then, the furniture and plate. 

LXXV. 

The mellow autumn came, and with it cssaa 
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 

The corn is cut, the manor full of game ; 
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 

In russet jacket : — lynx-like is his aim, 

Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. 

Ah, nut-brown partridges ! ah, brilliant pheasants 

And ah, ye poachers ! — 'tis no sport for peasants. 

LXXVI. 

An English autumn, though it hath no vines, 
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 

The paths, o'er which the fair festoon entwines 
The red grape in the sunny lands of song, 

Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines ; 
The claret light, and the Madeira strong. 

If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 

The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 



704 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVII. 

Then, if she hath not that serene decline 
Which makes the southern autumn's day appear 

As if 'twould to a second spring resign 
The season, rather than to winter drear, — 

Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, — 
The sea-coal fires, the earliest of the year ; 

Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow, 

As what is lost in green is gaiu'd in yellow. 

LXXVIII. 

And for the<£ ffeminate villeggiatura — [chase 

Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the 

So animated that it might allure a 

Saint from his beads to join the jocund race ; 

Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura, 6 
And wear the Melton jacket for a space : — 

If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 

Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 

LXXIX. 

The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
Consisted of — we give the sex the pas — 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke ; the Countess Crabbey ; 
The Ladies, Scilly, Busey ; Miss Eclat, 

Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby, 
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw: 

Also the Honorable Mrs. Sleep, 

Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep. 

LXXX. 

With other Countesses of Blank — but rank ; 

At once the " lie " and the " elite " of crowds ; 
Who pass like water filter'd in a tank, 

All purged and pious from their native clouds ; 
Or paper turn'd-to money by the Bank : 

No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
The " pass^e " and the past ; for good society 
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety : 

LXXXI. 

That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher station ; 

And so that no explosion cry " Aroint 

Thee, witch ! " or each Medea has her Jason ; 

Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) 

" Omne tulit punctum, qua; miscuit utile child." 

LXXXII. 

I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 
i Which hath a little leaning to a lottery ; 

I've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
By the mere combination of a coterie : 

Also a s«-so matron boldly fight 

Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, 

And shine the very Siria of the spheres, 

Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers. 

LXXXIII. 
I've seen more than I'll say : — but we will see 

How our villeggiatura will get on. 
The party might consist of thirty-three 

Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the ton. 
I've named a few, not foremost in degree, 

But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
By way of sprinkling, scatter'd among these, 
There also were some Irish absentees. 



LXXXIV. 

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 

Who limits all his battles to the bar 
And senate : when invited elsewhere, truly, 

He shows more appetite for words than war. 
There was the youug bard Rackrhyme, who had 
newly 

Come out and glimmer'd as a six-weeks' star. 
There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker ; 
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 

LXXXV. 

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke, 
" Ay, every inch a " duke ; there were twelve peers 

Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look 
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 

For commoners had ever them mistook. 

There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears . 

All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set 

Less on a convent than a coronet. 

LXXXVI. 

There were four Honorable Misters, whose 

Honor was more before their names than after ; 

There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, [here, 
Whom France and fortune lately deign'd to waft 

Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse ; 
But the Clubs found it rather serious laughter, 

Because — such was his magic power to please, — 

The dice seem'd charm'd too with his repartees. 

LXXXVII. 

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner ; 

Angle, the soi-distant mathematician ; 

Sir Henry Silver-cup, the great race-winner ; 

There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian ; 
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner ; 

And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 

Good at all things, but better at a bet. 

LXXXVIII. 
There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman ; 

And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, 

Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. 
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hards- 

In his grave office so completely skill'd, [man, 
That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
He had his judge's joke for consolation. 

LXXXIX. 

Good company's a chess-board — there are kings, 
Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; the 
world's a game ;' 

Save that the puppets pull at their own strings ; 
Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 

My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings, 
Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, 

Alighting rarely : were she but a hornet, 

Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 

XC. 

I had forgotten — but must not forget — 

An orator, the latest of the session, 
Who had deliver'd well a very set 

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly trangression 
Upon debate : the papers echoed yet 

With this debut, which made a strong impression. 
And rank'd with what is every day dispiay'd — 
" The best first speech that ever yet was made." 



DON JUAN. 



705 



XCI. 



Proud of his ,: Hear hims ! " proud, too, of his vote, 

And lost virginity of oratory, 
Proud of his learning, (just enough to quote,) 

He revell'd in his Cicer >nian glory : 
With memory excellent t) get by rote, 

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, 
Graced with some merit and with more effrontery, 
" His country's pride," he came down to the country. 

XCII. 
There also were two wits by acclamation, 

Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, 
Roth lawyers, and both men of education ; 

But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed: 
Longbow was rich in an imagination, 

As beautiful and bounding as a steed, 
But sometimes stumbling over a potato, — 
While Strongbow's best things might have come 
from Cato. 

XCIII. 
Strongbow was like a new tuned harpsichord ; 

But Longbow wild as an .lEolian harp, 
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, 

And make a music, whether flat or sharp, 
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word ; 

At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp : 
Both wits — one born so, and the other bred, 
This by his heart — his rival by his head. 

XCIV. 
If all these seem a heterogeneous mass, 

To be assembled at a country-seat, 
Yet think a specimen of every class 

Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tSte. 
The days of comedy are gone, alas ! \bHe ; 

When Congreve's fool could vje with Molicre's 
Society is smooth'd to that excess, 
That manners hardly differ more than dress. 

xcv. 

Our ridicules are kept in the background, 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull ; 
Professions, too, arc no more to be found 

Professional ; and there is nought to cull 
Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound, 

They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. 
Society is now one polish'd horde, 
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 

XCVI. 

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth ; 

And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning, 
You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 

Further I'd quote, but Scripture, intervening, 
Forbids. A great impression in my youth 

Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries 

" That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies." 

XCVII. 

But what we can we glean in this vile age 

Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 

I must not quite omit the talking sage, _- 
Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist, . 

Who, in his common-place book had a page7[list!" — 
Prepared each morn for evenings. " List, oh 

" Alas, poor ghost ! " — What unexpected woes 

Await those who have studied their bons-mots ! 
89 



XCVIII. 

Firstly, they must allure the conversation 
By many windings to their clever clinch ; 

And secondly, must let slip no occasion, 
Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, 

But take an ell — and make a great sensation, 
If possible ; and thirdly, never flinch 

When some smart talker puts them to the test, 

But seize the last word, which no doubt's the best. 

XCIX. 

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts ; 

The party we have touch'd on were the guests : 
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 

To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts 
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 

Albeit all human history attests 
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner ! — 
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 



Witness the lands which "flow'd with milk and 
Held out unto the hungry Israelites : [honey," 

To this we've added since the love of money, 
The only sort of pleasure which requites. 

Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; 
We tire of mistresses and parasites : 

But oh, ambrosTal cash ! Ah ! who would lose thee ? 

When we no more can use, or even abuse thee ! 

CI. 
The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, 

Or hunt ; the young because they liked the sport — 
The first thing boys like after play and fruit : 

The middle-aged, to make the day more short ; 
For ennui is a growth of English root, 

Though nameless in our language ; we retort 
The fact for words, and let the French translate 
That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate. 

Gil. 

The elderly walk'd through the library, 

And tumbled books, and criticised the. pictures, 

Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously, 

And made upon the hot-house several strictures, 

Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, 
Or on the morning papers read their lectures, 

Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 

Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six. 

CIII. 

But none were " gene ; " the great hour of union 
Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were 

Masters of their own time — or in communion, 
Or solitary, as they chose to bear 

The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. 
Each rose Tip at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 

When, where, and how he chose for that repast. 

CIV. 

The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — 
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode. 

Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale, 
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad ; 

Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail ; 
And settled bonnets by the newest code ; 

Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, 

To make each correspondent a new debtor 



706 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CV. 



For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

The earth has nothing like a she epistle, 
And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 

I love the mystery of a female missal, 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, 

But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
When he allured poor Dolon : — you had better 
Take care what you reply to such a letter. 

CVI. 

Then there were billiards ; cards too, but no dice ; 

Save in the Clubs no man of honor plays ; — 
Boats when 'twas water, skating when 'twas ice, 

And the hard frosts destroy'd the scenting days : 
And angling, too, that solitary vice, 

Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says : 
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.* 

CVII. 

With evening came the banquet and the wine ; 

The conversazione ; the duet, 
Attuned by voices more or less divine, 

(My heart or head aches with the memory yet.) 
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine ; 

But the two youngest loved more to be set 
Down to the harp — because to music's charms 
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 

CVIII. 

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, 
For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 

Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze : 
Then there was small-talk ready when required ; 

Flirtation — but decorous ; the mere praise 

Of charms that should or should not be admired ; 

The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, 

And then retreated soberly — at ten. 

CIX. 

The politicians, in a nook apart, 

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres ; 
The wits watch'd every loop-hole for their art, 

To introduce a bon-mot head and ears ; 
Small is the rest of those who would be smart — 

A moment's good thing may have cost them years 
Before they find an hour to introduce it, 
And then, even then, some bore may make them 
lose it. 

CX. 

But all was gentle and aristocratic 

In this our party ; polish'd, smooth, and cold, 
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic, 

There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old; 
And our Sophias are not so emphatic, 

But fair as then, or fairer to behold. [Jones, 

We've no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom 
E Lit gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

CXI. 

They separated at ah early hour ; 

That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon : 
But in the country, ladies seek their bower 

A little earlier than the waning moon. 
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 

May the rose call back its true color soon ! 
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, 
And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters 



CANTO XIV. 



Ir from great Nature's or our own abyss 

Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty, 

Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss- 
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy. 

One system eats another up, and this 
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 

For when his pious consort gave him stones 

In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

II. 
But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, 

And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, 

After due search, your faith to any question ? 
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 

You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. 
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses ; 
And yet what are your other evidences ? 

III. 
For me, I know nought ; nothing I deny, 

Admit, reject, contemn ; and what know you, 
Except perhaps that you were born to die ? 

And both may, after all, turn out untrue. 
An age may come, Font of Eternity, 

When nothing shall be either old or new. 
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, 
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 

IV. 

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 
Of toil, is what we covet most ; and yet 

How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay ! 
The very suicide that pays his debt 

At once without instalments (an old way 
Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 

Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, 

Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 

V. 

'Tis round him, near him, here, there, every where; 

And there's a courage which grows out of fear, 
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 

The worst to know it : — when the mountains rear 
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there 

You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a minute 
Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 

YI. 
'Tis true, you don't — but, pale and struck with terror, 

Retire : but look into your past impression ! 
And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror 

Of youHown thoughts, in all their self-confession, 
The lurki^; bias, be it truth or error, 

To the unknown ; a secret preposession, [not, 
To plunge with all your fears — but where ? You know 
And that's the reason why you do — or do not. 



DON JUAN. 



707 



VII. 



But what's this to the purpose ? you will say. 

Gent, reader, nothing ; a mere speculation, 
For which my sole excuse is — 'tis my way. 

Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion, 
I write what's uppermost without delay ; 

This narrative is not meanfcfor narration, 
But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 
To build up common things with common-places. 

VIII. 

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 
"Fling up a straw, 'twill show the way the wind 
blows ; " 

And such a straw, borne on by human breath, 
Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 

A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 
A shadow which-the onward soul behind throws, 

And mine's a bubble not blown up for praise, 

But just to play with, as an infant plays. 

IX. 

The world is all before mc — or behind ; 

For I have seen a portion of that same, 
And quite enough for me to keep in min J ; — 

Of passions, too, I've proved enough to blame, 
To the gi-eat pleasure of our friends, mankind, 

Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame : 
For I was rather famous in my time, 
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme; 

X. 

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
The other : that's to say, the clergy — who 

Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
In pious libels by no means a few, 

And yet I can't help scribbling once a week, 
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 

In youth I wrote because my mind is full, 

And now because 1 feci it growing dull. 

XI. 

But "why then publish ? " — There are no rewards 
Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary. 

I ask in turn, — why do you play at cards ? [dreary. 
Why drink ? Why read ? — To make some hour less 

It occupies me to turn back regards 

On what I've seen or ponder'd sad or cheery ; 

And what I write I cast upon the stream, 

To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 

XII. 
1 think that were I certain of success, 

I hardly could compose another line : 
So long I've battled either more or less, n 

That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 
This feeling 'tis not easy to express, 

And yet 'tis not affected, I opine. 
In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing — 
The one is winning, and the other losing. 

XIII. 
Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction : 

She gathers a repertory of facts, 
Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, 

But mostly sings of human things and acts — 
And that's one cause she meets with contradiction ; 

For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts ; 
And were her object only what's call'd glory, 
With more ease too she'd tell a different story. 



XIV. 



Love, war, a tempest, — surely there's variety ; 

Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
A bird's-eye view too of that wild, Society ; 

A slight glance thrown on men of every station. 
If you have nought else, here's at least satiety, 

Both in performance and in preparation ; [teaus, 
And though these lines should only line portman 
Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. 

XV. 

The portion of this world which I at present 
Have taken up to fill the following sermon, 

Is one of which there's no description recent : 
The reason why is easy to determine : 

Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, 
There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 

A dull and family likeness through all ages, 

Of no great promise for poetic pages. 

XVI. 
With much to excite, there's little to exalt ; 

Nothing that speaks to all men and all times ; 
A sort of varnish over every fault ; 

A kind of common-place, even in their crimes ; 
Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 

A want of that true nature which sublimes 
Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony 
Of character, in those at least who have got any. 

XVII. 

Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, 
They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; 

But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, 
And they must be or seem what they were : still 

Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 

But when of the first sight you have had your fill, 

It palls — at least it did so upon me, 

This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 

XVIII. 

When we have made our love, and gamed our 
gaming, [more : 

Dress'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something 
With dandies dined ; heard senators declaiming ; 

Seen beauties brought to market by the score ; 
Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming ; 

There's little left but to be bored or bore. 
Witness those " ci-devant jeunes homines" who stem 
The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 

XIX. 

'Tis said — indeed a general complaint — 
That no one has succeeded in describing 

The monde, exactly as they ought to paint. 
Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 

The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, 
To furnish matter for their moral gibing ; 

And that their books have but one style in common — 

My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. 

XX. 

But this can't well be true, just now ; for writers 
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential : 

I've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 
Especially when young, for that's essential. 

Why do their sketches fail them as inditers 

Of, what they deem themselves most conse- 

The real portrait of the highest tribe ? [quential, 

'Tis that, in fact, there's little to describe. 



708 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXI. 



" Jlaud ignara loquor : " these are nugce, " quarum 
Pars parva/w»'," but still art and part. 

Now I could much more easily sketch a haram, 
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, 

Than these things ; and besides, I wish to spare 'em 
For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 

" Vetabo Cereris sacrum quivulgarit," 

Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. 

XXII. 

And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 

Lower'd, leaven'd like a history of Freemasons ; 

Which bears the same relation to the real, 
As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 

The grand Arcanum's not for men to see all ; 
My music has some mystic diapasons ; 

And there is much which could not be appreciated 

In any manner by the uninitiated. 

XXIII. 
Alas ! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 

The world, (as, since that history, less polite 
Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held,) 

Has not yet given up the practice quite. 
Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compell'd, 

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 
Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins, 
Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins, — 

XXIV. 

A daily plague, which, in the aggregate, 
May average on the whole with parturition. 

But as to women, who can penetrate 

The real sufferings of their she condition ? 

Man's very sympathy with their estate 

Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. 

Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, 

But form good housekeepers to breed a nation. 

XXV. 

All this were very well, and can't be better ; 

But even this is difficult, Heaven knows ! 
So many troubles from her birth beset her, 

Such small distinction between friends and foes, 
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, 

That but ask any woman if she'd choose, 

(Take her at thirty, that is,) to have been 
Female or male ? a schoolboy or a queen ? 

XXVI. 

"Petticoat influence " is a great reproach, 
Which even those who obey would fain be thought 

To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 

But, since beneath it upon earth we are brought, 

By various joltings of life's hackney-coach, 
I for one venerate a petticoat — 

A garment of a mystical sublimity, 

No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 

XXVII. 

Much I respect, and much I have adored, 

Tn my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 

Which holds a treasure like a miser's hoard, 
And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 

A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
A loving letter with a mystic seal, 

A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 

Before a petticoat and peeping ancle ? 



xxvur. 

And when upon a silent, sullen day, 

With a Sirocco, for example, blowing, — 

When even the sea looks dim with all its spray, 
And sulkily the river's ripple's flowing, 

And the sky shows that very ancient gray, 
The sober sad antithesis to glowing, — 

'Tis pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, 

To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 

XXIX. 

We left our heroes and our heroines 

In that fair clime which don't depend on climate 
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, 

Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, 
Because the sun and stars, and aught that shines, 

Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun- — 
Whether a sky's or tradesman's, is all one. 

XXX. 

An in-door life is less poetical ; 

And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet. 
With which I could not brew a pastoral. 

But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
All difficulties, whether great or small, 

To spoil his undertaking or complete, 
And work away like spirit upon matter, 
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water. 

XXXI. 

Juan — in this respect at least like saints — 
Was all things unto people of all sorts, 

And lived contentedly, without complaints, 
In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts — 

Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, 
And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 

He likewise could be most things to all women, 

Without the coxcombry of certain she men. 

XXXII. 

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 

'Tis also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 

Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger: 
But Juan had been early taught to range 

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 
Knew that he had a rider on his back. 

XXXIII. 

And now in this new field, with some applause, 
He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, 

And never craned, and made but few "faux pas," 1 
And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 

He broke, 'tis true, some statutes of the laws 
Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; 

Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, 

And once o'er several country gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 
But, on the whole, to general admiration 

He acquitted both himself and horse : the squires 
Marvell'd at merit of another nation : [Sires, 

The boors cried "Dangit! who'd have though it ?' 
The Nestors of the sporting generation, 

Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires ; 
The huntsman's self relented to a grin, 
And rated him almost a whipper-in. 



DON JUAN. 



709 



XXXV. 

Such wer« his trophies ; — not of spear and shield, 
But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' 

Yet I must own, — although in this I yield [brushes ; 
To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — 

He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 
Who, after along chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, 

And what not, though he rode beyond all price, 

Ask'd, next day, "if men ever hunted twice f' 

XXXVI. 

He also had a quality uncommon 

To early risers after a long chase, 
Who wake in winter ere the the cock can summon 

December's drowsy day to his dull race,— 
A quality agreeable to woman, 

When her soft liquid words run on apace, 
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, — 
He did not fall asleep just after dinner. 

XXUVII. 

But, light and airy, stood on the alert, 
And shone in the best part of dialogue, 

By humoring always what they might assert, 
And listening to the topics most in vogue ; 

Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ; 
And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue ! 

He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer ; 

In short, there never was a better hearer. 

XXXVIII. 

And then he danced ; — all foreigners excel 

The serious Angles in the eloquence 
Of Pantomime ; — he danced, I say, right well, 

With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
A thing in footing indispensable : 

He danced without theatrical pretence, 
Not like a ballet-master in the van 
Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 

XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, 
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure ; 

Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, 
And rather held in than put forth his vigor ; 

And then he had an ear for music's sound, 
Which might defy a crochet-critic's rigor. 

Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero, 

He glanced like a personified bolero ; 

XL. 

Or, like a flying hour before Aurora, 
In Guido's famous fresco, which alone . 

Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 
Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. 

The " tout ensemble " of his movements wore a 
Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, 

And ne'er to be described ; for, to the dolor 

Of bards and prosers, words are void of color. 

XLI. 

No marvel then he was a favorite ; 

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired ; 
A little spoil'd, but by no means so quite ; 

At least he kept his vanity retired. 
Such was his tact, he could alike delight 

The chaste, and those who arenotsomuchinspir'd. 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved "tracasserie," 
Began to treat him with some small " agacerie." 



XLII. 

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, 

Desirable, distinguished, celebrated 
For several winters in the grand, grand monde 

I'd rather not say what might be related 
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 

Besides there might be falsehood in what's stated : 
Her late performance had been a dead set 
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLIII. 
This noble personage began to look 

A little black upon this new flirtation ; 
But such small licenses must lovers brook, 

Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 
Wo to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 

'Twill but precipitate a situation 
Extremely disagreeable, but common 
To calculators, when they count on woman. 

XLIV. 

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd ; 

The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; 
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd ; 

Some would not deem such women could be found ; 
Some ne'er believed one-half of what they heard ; 

Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound; 
And several pitied with sincere regret 
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLV. 

But, what is odd, none ever named the duke, 

Who, one might think, was something in the affair. 

T-rue, he was absent, and 'twas rumor'd, took 
But small concern, about the when, or where, 

Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
Her gayeties, none had a right to stare : 

Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, 

Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out. 

XLVI. 
But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line ! 

Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, 
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 

Began to think the Duchess' conduct free ; 
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, 

And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 

XLVII. 
There's nought in this bad world like sympathy : 

'Tis so becoming to the soul and face ; 
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, 

And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 
Without a friend, what were humanity, 

To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 
Consoling us with — "Would you had thought twice ! 
Ah ! if you had but follow'd my advice ! " 

XLVIII. 
Oh, Job ! you had two friends : one's quite enough, 

Especially when we are ill at ease ; 
They're but bad pilots when the weather's rough, 

Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, 

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze : 
When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, 
Go to the coffee-house, and take another 2 



710 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLIX. 

But this is not my maxim : had it been, 

Some heart aches had been spared me ; yet I care not, 
I would not be a tortoise in his screen [not : 

Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear 
'Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen 

That which humanity may bear, or bear not : 
'Twill teach discernment to the sensitive, 
And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 



Of all the horrid, hideous notes of wo, 

Sadder than owl-songs, or the midnight blast, 

Is that portentious phrase, " I told you so," 
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, 

Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, 
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, 

And solace your slight lapse 'gainst " bonos mores-" 

With a long memorandum of old stories. 

LI. 

The Lady Adeline's serene severity 

Was not confined to feeling for her friend, 

Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, 
Unless her habits should begin to mend. 

But Juan also shared in her austerity, 
But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd: 

His inexperien3e moved her gentle ruth, 

And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 

LII. 

These forty days' advantage of her years — 
And hers were those which can face calculation, 

Boldly referring to the list of peers, 

And noble births, nor dread the enumeration — 

Gave her a right to have maternal fears 
For a young gentleman's fit education, 

Though she was far from that leap-year, whose leap 

In female dates, strikes time all of a heap. 

LIII. 
This may be fix'd somewhere before thirty — 

Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never knew 
The strictest in chronology and virtue 

Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 
Oh, time ! why dost not pause ? Thy scythe, so dirty 

With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. 
Reset it ; shave more smoothly, also slower, 
If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 

LIV. 

But Adeline was far from that ripe age, 
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best : 

'Twas rather her experience that made her sage, 
For she had seen the world, and stood its test, 

As I have said in — I forget what page ; 

My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd 

By this time : but strike six from seven-and-twenty, 

And you will find her sum of years in plenty. 

LV. 

At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted, 
She put all coronets into commotion : 

At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted 
With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 

At eighteen, though below her feet still panted 
A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 

She had consented to create again 

That Adam, call'd " the happiest of men." 



LVI. 



Since then she had sparkled through three glowing 
Admired, adored ! but also so correct, [winters, 

That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 
Without the apparel of being circumspect ; 

They could not even glean the slightest splinters 
From off the marble, which had no defect. 

She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage 

To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 

LYII. 

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, 
Those little glitterers of the London night ; 

But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her — 
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 

Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder ; 
But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right ; 

And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 

A woman, so she's good, what does it signify ? 

I hate a motive like a lingering bottle, 

Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, 
Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, 

Especially with politics on hand ; 
I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, 

Who whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the sand; 
I hate it, as I hate an argument, 
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " content." 

LIX. 

'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things, 

They are so much intertwisted with the earth, 

So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 

To trace all actions to their secret springs 
Would make indeed some melancholy mirth : 

But this is not at present my concern, 

And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. 3 

LX. 

With the kind view of saving an eclat, 
Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 

The Lady Adeline, as soon's she saw 
That Juan was unlikely to resist— - 

(For foreigners don't know that a. faux pas 
In England ranks quite on a different list 

From those of other lands, unbless'd with juries, 

Whose vesdict for such sin a certain cure is) — 

LXI. 

The Lady Adeline resolved to take 

Such measures as she thought might best impedt 
The farther progress of this sad mistake. 

She thought with some simplicity indeed ; 
But innocence is bold even at the stake, 

And simple in the world, and doth not need 
Nor use those palisades by dames erected, 
Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 

LXII. 

It was not that she fe'ar'd the very worst : 
His grace was an enduring, married man, 

And was not likely all at once to burst 
Into a scene, and swell the client's clan 

Of Doctors' Commons ; but she dreaded first 
The magic of her grace's talisman, 

And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 
1 With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 



DON JUAN. 



711 



LXIII. 

Her grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante 
And somewhat mtchante in her amorous sphere ; 

One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 
A lover with caprices soft and dear, 

That like to make a quarrel, when they can't 
Find one, each day of the delightful year ; 

Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, 

And — what is worst of all — won't let you go ; 

LXIV. 

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, 
Or make a Werter of him in the end. 

No wonder then a purer soul should dread 
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; 

It were much better to be wed or dead, 
Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 

'Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 

If that a "bonne fortune" be really "bonne." 

LXV. 

And first, in the overflowing of her heart, 

"Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, 

She call'd her husband now and then apart, 
And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile, 

Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 

And answer'd, like a' statesman or a prophet, 

In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 

LXVI. 

Firstly, he said, "he never interfered 
In any body's business but the king's : " 

Next, that " he never judged from what appear'd, 
Without strong reason, of those sorts of things.' 

Thirdly, that " Juan had more brain than beard, 
And was not to be held in leading-strings ; " 

And fourthly, what need hardly to be said twice, 

" That good but rarely came from good advice." 

LXVII. 

And therefore, doubtless, to approve the truth 
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 

To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth, 
At least as far as bienseancc allows : 

That time would temper Juan's faults of youth: 
That young men rarely made monastic vows ; 

That opposition only more attaches 

But here a messenger brought in despatches : 

LXVIII. 

And being of the council call'd "the privy," 

Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet, 
To furnish matter for some future Livy 

To tell how he reduced the nation's debt ; 
And if their full contents I do not give ye, 

It is because I do not know them yet : 
But I shall add them in a brief appendix, 
To come between mine epic and its index. 

LXIX. 

But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 
Another gentle common-place or two, 

Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint, 

And pass, for want of better, though not new: 

Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't. 
And having casually glanced it through, 

Retired ; and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd her, 

Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 



LXX. 

He was a cold, good, honorable man, 
Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing; 

A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
A figure fit to walk before a king ; 

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
On birthdays, glorious with a star and string ; 

The very model of a chamberlain — 

And such I mean to make him when 1 reign. 

LXXI. 

But there was something wanting on the whole — 
I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell — 

Which pretty women— the sweet souls !— call soul. 
Certes it was not body ; he was well 

Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 

A handsome man, that human miracle ; 

And in each circumstance of love or war, 

Had still preserved his perpendicular. 

LXXII. 

Still there was something wanting, as I've said — 

That undefinable "Je ne sais quoi," 
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led 

To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed; 

Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
Was much inferior to King Menelaus ; — 
But thus it is some women will betray us. 

LXXIII. 

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, 
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 

By turns the difference of the several sexes : 
Neither can show quite how they would be loved 

The sensual for a short time but connects us — 
The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 

But both together form a kind of centaur," 

Upon whose back 'tis better not to venture. 

LXXIV. 

A something all-sufficient for the heart 

Is that for which the sex are always seeking ; 

But how to fill up that same vacant part — 

There lies the rub — and this they are but weak in. 

Frail mariners afloat without a chart, [ing ; 

They run before the wind through high seas break - 

And when they have made the shore, through every 

'Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. [shock, 

LXXV. 

There is a flower call'd " love in idleness," 

For which see Shakspeare's ever-blooming garden 

I will not make his great description less, 

And beg his British godship's humble pardon, 

If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 
I touch a single leaf where he is warden ; 

But though the flower i^ different, with the Frencfc 

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, " voila la pervenche ! " 

LXXVI. 

Eureka ! I have found it ! What I mean 

To say is, not that love is idleness, 
But that in love such idleness has been 

An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
Hard labor's an indifferent go-between ; 

Your men of business are not apt to express 
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo 
Convey'd Medea as her supercargo. 



712 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVII. 

" Beatus Me procul ! " from "negotiis," 
Saith Horace ; the great little poet's wrong ; 

His other maxim, "Noscitur a sociis,'" 
Is much more to the purpose of his song ; 

Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
Unless good company he kept too long ; 

But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, 

Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 

LXXVI1I. 

Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing ; 

Eve made up millinery with fig-leaves — 
The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing, 

As far as I know, that the church receives : 
And since that time, it need not cost much showing, 

That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 
And still more women, spring from not employing 
Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 

LXXIX. 

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 

A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 

Bards may sing what they please about content ; 

Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd ; 
And hence arise the woes of sentiment, 

Blue-devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 

Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. 

LXXX. 

I do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen ; 
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, 

Would some believe that such a tale had been : 
But such intent I never had, nor have it ; 

Some truths are better kept behind a screen, 
Especially when they would look like lies ; 
I therefore deal in generalities. 

LXXXI. 

" An oyster may be cross'd in love," — and why ? 

Because he mopeth idly in his shell, 
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 

Much as a monk may do within his cell : 
And a-propos of monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell ; 
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown, 

Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 
Thou hast struck one immense colossus down, 

Thou moral Washington of Africa ! 
But there's another little thing, I own, 

Which you should perpetrate some summer's day, 
And set the other half of earth to lights : 
You have freed the blacks — now pray shut up the 
whites. 

LXXXIII. 
Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander ; 

Ship off the holy three to Senegal ; [der," 

Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce for gan- 

And ask them how they like to be in thrall. 
Shut up each high heroic salamander, 

Who eats fire gratis, (since the pay's but small ;) 
Shut up — no, not the king, but the pavilion, 
Or else 'twill cost us all another million. 



LXXXIV. 

Shut up the world at large ; let Bedlam out, 
And you will be perhaps surprised to find 

All things pursue exactly the same route, 
As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. 

This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 
Were there a jot of sense among mankind; 

But till that point d' appui is found, alas ! 

Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 'twas. 

LXXXV. 

Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion ; 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 

As she had seen nought claiming its expansion 
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd, 

Because 'tis frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one; 
But when the latter works its own undoing, 
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 

She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 

The stone of Sysiphus, if oriae we move 
Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 

She had nothing to complain of, or reprove. 
No bickerings, no connubial turmoil ■ 

Their union was a model to behold, 

Serene and noble, — conjugal but cold. 

LXXXVII. 

There was no great disparity of years, 

Though much in temper ; but they never clash'd : 
They moved like stars united in their spheres, 

Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, 
Where mingled and yet separate appears 

The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 
Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 
Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 

LXXXVIII. 

Now, when she once had ta'en an interest 
In any thing, however she might flatter 

Herself that her intentions were the best, 
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: 

Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, 
And gather'd as they run, like growing water, 

Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 

Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, 
That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 

As obstinacy, both in men and women, 

Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed :— 

And 'twill perplex the casuists in morality, 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 

XC. 

Had Bonaparte won at Waterloo, 

It had been firmness ; now 'tis pertinacity: 

Must the event decide between the two ? 
I leave it to your people of sagacity 

To draw the line between the false and true, 
If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity ; 

My business is with Lady Adeline, 

Who in her way, too, was a heroine. 



DON JUAN. 



713 



XCI. 



Bhe knew not her own heart ; then how should I ? 

I think not she was then in love with Juan : 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her a new one : 
She merely felt a common sympathy 

(I will not say it was a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in danger — 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a 
stranger. 

XCII. 

She was, or thought she was, his friend — and this 
Without the farce of friendship, or romance 

Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 
Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, 

Or Germany, where people purely kiss. 
To thus much Adeline would not advance ; 

But of such friendship as man's may to man be, 

She was as capable as woman can be. 

XCIII. 

No doubt the secret influence of the sex 
Will there, as also in the ties of blood, 

An innocent predominance annex, 
And tune the concord to a finer mood. 

If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 
And your true feelings fully understood, 

No friend like to a woman earth discovers, 

So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 

XCIV. 
Love bears within its breast the very germ 

Of change ; and how should this be otherwise ? 
That violent things more quickly find a term 

Is shown through Nature's whole analogies : 
And how should the most fierce of all be firm ? 

Would you have endless lightning in the skies ? 
Methinks love's very title says enough : 
How should " the tender passion " e'er be tough f 

xcv. 

Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet 

(I merely quote what I have heard from many) 
Had lovers not some reason to regret 

The passion which made Solomon a zany. 
I've also s-een some wives (not to forget 

The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 
Who were the very paragons of wives, 
Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCVI. 
I've also seen some female friends ('tis odd, 

But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 
That faithful were, through thick and thin, abroad, 

At home, far more than ever yet was love — 
Who did not quit me when oppression trod 

Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove ; 
Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my battles, 
Despite the snake society's loud rattles. 



XCVII. 

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 
Grew friends in this or any other sense, 

Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine : 
At present I am glad of a pretence 

To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, 
And keeps the atrocious reader in suspe?ise ; 

The surest way for ladies and for books 

To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 
90 



XCVIII. 

Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, 
To read Don Quixote in the original, 

A pleasure before which all others vanish ; 

Whether their talk was of the kind call'd "small," 

Or serious, are the topics I must banish 
To the next canto ; where, perhaps, I shall 

Say something to the purpose, and display 

Considerable talent in my way. * 

XCIX. 

Above all, I beg all men to forbear 
Anticipating aught about the matter : 

They'll only make mistakes about the fair, 
And Juan, too, especially the latter. 

And I shall take a much more serious air 
Than I have yet done in this epic satire. 

It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 

Will fall ; but if they do, 'twill be their ruin. 

C. 

But great things spring from little : would you think 
That, in our youth, as dangerous a passion 

As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 
Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion 

As few would ever dream could /orm the link 
Of such a sentimental situation ? 

You'll never guess, I'll bet you millions, milliards — 

It all sprung from a harmless game of billiards. 

CI. 

'Tis strange — but true ; for truth is always strange, 
Stranger than fiction : if it could be told, 

How much would novels gain by the exchange ! 
How differently the world would men behold ! 

How oft would vice and virtue places change ! 
The new world would be nothing to the old. 

If some Columbus of the moral seas 

Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 

Oil. 

What " antres vast and deserts idle " then 
WouM be discover'd in the human soul ! 

What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
With self-love in the centre as their pole ! 

What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 
Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 

Were things but only call'd by their right name, 

Csesar himself would be ashamed of fame 



CANTO XV. 



Ah ! what should follow slips from my reflection: 

Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be 

^As a-propos of hope or retrospection, 

As though the lurking thought had follow'd free. 

All present life is but an interjection, 
An " Oh ! " or " Ah ! " of joy or misery, 

Or a "Ha! ha!" or " Bah!" — a yawn, or "Pooh!" 

Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 



714 



BYRON'S WORKS 



IT. 



But, more or less, the whole's a syncope, 
Or a singultus — emblems of emotion, 

The grand antithesis to great ennui, 
Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 

That watery outline of eternity, 

Or miniature at least, as is my notion, 

Which ministers unto the soul's delight, 

In seeing matters which are out of sight. 

III. 
But all are better than the sigh supprest, 

Corroding in the cavern of the heart, 
Making the countenance a mask of rest, 

And turning human nature to an art. 
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best ; 

Dissimulation always sets apart 
A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 
Is that which passes with least contradiction. 

IV. 
Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who cannot 

Remember, without telling, passion's errors ? 
The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, 

Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors : 
What though on Lethe's stream he seems to float, 

He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors ; 
The ruby glass that shakes within his hand, 
Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 

V. 

And as for Love — Oh, Love ! We will proceed. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
A pretty name as one would wish to read, 

Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
There's music in the sighing of a reed ; 

There's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
There's music in all things, if men had ears : 
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 

VI. 

The Lady Adeline, right honorable, 

And honor'd, ran a risk of growing less so : 

For few of the soft sex are very stable 
In their resolves — alas ! that I should say so : 

They differ as wine differs from its label, 
When once decanted ; — I presume to guess so, 

But will not swear : yet both upon occasion, 

Till old, may undergo adulteration. 

VII. 

But Adeline was of the purest vintage, 
The unmingled essence of the grape ; and yet 

Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, 
Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 

A page where Time should hesitate to print age, 
And for which nature might forego her debt — 

Sole creditor whose process doth involve in't 

The luck of finding every body solvent. 

VIII. 

Oh ! Death ! thou dunnest of all duns ! thou daily 
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, 

Like a meek tradesman when approaching palely 
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 

But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
Advances with exasperated rap, 

And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 

On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom." 



IX. 



Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor beauty ! 

She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey, 
What though she now and then may slip from duty 

The more's the reason why you ought to stay. 
Gaunt Gourmand ! with whole nations for your booty 

You should be civil in a modest way : 
Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases, 
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 

X. 

Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 
Where she was interested, (as was said,) 

Because she was not apt, like some of us, 
To like too readily, or too high bred 

To show it — points we need not now discuss — 
Would give up artlessly both heart and head 

Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, 

For objects worthy of the sentiment. 

XL 

Some parts of Juan's history, which rumor, 
That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure, 

She had heard; but women hear with more good 
Such aberrations than we men of rigor. [humor 

Besides his conduct, since in England, grew more 
Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigor ; 

Because he had, like Alcibiades, 

The art of living in all climes with ease. 

XII. 

His manner was perhaps the more seductive, 
Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce ; 

Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 

Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, 
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, 

And seem to say, " resist us if you can "— 

Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 

XIII. 

They are wrong — that's not the way to set about it ; 

As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 
But, right or wrong,- Don Juan was without it ; 

In fact, his manner was his own alone : 
Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt it, 

In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 

XIV. 

By nature soft, his whole address held off 
Suspicion : though not timid, his regard 

Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof, 
To shield himself, than put you on your guard : 

Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured enough, 
But modesty's at times its own reward, 

Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 

Will go much further tham there's need to mention 

XV. 

Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful, but not loud 

Insinuating without insinuation ; 
Observant of the foibles of the crowd, 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation ; 
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud, 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 
And theirs ; — without a struggle for priority, 
He neither brook'd nor claimed superiority. 



DON JUAN. 



715 



XVI. 

That is, with men : with women, he was what 
They pleased to make or take him for ; and their 

Imagination's quite enough for that: 
So that the outline's tolerably fair, 

They fill the canvas up — and " verbuni sat," 
If once their phantasies be brought to bear 

Upon an object, whether sad or playful, 

They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. 

XVII. 

Adeline, no deep judge of character, 
"Was apt to add a coloring from her own. 

'Tis thus the good will amiably err, 
And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 

Experience is the chief philosopher, 

But saddest when his science is well known : 

And persecuted sages teach the schools 

Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 

XVIII. 

Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater Bacon ? 

Great Socrates ? And Thou, Diviner still, 1 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, 

And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill ? 
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, 

How was thy toil rewarded ? We might fill 
Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

XIX. 
I perch upon an humbler promontory, 

Amid life's infinite variety : 
With no great care for what is nicknamed glory, 

But speculating as I cast mine eye 
On what may suit or may not suit my story, 

And never straining hard to versify ; 
I rattle on exactly as I'd talk 
With any body in a ride or walk. 

XX. 

1 don't know that there may be much ability 
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 

But there's a conversational facility, 

Which may round off an hour upon a time. 

Of this I'm sure at least, there's no servility 
In mine irregularity of chime, 

Which rings what's uppermost of new or hoary, 

Just as I feel the "improvvisatore." 

XXI. 

" Omnia vult belle Matho dicere — die aliquando 
Et bene die neutrum, die aliquando male." 

The first is rather more than mortal can do ; 
The second may be sadly done or gayly ; 

The third is still more difficult to stand to ; 

The fourth we hear, and see, and say, too, daily : 

The whole together is what I could wish 

To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 

XXII. 

A modest hope — but modesty's my forte, 
f And pride my foible : — let us ramble on. 
I meant to make this poem very short, 

But now I can't tell where it may not run. 
No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 

To critics, or to hail the setting sun 
Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 
Were more ; — but I was born for opposition. 



XXIII. 

But then 'tis mostly on the weaker side : 

So that I verily believe if they 
Who now are basking in their full-blown pride, 

Were shaken down, and "dogs had had their 
Though at the first I might by chance deride [day," 

Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, 
Becaiise I hate even democratic royalty. 

XXIV. 

I think I should have made a decent spouse, 
If I had never proved the soft condition ; 

I think I should have made monastic vows, 
But for my own peculiar superstition : 

'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows. 
Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian ; 

Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 

If some one had not told me to forego it. 

XXV. 

But " laissez aller" — knights and dames I sing, 
Such as the times may furnish. 'Tis a flight 

Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, 
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite : 

The difficulty lies in coloring 

(Keeping the due proportions still in sight) 

With nature manners which are artificial, 

And rendering general that which is especial. 

XXVI. 

The difference is, that in the days of old 

Men made the manners ; manners now make men 

Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, 
At least nine, and a ninth besides of ten. 

Now this at all events must render cold 
Your writers, who must either draw again 

Days better drawn before, or else assume 

The present, with their common-place costume. 

XXVII. 
We'll do our best to make the best on't :— JVIarch ! 

March, my Muse ! If you cannot fly, yet flutter ; 
And when you may not be sublime, be arch, 

Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
We surely may find something worth research : 

Columbus found a new world in a cutter, 
Or brigantkie, or pink, of no great tonnage, 
While yet America was in her nonage. 

XXVIII. 
When Adeline, in all her growing sense 

Of Juan's merits and his situation, 
Felt on the whole an interest intense — 

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, 
Or that he had an air of innocence, 

Which is for innocence a sad temptation, — 
As women hate half measures, on the whole, 
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

XXIX. 

She had a good opinion of advice, 
Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, 

For which small thanks are still the market-price, 
Even where the article at highest rate is. 

She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, 
And morally decided, the best state is, 

For morals, marriage; and, this question carried, 

She seriously advised him to get married. 



716 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXX. 

Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 

He had a predilection for that tie ; 
But that at present, with immediate reference 

To his own circumstances, there might lie 
Some difficulties, as in his own preference, 

Or that of her to wnom he might apply ; 
That still he'd wed with such or such a lady, 
If that they were not married all already. 

XXXI. 

Next to the making matches for herself, 
And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, 

Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 
There's nothing women love to dabble in 

More (like a stockholder in growing pelf) 
Than match-making in general: 'tis no sin 

Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 

That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 

XXXII. 

But never yet (except of course a miss 

Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, 
Or wed already, who object to this) 

Was there chaste dame who had not in her head 
Some drama of the marriage unities, 

Observed as strictly both at board and bed, 
As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 
They generally have some only son, 

Some heir to a large property, some-friend 
Of an old family, some gay Sir John, [end 

Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might 
Aline, and leave posterity undone, 

Unless a marriage was applied to mend 
The prospect and their morals : and besides, 
They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 

XXXIV. 

From these they will be careful to select, 
For this an heiress, and for that a beauty ; 

For one a songstress who hath no defect, 
For t'other one who promises much duty ; 

For this a lady no one can reject, 
Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty ; 

A second for her excellent connections ; 

A third, because there can be no objections. 

XXXV. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd marriage 
In his harmonious settlement — (which flourishes 

Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, 

Because itbreeds no more mouths than it nourishes, 

Without those sad expenses which disparage 
What nature naturally most encourages) — 

Why call'd he " Harmony " a state sans wedlock ? 

Now here I've got the preacher at a dead lock. 

XXXVI. 

Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 

But whether reverend Rapplearn'd this in Germany 
Or no, 'tis said his sect is rich and godly, 

Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 

My objection's to his title, not his ritual, 

Although I wonder how it grew habitual. 



XXXVII. 
But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 

Who favor, malgre Malthus, generation — 
Professors of that genial art, and patrons 

Of all the modest part of propagation ; 
Which after all at such a desperate rate runs, 

That half its produce tends to emigration, 
That sad result of passions and potatoes — 
Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 

XXXVIII. 

Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell ; [ment, 
I wish she had : his book's the eleventh command- 

Which says, " Thou shalt not marry," unless well : 
This he (as far as I can understand) meant. 

'Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell, 
Nor canvass what so " eminent a hand" meant; 3 

But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 

Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 

XXXIX. 

But Adeline, who probably presumed 

That Juan had enough of maintenance, 
Or seperate maintenance, in case 'twas doom'd — 

As on the whole it is an even chance 
That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd, 

May retrograde a little in the dance 
Of marriage — (which might form a painter's fame, 
Like Holbein's " Dance of Death " — but 'tis the 
same :) 

XL. 
But Adeline determined Juan's wedding, 

In her own mind, and that's enough for woman. 
But then with whom ? There was the sage Miss 
Reading, [Miss Knowman, 

Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and 
And the two fair co-heiresses, Giltbedding. [mon : 

She deem'd his merits something more than corn- 
All these were unobjectionable matches, 
And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. 

XLI. 
There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea, 

That usual paragon, an only daughter, 
Who seem'd the cream of equanimity, [water, 

Till skimm'd — and then there was some milk and 
With a slight shade of Blue too, it might be, 

Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter ? 
Love's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, 
And, being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 

XL1I. 

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 
A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 

Whose heart was fixed upon a star or bluestring ; 
But" whether English dukes grow rare of late, 

Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string, 
By which such sirens can attract our great, 

She took up with some foreign younger brother, 

A Russ or Turk — the one's as good as t' other. 

XLIII. 

And then there was — but why should I go on, 
Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 

Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, 

Of the best class, and better than her class, — 

Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 

A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 



DON JUAN. 



717 



XLIY- 

Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 

Child to the care of guardians good and kind : 

But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! 
Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 

Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 
By death, when we are left, alas ! behind, 

To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 

Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? "» 

XLV. 

Early in years, and yet more infantine 
In figure, she had something of sublime 

In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs shine. 
All youth — but with an aspect beyond time ; 

Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline : 
Mournful — but mournful of another's crime, 

She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 

And griev'd for those who could return no more. 

XLVI. 

She was a Catholic too, sincere, austere, 
As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 

And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear, 
Perhaps because 'twas fallen : her sires were proud 

Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear 
Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 

To novel power ; and as she was the last, 

She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 

XLVII. 

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 
As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 

As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, 
And kept her heart serene within its zone. 

There was awe in the homage which she drew ; 
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 

Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 

In its own strength — most strange in one so young. 

XLVIII. 

Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, 
Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue 

Beyond the charmers we have already cited : 
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 

Against her being mentioned as well fitted, 
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
Of single gentlemen who would be double. 

XLIX. 

And this omission, like that of the bust 
Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 

Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 

This he express'd half smiling and half serious ; 

When Adeline replied with some disgust, 
And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 

She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 

As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby ? " 



Juan rejoin'd — " She was a Catholic, 

And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion ; 

Since he was sure his mother would fall sick, 
And the Pope thunder excommunication, 

If" But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 

Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, stated — 

As usual — the same reason which she late did. 



LI. 



And wherefore not ? a reasonable reason 
If good, is none the worse for repetition ; 

If bad, the best way's certainly to tease on 
And amplify : you lose much by concision : 

Whereas insisting in or out of season 
Convinces all men, even a politician ; 

Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 

So the end's gain'd, what signifies the route? 

LII. 
Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 

For prejudice it was — against a creature 
As pure as sanctity itself from vice, 

With all the added charm of form and feature, 
From me appears a question far too nice, 

Since Adeline was liberal by nature ; 
But nature's nature, and has more caprices 
Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 

LIII. 

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 

With which Aurora on those baubles look'd, 

Which charm most people in their earlier day : 
For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, 

And womankind too, if we so may say, 

Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked; 

Like " Antony's by Ca?sar," by the few 

Who look upon them as they ought to do. 

LIV. 
It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 

Her place was far beyond it, and her minu 
It was not scorn — which could not light on one 

Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. 
It was not jealousy, I think : but shun 

Following the " ignes fatui " of mankind. 

It was not but 'tis easier far, alas ! 

To say what it was not, than what it was. 

LV. 
Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 

Of such discussion. She was there a guest, 
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 

Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, 
Which flow'd on a moment in the beam 

Thime sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 
Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled 
She had so much, or little, of the child. 

LVI. 

The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 

Much as she would have seen a glowworm shine, 
Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 

Juan was something she could not divine, 
Being no sibyl in the new world's ways , 

Yet she was nothing^ dazzled by the meteor, 

Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVII. 

His fame too, — for he -had that kind of fame [kind, 
Which sometimes plays the deuce with woman." 

A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, 

Half virtues and whole vices being combined ; 

Faults which attract because they are not tame ; 
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind :— 

These seals upon h* wax made no impression, 

Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 



718 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LVIII. 

Juan knew nought of such a character — 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee ; 

Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, 

More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 
Was nature's all : Aurora could not be 

Nor would be thus ; — the difference in them 

Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 

LIX. 

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 
Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, 

And, as my friend JScott says, " I sound my AVari- 
Scott, the superlative of my comparative — [son ; " 

Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or 

Saracen, • [share it, if 

Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would 

There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 

Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 

LX. 

1 say, in my slight way I may proceed 
To play upon the surface of humanity. 

I write the world, nor care if the world read, 
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 

My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 
More foes by this same scroll : when I began it, I 

Thought that it might turn out so — note I know it, 

But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 

LXI. 

The conference or congress (for it ended 
As congresses of late do) of the Lady 

Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 

Some acids with the sweets — for she was heady ; 

But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, 
The silvery bell rang, not for " dinner ready," 

But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress, 

Though ladies robes seem scant enough for less. 

LXII. 

Great things were now to be achieved at table, 
Yv r ith massy plate for armor, knives and forks 

For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer's able 
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 

To draw up in array a single day-bill 

Of modern dinners ? where more mystery lurks 

In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, 

Than witches,, b — ches, or physicians brew. 

LXIII. 
There was a goodly " soupe a la bonne femme," 

Though God knows whence it came from ; there 
A. turbot for relief of those who cram, [was too 

Relieved with dindon a la Perigeux ; 
There also was — the sinner that I am ! 

How shall I get this gourmand stanza through ? 
Soupe a la Beauveau, whose relief was dory, 
Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 

LXIV. 

But I must crowd all into one grand mess 
Or mass ; for should I stretch into detail, 

My Muse would run much more into excess, 

Than when some squeamish people deem her frail ; 

But, though a "bonne vivante," I must confess 
Her stomach's not her peccant part : this tale 

However doth require some sligfct refection, 

Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 



LXV. 

Fowls a. la Conde, slices eke of salmon, 

With sauces Genevoises, and haunch of venison J 

Wines too which might again have slain young Am- 
nion, 
A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon ; 

They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, 
Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison ; 

And then there was champagne with foaming whirls ; 

As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 

LXVI. 

Then there was God knows what " a l'Allemande," 

" Al'Espagnole," "timballe," and " Salpicole" — 
With things I can't withstand or understand, 

Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole ; 
And "entremets" to piddle with at hand, 

Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; 
"While great Lucullus' robe triumphale muffles 
( There's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with 
truffles.* 

LXVII. 
What are the fillets on the victor's brow [arch 

To these ? They are rags or dust. Where is the 
Which nodded to the nation's spoils below ? 

Where the triumphal chariot's haughty march ? 
Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 

Further I shall not follow the research : 
But oh ! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, 
When will your names lend lustre even to partridges ? 

LXVIII.. 

Those truffles, too, are no bad accessories, 
Follow'd by " petits puits d'amour," — a dish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
So every one may dress it to his wish, 

According to the best of dictionaries, 
Which encylopxdise both flesh and fish ; 

But even sans " confitures," it no less true is, 

There's pretty picking in those "petits puits." 5 

LXIX. 

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
Of intellect expanded on two courses: 

And indigestion's grand multiplication 
Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 

Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, 
That cookery could have call'd forth such resources, 

As form a science and a nomenclature 

From out the commonest demands of nature ? 

LXX. 

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled; 

The diners of celebrity dined eli ; 
The ladies with more moderation mingled 

In the feast, pecking less than I can tell ; 
Also the younger men too ; for a springald 

Can't like ripe age in gourmandize excel, 
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 

LXXI. 

Alas ! I must leave undescribed the gibier, 
The salmi, the consomme, the puree, 

All which I used to make my rhymes run glibber 
Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way., 

I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 

" Bubble and squeak " would spoil my liquid lay; 

But I have dined, and must forego, alas ! 

The chaste description even of a "becasse," 



DON JUAN. 



719 



LXXII. 

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature fcr the service of the gout, — 

Taste or the gout, — pronounce it as inclines 
Your stomach. Ere you dine, the French will do, 

But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
Which prove plain English truer of the two. 

Hast ever had the (/out? I have not had it — 

But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 

LXXIII. 
The simple olives, hest allies of wine, 

Must I pass over in my bill of fare ? 
I must, although a favorite "plat" of mine 

In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where: 
On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine, 

The grass my table cloth, in open air, 
On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 

LXXIV. 

Amid this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl, 

And vegetables, all in masquerade, 
The guests were placed according to their roll, 

But various as the various meats display'd : 
Don Juan sate next an " a l'Espagnole " — 

No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said ; 
But so far like a lady, that 'twas drest 
Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. 

LXXV. 

By some odd chance, too, he was placed between 

Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
A situation difficult, I ween, 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
Also the conference which we have seen 

"Was not such as to encourage him to shine ; 
For Adeline, addressing few words to him, 
With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through 
him. 

LXXVI. 
I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears ; 

This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things 
Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, [springs ! 

Of which 1 can't tell whence their knowledge 
Like that same mystic music of the spheres, 

Which no one hears so loudly though it rings. 
'Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard 
Long dialogues which pass'd without a word ! 

LXXVII. 

Aurora sat with that indifference 

Which piques a prcux chevalier — as it ought : 
Of all offences that's the worst offence, 

Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. 
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught, 
Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
And after so much excellent advice. 

LXXVIII. 

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, 
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 

Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 

The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride, 
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity ? 

Heaven knows ! But Adeline's malicious eyes 

Sparkled with her successful propHecies, 



LXXIX. 

And look'd as much as if to say, " I said it ; " — 
A kind of triumph I'll not recommend, 

Because it sometimes, as I've seen or read it, 
Both in the case of lover and of friend, 

Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, 
To bring what was a jest to a serious end ; 

For all men prophecy what is or was, 

And hate those who won't let them come to pass. 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, 
Slight but select, and just enough to express,-. 

To females of perspicuous comprehensions, 

That he would rather make them more than less. 

Aurora at the last (so history mentions, 

Though probably much less a faet than guess) 

So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, 

As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 

LXXXI. 

From answering, she began to question : this 
With her was rare : and Adeline, who as yet 

Thought her predictions went not much amiss, 
Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette — 

So very difficult, they say, it is 
To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 

In motion ; but she here too much refined — 

Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 

LXXXII. 

But Juan had a sort of winning way, 

A proud humility, if such there be, 
Which show'd such deference to what females say, 

As if each charming word were a decree. 
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay, 

And taught him when to be reserved or free : 
He had the art of drawing people out, 
Without their seeing what he was about. 

LXXXHI. 

Aurora, who in her indifference 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 
Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 

Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud — 
Commenced (from such slight things will great com- 
mence) 

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud 
Rather by deference than compliment 
And wins even by a delicate dissent. . 

LXXXIV. 

And then he had good looks ; — that point was carried 
Nem. con. among the women, which I grieve 

To say, leads oft to crim. con. with the married — 
A case which to the juries we may leave, 

Since with digressions we too long have tarried. 
Now though we know of old that looks deceive, 

And always have done, somehow these good looks 

Make more impression than the best of books. 

LXXXV. 

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
Was very young, although so very sage, 

Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
Especially upon a printed page. 

But virtue's self with all her tightest laces, 
Has not the natural stays of strict old age ; 

And Socrates, that model of all duty, 

Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 



720 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXVI. 

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

But innocently so, as Socrates : 
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic * 

At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
In virgins — always in a modest way, 
Observe ; for that with me's a " sine qua." 6 

LXXXVII. 

Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke, 
(See Littleton) whene'er I have express'd 

Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
Twin opposites, the second is the best. 

Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook, 
Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest ; 

But if a writer should be quite consistent, 

How could he possibly show things existent ? 

LXXXVIII. 

If people contradict themselves, can I 
Help contradicting them, and every body, 

Even my veracious self ? — but that's a lie ; 
I never did so, never will — how should I ? 

He who doubts all things, nothing can deny ; 

Truth's fountains may be clear — her streams are 
muddy, 

And cut through such canals of contradiction, 

That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 

LXXXIX. 

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 
Are false, but may be render'd also true 

By those who saw them in a land that's arable. 
'Tis wonderful what fable will not do ! 

'Tis said it makes reality more bearable : 
But what's reality ? Who has its clue ? 

Philosophy ? No ; she too much rejects. 

Religion ? Yes ; but which of all her sects ? 

XC. 

Some millions must be wrong, that's pretty clear; 

Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. 
God help us ! Since we've need on our career 

To keep our holy beacons always bright, 
'Tis time that some new prophet should appear 

Or old indulge man with a second-sight. 
Opinions wear out in some thousand years, 
Without a small refreshment from the spheres. 

XCI. 
But here again, why will I thus entangle 

Myself with metaphysics ? None can hate 
So much as I do any kind of WTangle ; 
And yet such is my folly, or my fate, 
I always knock my head against some angle 
About the present, past, or future state ; 
. Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 
For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 

XCII. 

But thotigh I am a temperate theologian, 

And also meek as a metaphysician, 
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, 

As Eldon on a lunatic commission, — 
In politics, my duty is to show John 

Bull something of the lower world's condition. 
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, 
To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. 



XCIII. 

But politics, and policy, and piety, 
Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 

Not only for the sake of their variety, 
But as subservient to a moral use ; 

Because my business is to dress society, 
And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. 

And now, that we may furnish with some matter al 

Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 

XCIV. 
And now 1 will give up all argument : 

And positively henceforth no temptation 
Shall " fool me to the top of my bent ; " 

Yes, I'll begin a thorough reformation. 
Indeed I never knew what people meant 

By deeming that my Muse's conversation 
Was dangerous ; — 1 think she is as harmless 
As some who labor more and yet may charm less 

xcv. 

Grim reader ! did you ever see a ghost ? 

No ; but you've heard — I understand — be dumb . 
And don't regret the time you may have lost, 

For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
And do not think I mean to sneer at most 

Of these things, or by a ridicule benumb 
That source of the sublime and the mysterious :— 
For certain reasons my belief is serious. 

XCVI. 
Serious ? You laugh : — you may ; that will I not ; 

My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
I say I do believe a haunted spot 

Exists — and where ? That shall I not reeall, 
Because I'd rather it should be forgot. 

' Shadows the soul of Richard " may appal : 
In short, upon that subject I've some qualms, very 
Like those of the philosophy of Malmsbury. 7 

XCVII. 

The night (I sing by night — sometimes an owl, 
And now and then a nightingale) — is dim, 

And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 

Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl — 
I wish to heaven they would not look so grim ; 

The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 

I think too that 1 have sate up too late : 

XCVIII. 

And therefore, though 'tis by no means my way 
To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 

To think of, if I ever think,— I say 

I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, 

And prudently postpone, until midday, 
Treating a topic which, alas ! but brings 

Shadows ; — but you must be in my condition 

Before you learn to call this superstition. 

XCIX. 

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 

'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge 

How little do we know that which we are ! 
How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 

Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 
Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 

Lash'd from the foam of ages ; while the graves 

Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 



DON JUAN. 



721 



CANTO XVI. 



The antique Persians taught three useful things,— 
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. 

This was the mode of Cyrus — best of kings — 
A mode adopted since by modern youth. 

Bows have they, generally with two strings ; 
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 

At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 

But draw the long bow better now than ever 

II. 

The cause of this effect, or this defect, 

" For this effect defective comes by cause," — 

Is what I have not leisure to inspect ; 
But this I must say in my own applause, 

Of all the muses that I recollect, 
Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 

In some things, mine's beyond all contradiction 

The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 

III. 

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
From any thing, this Epic will contain 

A wilderness of the most rare conceits, 

Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain. 

'Tis true, there be some bitters with the sweets, 
Yet mix'd so slightly that you can't complain, 

But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 

" De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis." 

IV. 

But of all truths which she has told, the most 
True is that which she is about to tell. 

I said it was a story of a ghost — 
What then ? I only know it so befell. 

Have you explored the limits of the coast 

Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell ? 

'Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 

The skeptics who would not believe Columbus. 



Some people would impose now with authority, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle ; 

Men whose historical superiority 
Is always greatest at a miracle. 

But Saint Augustine has the great priority, 
Who bids all men believe the impossible, 

Because 'tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he 

Quiets at once with " quia impossibile." 

VI. 

And therefore, mortals, cavil not all ; % 
Believe : — if 'tis improbable you must ; 

And if it is impossible, you shall : 

'Tis always best to take things upon trust. 

1 do not speak profanely to recall 
Those holier mysteries, which the wise and just 

Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, 

As all truths must, the more they are disputed. 
91 



VII. 



I merely mean to say what Johnson said, 
That in the course of some six thousand vears, 

All nations have believed that from the dead 
A visitant at intervals appears ; 

And what is strangest upon this strange head, 
Is that whatever bar the reason rears 

'Gainst such belief, there's something stronger still 

In its behalf, let those deny who will. 

VIII. 

The dinner and the soiree too were done 
The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired, 

The banqueters had dropp'd off one by one 

The song was silent, and the dance expired : 

The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone 
Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired, 

And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon 

Than dying tapers— and ihe peeping moon. 

IX. 

The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 

Or like a system coupled with a doubt ; 
Or like a soda-bottle, when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spiret out ; 
Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
Without the animatien of the wind ; 



Or like an opiate which brings troubled rest, 
Or none ; or like — like nothing that I know 

Except itself; — such is the human breast ; 
A thing, of which similitudes can show 

No real likeness, — like the old Tyrian vest 
Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, 

If from a shell-fish or from cochineal. 1 

So perish every tyrant's robe piecemeal. 

XI. 

But next to dressing for a rout or ball, 
Undressing is a wo ; our robe-de-chambre 

May sit like that of Nessus, and recall 

Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber 

Titus exclaim'd, " I've lost a day ! " Of all 
The nights and days most people can remember, 

(I have had of both some not to be disdain'd,) 

I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd. 

XII. 
And Juan, on retiring for the night, 

Felt restless and perplex'd, and compromised ; 
He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright 

Than Adeline (such is advice) advised ; 
If he had known exactly his own plight, 

He probably would have philosophized; 
A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 
Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sigh'd. 

XIII. 

He sigh'd ; — rhe next resource is the full moon, 
Where all sighs are deposited ; and now, 

It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
As clear as such a climate will allow ; 

And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 
To hail her with the apostrophe — " Oh, thou ! " 

Of amatory egotism the tuism, 

Which further to explain would be a truism. 



722 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIV. 



But lover, poet, or astronomer, 
Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, 

Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her : [cold 
Great thoughts we catch from thence, (besides a 

Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err ;) 
Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 

The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways, 

And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

XV. 

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
For contemplation rather than his pillow ; 

The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, 
Let in the rippling sonnd of the lake's billow, 

With all the mystery by midnight caused ; 
Below his window waved (of course) a willow ; 

And he stood gazing out on the cascade 

That fiash'd and after darken'd in the shade. 

XVI. 

Upon his table or his toilet — which 
Of these is not exactly ascertain'd — 

(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 
Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd) 

A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche, 
Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd, 

In chisell'd stone, and painted glass, and all 

That time has left our fathers of their hall. 

XVII. 

Then as the night was clear though cold, he threw 
His chamber-door wide open — and went forth 

Into a gallery of a sombre hue, 

Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth 

Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 
As doubtless should be people of high birth. 

But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 

Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 

XVIII. 
The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint 

Look living in the moon ; and as you turn 
Backward and forward to the echoes faint 

Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 
Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 

Start from the frames which fence their aspects 
As if to ask how you can dare to keep [stern, 

A vigil- there, where all but death should sleep. 

XIX. 

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, 
The charms of other days, in starlight gleams 

Glimmer on high ; their buried locks still wave 
Along the canvas ; their eyes glance like dreams 

On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 
But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 

A picture is the past ; even ere its frame 

Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 

XX. 

As Juan mused on mutability, 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 
No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that antique house, 
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 

A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
Most people, as it plays along the arrass. 



XXI. 

It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, array'd 
In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd, 

Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, 
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard ; 

His garments only a slight murmur made ; 
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 

But slowly ; and as he pass'd Juan by, 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 

XXII. 

Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 
Of such a spirit in these halls of old, 

But thought, like most men, there was nothing in't 
Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold, 

Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 
Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 

But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper 

And did he see this ? or was it a vapor ? 

XXIII. 
Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the thing of air, 

Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place ; 
And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, 

Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 
As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 

Twine like a lot of snakes around his face ; 
He tax'd his tongue for words which were not granted 
To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

XXIV. 

The third time, after a still longer pause, 

The shadow pass'd away — but where ? the hall 

Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
To think his vanishing unnatural : 

Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, 

Might come or go ; but Juan eould not state 

Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 

XXV. 

He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes 

Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gloam'd ; 
Then by degrees recall'd his energies, 

And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, . 
But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise, 

Waking already, and return'd at length 

Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 

XXVI. 

All there was as he left it ; still his taper 
Burnt, and not blue, as modern taper's use, 

Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapor ; 
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 

Their office ; he took up an old newspaper ; 
The paper was right easy to peruse : 

He read an article the king attacking, 

And a long eulogy of " Patent Blacking." 

XXVII. 

This savor'd of this world ; but his hand shook — 
He shut his door, and after having read 

A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
Undress'd, and rather slowly went to bed. 

There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 
With what he'd seen his phantasy he fed, 

And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 

Upon him by degrees, and so he sJept. 



DON JUAN. 



723 



XXVIII. 

He woke betimes ; and, as may be supposed, 
Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision, 

And whether it ought not to be disclosed, 
At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 

The more he thought, the more his mind was posed ; 
In the mean time, his valet, whose precision 

Was great, because his master brook 'd no less, 

Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 

XXIX. 

He dress'd ; and, like young people he was wont 
To take some trouble with his toilet, but 

This morning rather spent less time upon't ; 
Aside his very mirror soon was put ; 

His curls fell negligently o'er his front, 
His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut ; 

His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 

Almost a hair's breadth too much on one side. 

XXX. 

And when he walk'd down into the saloon, 
He sate him pensive o'er a^dish of tea, 

Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, 
Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be, 

Which made him have recourse unto his spoon ; 
So much distrait he was, that all could see 

That something was the matter — Adeline 

The first — but what she could not well divine. 

XXXI. 

She look'd and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale 
Herself; then hastily look'd down and mutter'd 

Something, but what's not stated in my tale. 
Lord Henry said his muffin was ill butter'd ; 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil, 
And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 

Aurora Raby, with her large dark eyes, 

Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 

XXXII. 

But seeing him all cold and silent still, 
And every body wondering more or less, 

Fair Adeline inquired if he were ill ? 

He started, and said, "Yes — no — rather — yes." 

The* family physician had great skill, 

And, being present, now began to express 

His readiness to feel his pulse, and tell 

The cause, but Juan said " he was quite well." 

XXXIII. 
" Quite well ; yes, no." — These answers were mys- 
terious, 

And yet his looks appeared to sanction both, 
However they might savor of delirious ; 

Something like illness of a sudden growth 
Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious : 

But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 
To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted, 
It was not the physician that he wanted. 

XXXIV. 
Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocalate, 

Also the muffin, whereof he complain'd, 
Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, 

At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd ; 
l'hen ask'd her grace what news were of the duke of 

Her grace replied, Ms grace was rather pain'd [late ? 
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 



XXXV. 

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd 
A few words of condolence on his state : 

" You look," quoth he, " as if you'd had your rest 
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 

" What friar ? " said Juan ; and he did his best 
To put the question with an air sedate, 

Or careless, but the effort was not valid 

To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 

XXXVI. 

" Oh ! have you not heard of the Black Friar ? 

The spirit of these walls ? " — " In truth not I." 
Why fame — but fame you know sometime's a liar — 

Tells an odd story, of which by and by : 
Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, 

Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 
For such sights, though the tale is half believed, 
The friar of late has not been oft perceived. 

XXXVII. 

" The last time was " " I pray," said Adeline — 

(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, 

And from its context thought she could divine 
Connexions stronger than he chose to avow 

With this same legend, 1 — " if you but design 
To jest, you'll choose some other theme just now, 

Because the present tale has oft been told, 

And is not much improved by growing old." 

XXXVIII. 

" Jest ! " quoth Milor, " Why, Adeline, you know 
That we ourselves — 'twas in the honey-moon — 

Saw " " Well, no matter, 'twas^ so long ago ; 

But come, I'll set your story to a tune." 

Graceful as Dian when she drajvs her bow, [soon 
She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled 

As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 

The air of " 'Twas a Friar of Orders Gray." 

XXXIX. 

" But add the words," cried Henry, " which you 
For Adeline is half a poetess, [made ; 

Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 
Of course the others could not but express 

In courtesy their wish to see display'd 

By one three talents, for there were no less — 

The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once 

Could hardly be united by a dunce! 

XL. 

After some fascinating hesitation, — 

The charming of these charmers, who seem bound 
I can't tell why, to this dissimulation — 

Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 
At first, then kindling into animation, 

Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 
And sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 

1. 
Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

Who sitteth by Norman stone, 
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 

Made Norman Church his prey, 
And expell'd the friars, one friar still 

Would not be driven away. 



724 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Though he came in his might, with King Henry's 

To turn church lands to lay, [right, 

With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Their walls, if they said nay, 
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 

And he did not seem form'd of clay, [church, 

For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in the 

Though he is not seen by day. 

3. 

And whether for good, or whether for ill, 

It is not mine to say; 
But still with the house of Amundeville, 

He abideth night and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said, 

He flits on the bridal eve ; 
And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death 

He comes — but not to grieve. 



When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn, 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He walks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'Tis shadow'd by his cowl ; 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 

And they seem of a parted soul. 



But beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar. 

He still retains his sway, 
For he is yet the church's heir, 

Whoever may be the lay. 
Amundeville is lord b^ day, 

But the monk is lord by night, 
Nor wine nor wassil could raise a vassal 

To question that friar's right. 



Say nought to him as he walks the hall, 

And he'll say nought to you : 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then gramercy ! for the Black Friar ; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul, 
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 

Let ours be for his soul. 

XLI. 

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound. 

And the pause follow'd, which, when song expires, 
Pervades a moment those who listen round ; 

And then, of course, the circle much admires, 
Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, 

The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 

To the performer's diffident confusion. 

XLII. 
Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 

As if she rated such accomplishment, 
As the mere pastime of an idle day, 

Pursued an instant for her own content, 
Would now and then as 'twere without display, 

Yet with display in fact, at times relent 
To such performances with haughty smile, 
To show she could, if it were worth her while. 



XLIII. 

Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 
Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 

Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pridj, 
As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 

Deeming the sage would be much mortified 
Or thrown into a philosophic passion, 

For a spoil'd carpet — but the "Attic Bee" 

Was much consoled by his own repartee. 9 

XLIV. 

Thus Adeline would throw into the shade, 
(By doing easily, whate'er she chose, 

What dilettanti do with vast parade,) 

Their sort of half prof ession : for it grows 

To something like this when too oft display'd, 
And that it is so every body knows 

Who've heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other 

Show off — to please their company or mother. 

XLV. 
Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios ! 

The admirations and ^he speculations ; 
The " Mamma Mias ! " and the " Amor Mio's ! " 

The " Tanti Palpitis " on such occasions : 
The " Lasciamis," and quavering " Addios ! " 

Among our own most musical of nations ; 
With "Tu mi chamas's" from Pontingale, 
To sooth our ears, lest Italy should fail. 3 

XLVI. 

In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, 
That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 

O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 
The calentures of music which o'ereome [lands ; 

All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh 
No more to be beheld but in such visions, — 
Was Adeline well versed as compositions. 

XLVII. 

She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue," [wrote; 

Could write rhymes, and compose more than she 
Made epigrams occasionally too 

Upon her friends, as every body ought. 
But still from that sublimer azure hue, 

So much the present dye, she was remote ; 
Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, 
And, what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. 

XLVIII. 
Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 

Which now-a-days is the thermometer 
By whose degrees all characters are class'd — 

Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 
The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste 

Had more of her existence, for in her 
There was a depth of feeling to embrace 
Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as space 

XLIX. 

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless grace, 
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind 

If she had any, was upon her face, 
And that was of a fascinating kind. 

A little turn for mischief you might trace 
Also thereon, — but that's not much ; we find 

Few females without some suchgentle leaven, 

For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. 






DON JUAN. 



725 



L. 



I have not heard she was at all poetic, [Guide," 
Though once she was seen reading the " Bath 

And "Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd pa- 
thetic % 
Because, she said, her temper had been tried 

So much, the bard had really been prophetic 

Of what she had gone through with — since a bride. 

But of all verse what most insured her praise 

Were sonnets to herself, or "bouts rimes." 

LI. 

'Twere difficult to say what was the object 
Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 

To bear on what appear'd to her the subject 
Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 

Perhaps she merely had the simple project 
To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 

Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it, 

Though why I cannot say — at least this minute. 

LII. 
But so far the immediate effect 

"Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 
A thing quite necessary to the elect, 

Who wish to take the tone of their society ; 
In which you cannot be too circumspect, 

Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, 
But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, 
On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 

LIII. 

And therefore Juan now began to rally 

His spirits, and, without more explanation, 

To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
Her grace, too, also seized the same occasion, 

With various similar remarks to tally, 

But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration 

Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, 

About the present family's deaths and wooings. 

LIV. 

Of these few could say more than has been said ; 

They pass'd, as such things do, for superstition 
With some ; while others, who had more in dread 

The theme, half credited the strange tradition, 
And much was talk'd on all sides on that head ; 

But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision, 
Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it) 
Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 

LV. 

And then, the midday having worn to one, 

The company prepared to separate : 
Some to their several pastimes, or to none; 

Some wondering 'twas so early, some so late. 
There was a goodly match, too, to be run 

Between some grayhounds on my lord's estate, 
And a young racehorse of old pedigree, . 
Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 

LVI. 

There was a picture-dealer, who had brought 

A special Titian, warranted original, 
Bo precious that it was not to be bought, 

Though princes the possessor were besieging all. 
The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought 

The civil list (he deigns to accept, obliging all 
His subjects by his gracious acceptation) 
Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 



LVII. 

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 
The friend of artists, if not arts,— the owner, 

With motives the most classical and pure, 
So that he would have been the very donor 

Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 
So muok he deem'd his patronage an honor, 

Had brought the capo d'oprra, not for sale, 

But for his judgment,— never known to fail. 

LVIII. 
There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 

Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, [so thick, 
Brought to survey these gray walls, which, though 

Might have from time acquired some slight defect ; 
Who, after rumaging the Abbey through thick 

And thin, produced a plan, whereby to erect 
New buildings of correctest conformation, 
And throw down old — which he cn\Y&*>-estoration. 

LIX. 
The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 

Set to some thousands, ('tis the usual burden 
Of that same tune, when people hum it long) — 

The price would speedily repay its worth in 
An edifice no less sublime than strong, [in 

By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth 
Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, 
For Gothic daring shown in English money. 4 

LX. 

There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase ; 

Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage, 

And one on tithes which sure are discord's torches, 

Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage, 
" Untying " squires " to fight against the 
churches ; " 5 

There was a prize ox, prize pig, and ploughman, 

For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 

LXI. 

There were two poachers caught in a steel trap, 
Ready for jail, their place of convalescence; 

There was a country girl in a close cap 

And scarlet cloak, (I hate the sight to see, since—" 

Since — since — in youth I had the sad mishap — 
But luckily I've paid few parish fees since.) 

That scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with rigor, 

Presents the problem of a double figure. 

LXII. 

A reel within a bottle is a mystery, 

One can't tell how it e'er got in or out, 

Therefore the present piece of natural history 
I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt, 

And merely state, though not for the consistory, 
Lord Henry was a jus'tice, and that Scout 

The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, 

Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 

LXIII. 

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 

And morals of the country from caprices 
Of those who've not a license for the same ; 

And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, 
Perhaps these are most difficult to tame : 

Preserving partridges and petty wenches 

Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. 



726 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXIV. 

The present culprit was extremely pale, 
Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being red 

By nature, as in higher dames less hale 

'Tis white, at least when they just rise from bed. 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail, 
Poor soul ! for she was country born and bred, 

And knew no better in her immorality 

Than to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 

LXV. 

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye, 
Had gather'd a large tear into its corner, 

Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, 
For she was not a sentimental mourner 

Parading all her sensibility, 
Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, 

But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, 

To be call'd up for her examination. 

LXVI. 

Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there 
Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 

The lawyers in the study ; and in air 
Yhe prize pig, ploughman, poachers ; the men sent 

From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 
Both busy (as a general in his tent 

Writing despatches) in their several stations, 

Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 

LXVII. 

But this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 

Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the " small") 
A mighty mug of moral double ale. 

She waited until justice could recall 
Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 

To name a thing in nomenclature rather 

Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father. 

LXVIII. 
You see here was enough of occupation 

For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses, 
There was much bustle too and preperation 

Below stairs on the score of second courses, 
Because, as suits their rank and situation, 

Those who in counties have great land resources, 
Have " public days " when all men may carouse, 
Though not exactly what's call'd " open house." — 

LXIX. 

But once a week or fortnight, wmnvited, 
(Thus we translate a general invitation,') 

All country gentleman, esquired or knighted, 

May drop in without cards, and take their station 

At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
With fashionable wines and conversation, 

And, as the isthmus of the grand connexion, 

Talk o'er themselves, the past and next election 

LXX. 
Lord Henry was a great electioneerer, 

Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit, 
But county contests cost him rather dearer, [bit 

Because the neighboring Scotch Earl of Giftgab 
Had English influence in the self-same sphere here 

His son, the Honorable Dick Dice-drabbit, 
Was member for " the other interest," (meaning 
"The same self-interest, with a different leaning.) 



LXXI. 

Courteous and cautious therefore in his county, 
He was all things to all men, and dispensed, 

To some civility, to others bounty, 

And promises # to all — which last commenced 

To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
Not calculating how much they condensed ; 

But, what with keeping some and breaking others, 

His word had the same value as another's. 

LXXII. 

A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 
No less a friend to government — he held 

That he exactly the just medium hit 

'Twixt place and patriotism — albeit compell'd, 

Such was his sovereign's pleasure, (though unfit, 
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd,) 

To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd, 

But that with them all law would be demolish'd. 

LXXIII. 
He was "free to confess," (whence comes this phrase: 

Is't English ? No — 'tis only parliamentary) 
That innovation's spiri't now-a-days 

Had made more progress than for the last century. 
He would not tread a factious path to praise, 

Though for the public weal disposed to venture 
As for his place, he could but say this of it, [high ; 
That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 

LXXIV. 

Heaven and his friends knew that a private life 
Had ever been his sole-and whole ambition ; 

But could he quit his king in times of strife [tion ? 
Which threaten'd the whole country with perdi- 

When demagogues would with a butcher's knife 
Cut through and through (oh, damnable incision !) 

The Gordian or the Geordian knot, whose strings 

Have tied together Commons, Lords, and Kings. 

LXXV. 

Sooner " come place into the civil list, [it, 

And champion him to the utmost" — he would keep 

Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd : 

Profit he cared not for, let other reap it ; 

But should the day come when place ceased to exist. 
The country would have far more cause to weep it ; 

For how could it go on ? Explain who can ! 

He gloried in the name of Englishman. 

LXXVI. 

He was as independent — ay, much more — 
Than those who were not paid for independence, 

As common soldiers, or a common shore 

Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 

O'er the irregulars in lust or gore 
Who do not give professional attendance. 

Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 

To prove their pride as footmen to a beggar. 

LXXVII. 

All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, 
And thought. I say no more — I've said too much; 

For all of us have either heard or read 

Off — or upon the hustings — some slight such 

Hints from the independent heart or head 
Of the official candidate. I'll touch 

No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung, 

And grace is said; the grace I should have sung— 



DON JUAN. 



727 



LXXVIII. 

But I'm too late, and therefore must make play. 

'Twas a great banquet, such as Albion old 
Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 

Were something very glorious to behold. 
But 'twas a public feast and public day, — 

Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, 
Great plenty, much ( formality, small cheer, 
And every body out of their own sphere. 

LXXIX. 

The squires familiarly formal, and 
My lords and ladies proudly condescending ; 

The very servants puzzling how to hand [ing 

Their plates — without it might be too much bend- 

From their high places by the sideboard's stand — 
Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending ; 

For any deviation from the graces 

Might cost both men and masters too — their^aces. 

LXXX. 

There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 
Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd 

Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen [to lurch; 
Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 

Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 
There were some massy members of the church, 

Takers of tythes, and makers of good matches, 

And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. 

LXXXI. 

There were some country wags, too, — and, alas ! 

Some exiles from the town, who had been driven 
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 

And rise at nine, in lieu of long eleven. 
And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 

I sate next that o'erwhelming son of heaven, 
The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, 
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with. 

LXXXII. 

I knew him in his livelier London days, 

A brilliant dinner-out, though but a curate ; 

And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 

(Oh, Providence ! how wondrous are thy ways ! 
Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate ?) 

Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, 

A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. 

LXXXIII. 

His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes ; 

But both were thrown away among the fens ; 
For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 

No longer ready ears and short-hand pens 
Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax : 

The poor priest was reduced to common sense, 
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, 
To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There is a difference, says the song, " between 
A beggar and a queen," or was (of late 

The latter worse used of the'two we've seen — 
But we'll say nothing of affairs of state) — 

A difference " 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 
A difference between crockery-ware and plate, 

As between English beef and Spartan broth — 

And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 



LXXXV. 

But of all nature's discrepancies, none 
Upon the whole is greater than the difference 

Beheld between the country and the town, 
Of which the latter merits every preference 

From those who've few resources of their own, 
And only think, or act, or feel with reference 

To some small plan of interest or ambition — 

Both which are limited to no condition. . 

LXXXVI. 

But " en avant ! " The light loves languish o'er 
Long banquets and too many guests, although 

A slight repast makes people love much more, 
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 

To these the invention of champagne and truffles 

Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. 

LXXXVII. 
Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day ; 

And Juan took his place he knew not where, 
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait; _ 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair ; 
Though knives and forks clang'd round as in a fray 

He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, 
Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 

LXXXVIII. 

On which, at the third asking of the bans, 
He started ; and, perceiving smiles around 

Broadening to grins, he colored more than once, 
And hastily — as nothing can confound 

A wise man more than laughter from a dunce — 
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound, 

And with such hurry that, ere he could curb it, 

He'd paid his neighbor's prayer with half a turbofc 

LXXXIX. 

This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd, 

The supplicator being an amateur; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third, 

Were angry — as they well might, to be sure. 
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 

XC. 
They little knew, or might have sympathized, 

That he the night before had seen a ghost ; 
A prologue, which but slightly harmonized 

With the substantial company engross'd 
By matter, and so much materialized, 

That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 
Of two things — how (the question rather old is) 
Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 

XCI. 
But what confused him more than smile or stare 

From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around, 
Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air, 

Especially as he had been renown'd 
For some vivacity among the fair, 

Even in the country circle's narrow bound — 
(For little things upon my lord's estate 
Were good small-talk for others still less great)— 



728 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCII. 

Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, 
And something like a smile upon her cheek. 

Now this he really rather took amiss : 
In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks 

A strong external motive ; and in this 
Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique, 

Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 

Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 

XCIII. 
'Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 
% Indicative of some surprise and pity ; 
And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 

Whicn wat not /ery wise and still less witty, 
Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 

A most important outwork of the city — 
As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
By last night's ghost been driven from their defences. 

XCIV. 

But, what was bad, she did not blush in turn, 
Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary : 

Her aspect was, as usual, still — not stern — 
And she withdrew, but cast not down her eye, 

Yet grew a little pale — with what ? concern ? 
I know not ; but her color ne'er was high — 

Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and always clear 

As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 

xcv. 

But Adeline was occupied by fame 

This day ; and watching, witching, condescending 
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, 

And dignity with courtesy so blending, 
As all must blend whose part it is to aim 

(Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
At their lord's, son's, and similar connexions' 
Safe conduct through the rocks of reelecrtions. 

XCVI. 

Though this was most expedient on the whole, 
And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 

On Adeline, while playing her grand role, 
Which she went through as though it were a dance, 

(Betraying only now and then her soul 
By a look scarce perceptible askance, 

Of weariness or scorn,) began to feel 

Some doubt how much of Adeline was real ; 

XCYII. 

So well she acted all and every part 

By turns — with that vivacious versatility, 
Which many people take for want of heart : 

They err — 'tis merely what is call'd mobility, 6 
A thing of temperament, and not of art, 

Though seeming so, from its supposed facility : 
And false — though true ; for surely they're sincerest 

Who're strongly acted on by what is nearest. 

XCYIII. 

This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, 
Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never, 

But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, 
Little that's great, but much of what is clever ; 

Most orators, but very few financiers, 

Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavor, 

Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigors, 

And grow quite figrftative with their figures. 



XCIX. 

The poets of arithmetic are they, 

Who, though they prove not two and two to be 
Five, as they would do in a modest way, 

Have plainly made it out that four are three, 
Judging by what they take and what they pay. 

The sinking Fund's unfathomable sea, 
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 

C. 

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 
The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease; 

Though too well-brjed to quiz men to their faces, 
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 

The ridicules of people in all places — 
That honey of your fashionable bees — 

And store it up for mischievous enjoyment ; 

And this at present was her kind employment. 

CI. 

However, the day closed, as days must close ; 

The evening also waned — and coffee came, 
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, 

And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, 
Retired : with most unfashionable bows, 

Their docile esquires also did the same, 
Delighted with the dinner and their host, 
But with the lady Adeline the most, 

CII. 

Some praised her beauty ; others her great grace ; 

The -warmth of her politenes, whose sincerity 
Was obvious in each feature of her face, 

Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. 
Yes : she was truly worthy her high place ! 

No one could envy her deserved prosperity : 
And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 
Draperied her form with curious felicity ! 7 

cm. 

Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved" their praises, 

By an impartial indemnification 
For all her past exertions and soft phrases, 

In a most edifying conversation, 
Which turn'dupon their late guests' miens and faces, 

And families, even to the last relation ; 
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, 
And truculent distortion of their tresses. 

CIV. 

True, she said little — 'twas the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram : 
But then 'twas to the purpose what she spoke : 

Like Addison's " faint praise " so wont to damn 
Her own but served to set off every joke, 

As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend ! 
I ask but this of mine, 4o — not defend. 

CV. 

There were but two exceptions to this keen 
Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one, 

Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ; 
And Juan too, in general behind none 

In gay remark on what he'd heard or seen, 
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone : 

In vain he heard the others rail or rally, 

He would not join them in a single sally. 



DON JUAN. 



729 



CVI. 



Tis true he saw Aurora look as though. 

She approved his silence ; she perhaps mistook 
Its motive for that charity we owe 

But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 
Further ; it might or it might not be so.: 

But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 
Observing little in his reverie, 
Yet saw this much which he was glad to see. 

CVII. 

The ghost at least had done him this much good, 

In making him as silent as a ghost, 
If in the circumstances which ensued 

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. 
And certainly Aurora had renew'd 
' In him some feelings which he had lately lost 
Or harden'd ; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
Are so divine, that I mnst deem them real : — 

CVIII. 

The love of higher things and better days ; 

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways ; 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise, 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
The heart in an existence of its own, 
Of which another's bosom is the zone. 

CIX. 

Who would not sigh At at rav Kvdcpciav 
, That hath a memory, or that had a heart r 
AJas her star must wane like that of Dian, 
©iay fades on ray, as years on years depart. 
Anacreon only had the soul to tie on 

Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 
Of Eros ; but, though thou hast play 'd us many tricks, 
Still we respect thee, " Alma Venus Genetrix ! " 

CX. 

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 
< Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 
Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 

Arrived, retired to his ; but to despond 
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 

Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 
Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, 
And make the wordling sneer, the youngling weep. 

CXI. 

The night was as before : he was undrest, 
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress : 

Completely " sans culotte," and without vest ; 
In short, he hardly could be clothed with less : 

But apprehensive of his spectral guest, 
He sate with feelings awkward to express, 

(By those who have not had such visitations,) 

Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 

CXII. 
And not in vain listen'd ; — Hush ! what's that ? 

I see — I see — Ah, no ! — 'tis not — yet 'tis — 
Ye powers ! it is the — the — the — Pooh ! the cat ! 

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his ! 
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, 

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 
92 



CXIII. 

Again— what is't ? The wind ? No, no, — this time 

It is the sable friar as before 
With awful footsteps regular as rhyme, 

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
Again through shadows of the night sublime, 

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
The starry darkness round her,like a girdle 
Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood 
curdle. 

CXIV. 
A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass, 8 

Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clatter, 
Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass, 

Sounding like very supernatural water, — 
Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas ! 

For immaterialism's a serious matter : 
So that even those whose faith is the most great 
In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. 

cxv. 

Were his eyes open ? — Yes ! and his mouth too. 

Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb, 
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through 

As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum : 
His eyes were open, and (as was before 
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next ? — the door. 

CXVI. 

It open'd with a most infernal creak, 

Like that of hell. " Lasciate ogni speranza, 

Vio che entrate ! " The hinge seem'd to speak, 
Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza ; 

Or — but all words upon such themes are weak : 
A single shade's sufficient to entrance a 

Hero — fdr what is substance to a spirit ? 

Or how is 'k matter trembles to come near it ? 

CXVII. 

The door flew wide, not swiftly — but, as fly 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 

And then swung back ; nor close — but stood awry, 
Half letting in long shadows on the light, 

Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, 
For he had two, both tolerably bright, — 

And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 

The sable friar in his solemn hood. 

CXVIII. 

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
The night before ; but, being sick of shaking, 

He first inclined to think he had been mistaken, 
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking ; 

His own internal ghost began to awaken 
Within him, and to quell his corporeal quaking — 

Hinting, that soul and body on the whole 

Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

CXIX. 

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce , 
And he arose — advanced — the shade retreated ; 

But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 
Follow'd ; bis veins no longer cold, but heated, 

Resolved to thrust the mystery cart and tierce, 
At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 

The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 

He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. 



730 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXX. 

J uan put forth one arm — Eternal powers ! 

It touch'd nor soul, nor body, but the wall, 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, 

Checker'd with all the tracery of the hall ; 
He shudder'd as no doubt the bravest cowers 

When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. 
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Should cause more fear than than a whole host's 
identity. 9 

CXXI. 
But still the shade remain'd : the blue eyes glared, 

And rather variably for stony death ; 
Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared, 

The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath : 
A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ; 

A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, 
Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 
The moon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud. 



CXXII. 

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder'. 

It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, 
Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. 

He found, as people on most trials must, 
That he had made at first a silly blunder, 

And that in his confusion he had caught 

Only the wall, instead of what he sought. 

CXXIII. 

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul 
As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 

Forth into something much like flesh and blood 

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, 

And they reveal'd — alas ! that e'er they should ! 

In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, 

The phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz-Fulke ! 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



CANTO I. 



Brave men were living before Agamemnon. 

Stanza v. 

, " Vixere fortes ante Agamemnoua," &c. — Horac& 



Save thine 



'■ incomparable oil," Macassar.' 
Stanza xvii. 



" Description des vertus incomparables de l'huile 
de Macassar." — See the advertisement. 

3. 
Although Lonqinus tells us there is no hymn 
Where the siiblime soars forth on xoings more ample. 

Stanza xiii. 
See Longinus, Section 10, Xva /iij Iv r« irtpt airnv 
rados aivvrai, -addv it avvoSos. 



They only add them all in an appendix. 

Stanza xliv. 
Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all 
the obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by them- 
selves at the end. 

5. 
The bard I quote from does not sing amiss. 

Stanza lxxxviii. 
Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming ; (I think) the 
opening of Canto II., but quote from memory. 



Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely? 

Stanza cxlviii. 
Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count 
O'Reilly did not take Algiers — but Algiers very 
nearly took him ; he and his army and fleet re- 
treated with great loss, and not much credit, from 
before that city, in the year 17—. 



7. 
My days of love are over, me no more. 

Stanza ccxvifc 

" Me nee faemina, nee puer 

Jam, nee Epes animi credula mutui j 
Nee certare juvat mere-, 
Nee vincire novis tempora floribus." 



CANTO III. 



For none likes more to hear himself converse 

Stanza xh 

Rispose allor Margutte : a dirtel tosto, 
lo non credo piu al nero, ch' a l'azzurro ; 
Ma nel cappone, o lesso, o vuogli arrosto ; 
E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro, 
Ne la cervogia, e quando' io n' ho nel raosto ; 
E molto piu ne 1' aspro che il mangurro ; 
Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede ; 
E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede. 

P0LCI, MoTgantt Maggiore, 

Canto xviii., Stanza cxr. 



That e'er by precious metal was held in. 

Stanza Ixxi. 
This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar 
are worn in the manner described. The reader will 
perceive hereafter, that, as the mother of Haidee 
was of Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the 
country. 

3 3. 

A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd. 

Stanza lxxi. 

The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of 
sovereign rank in the women of the families of th6 
Deys, and is worn as such by their female relatives. 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



731 



Her person, if allow'd at large to run. 

Stanza lxxiii. 
This is no exaggeration ; there were four women 
whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their 
hair in this profusion ; of these, three were English, 
the other was a Levantine. Their hair was of that 
length and quantity that, when let down, it almost 
entirely shaded the person, so as nearly to render 
dress a superfluity. Of these, only one had dark 
hair ; the Oriental's had, perhaps, the lightest 
color of the four. 

5. 
Oh Hesperus .' thoti br ingest all good things. 
Stanza cvii. 
'Eorrtps, iravra ipspcts, 
6c/)£ic oivov, tpepet; aiya, 
Bspeis jiaTtpt -naiSa. 

Fragment of Sappho. 



Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart, 

Stanza cviii. 

11 Era gi3 V ora che vulge '1 disio, 
A' iKivi^anti e 'ntenerisce il cuore 
Lo di cli* ban dello a 1 Jolci amici addio, 

E che lo nuovo peregTin d 1 amore 
Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano 
Che paja 'J giurno pian<rer che si muore." 

DANTE'S Purgatory, Canto viii. 

This last line is the first of Gray's Elegy, taken 
jy him without acknowledgment. 



Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb. 

Stanza cix. 
See Suetonius for this fact. 



CANTO IV. 

1. 

" Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore. 

Stanza xii. 
See Herodotus. 

2. 
A vein had burst. 

Stanza lix. 
This is no very uncommon effect of the violence 
of conflicting and different passions. The Doge 
Francis Foscari, on his deposition, in 1457. hearing 
the bell of St. Mark announce the election of his 
successor, " mouriit subitement d'une hemorrhagic 
causce par une veine qui s'eclata dans sa poitrine," 
(see Sismondi and Daru, vols. i. and ii.) at the age 
of eighty years, when " icho would have thought 
the old man had so much blood in him? " Before I 
was sixteen years of age, I was witness to a melan- 
choly instance of the same effect of mixed passions 
upon a young person ; who, however, did not die in 
consequence, at that time, but fell a victim some 
years afterwards to a seizure of the same kind, 
arising from causes intimately connected with 
agitation of mind. 

3. 
But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 

Stanza lxxx. 
This is a fact. A few years ago, a man engaged 
a company for some foreign theatre ; embarked 
them at an Italian port, and, carrying them to 
Algiers, sold them all. One of the women, returned 
from her captivity, I heard sing, by a strange coinci- 
dence, in Rossini's opera of " LTtaliana in Algieri," 
at Venice, in the beginning of 1817. 



From all the PopewMrfces yearly, 'twould perplex, 
To find three perfec^ipes of the third sex. 

Stanza lxxxvi. 
It is strange that it should be the pope and the 
sultan who are the chief encouragers of this branch 
of trade— women being prohibited as singers at St. 
Peter's, and not deemed trustworthy as guardians 
of the haram. 

5. 
While weeds and ordure rankle round the base. 

Stanza ciii. 
The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna, 
is about two miles from the city, on the opposite 
side of the river to the road towards Forli. Gaston 
de Foix, who gained the battle, was killed in it; 
there fell on both sides twenty thousand men. The 
present state of the pillar and its site is described 
in the text. 



CANTO V. 



The ocean stream. 

Stanza iii. 
This expression of Homer has been much criti- 
cised. It hardly answers to our Atlantic ideas of 
the ocean, but is sufficiently applicable to the Hel- 
lespont, and the Bosphorus, with the JEgean inter- 
sected with islands. 

2. 
" The Giant's Grave." 

Stanza v. 
"The Giant's Grave" is a height on the Asiatic 
shore of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday 
parties ; like Harrow and Highgate. 



And running out as fast as I was able. 

% Stanza xxxiii. 

The assassination alluded to took place on the 
eighth of December, 1820, in the streets of Ravenna, 
not a hundred paces from the residence of the 
writer. The circumstances were as described. 



Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
Stanza xxxiv 
There was found close by him an old gun-barrel, 
sawn half off: it had just been discharged, and was 
still warm. 

5. 
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 

Stanza liii. 
In Turkey, nothing is more common, than for 
the Mussulmans to take several glasses of strong 
spirits by way of appetizer. I have seen them take 
as many as six of raki before dinner, and swear that 
they dined the better for it ; I tried the experiment, 
but was like the Scotchman, who having heard that 
the birds called kittiewiaks were admirable whets, 
ate six of them, and complained that "he was no 
hungrier than when he began." 



Splendid but silent, save in one, where drooping, 
A marble fountain echoes. Stanza lv. 

A common furniture. — I recollect being received 
by Ali Pacha, in a room containing a marble basin 
and fountain, &c, &c, &c. 

7. 
The gate so splendid was in all its features. 

Stanza lxxxvii. 
Features of agate — a ministerial metaphor; "the 



732 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



feature upon which this question Litigcs." — See the 
'Fudge Family," or hear Ca&tlereagh. 



Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers. 

Stanza cvi. 

There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birth 
than the hand : it is almost the only sign of blood 
which aristocracy can generate. 



Save Sohjman, the glory of their line. 

Stanza cxlvii. 

It may not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in 
his essay on " Empire," hints that Soli/man was 
the last of his line ; on what authority, I know not. 
These are his words : " The destruction of Mustapha 
was so fatal to Solyman's line, as the succession of 
the Turks from Solyman, until this day, is sus 
pected to be untrue, and of strange blood ; for that 
Solymus the Second was thought to be supposi- 
tions." But Bacon, in his historical authorities, is 
often inaccurate. I could give half a dozen instances 
from his apophthegms only. 

Being in the humor of criticism, I shall proceed, 
after having ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to 
touch on one or two as trifling in the edition of the 
British Poets, by the justly celebrated Campbell: — 
But I do this in good will, and trust it will be so 
taken. — If any thing could add to my opinion of 
the talents and true feeling of that gentleman, it 
would be his classical, honest, and triumphant 
defence of Pope, against the vulgar cant of the day, 
and its existing Grub street. 

The inadvertencies to which I allude, are, — 

Firstly, in speaking of Anstey, whom he accuses 
of having taken " his leading characters from 
Smollett." Anstey's Bath Guide was published in 
1766. Smollett's Humphry Clinker (the only work 
of Smollett's from which Tabitha, &c, &c, could 
have been taken) was written during Smollett's last 
residence at Leghorn, in 1770. — "Argal," if there 
has been any borrowing, Anstey mujf; be the 
creditor, and not the debtor. I refer Mr. Campbell 
to his own data in his lives of Smollett and Anstey.. 

Secondly, Mr. Campbell says, in the life of Cow- 
per, (note to page 358, vol. 7,) that *• he knows not 
to whom Cowper alludes in these lines : " 

" Nor he who, for the bane of thousands born, 
Built Cod a church, and laugh 'd his name to scoru." 

The Calvanist meant Voltaire, and the church of 
Ferney, with its inscription, " Deo erexit Voltaire." 

Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. C. quotes 
Shakspeare thus, — 

11 To gild refined gold, to paint Vie rose. 
Or add fresh perfume to the violet." 

This version by no means improves the original, 
which is as follows : 

" To gild refined gold, to paint the lily. 
To throw a 'perfume on the violet," &c. 

King John. 

A great poet, quoting another, should be correct; 
he should also be accurate when he accuses a Par- 
nassian brother of that dangerous charge "borrow- 
ing:" a poet had better borrow any thing (excepting 
money) than the thoughts of another— they are 
always sure to be reclaimed ; but it is very hard, 
having been the lender, to be denounced as the 
debtor, as is the case of Anstey versus Smollett. 

As there is "honor among thieves," let there be 
some among poets, and give each his due, — none can 
afford to give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, 
who, with a high reputation for originality, and a 
fame which cannot be shaken, is the only poet of 
the times (except R.ogers) who can be reproached 
(and In him it is indeed a reproach) with having 
written too little. 



CANTO VI. 



A "wood obscure,'" like that where Dante found. 

Stanza lxxv 

" Nel mezzo del cainmin' di nostra vita 

Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura," &c, &c, &c. 



CANTO VII. 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 

Stanza li. 
Fact : Souvaroff did this in person. 



CANTO VIII. 



1. 



God's 



All sounds it pierceth, "Allah ! Allah ! Hu! " 

Stanza viii. 

"Allah! Hu!" is properly the war-cry of the 
Mussulmans, and they dwell long on the last sylla- 
ble, which gives it a very wild and peculiar effect. 

2. 
" Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is G 
daughter." Stanza i 

11 But thy most dreaded instrument 

In working out a pure intent, 
Is man array'd for mutual slaughter; 
Yea, Carnage it thy daughter 1 " 

WORDSWORTH'S Thanksgiving Ode. 

To wit, the Deity's. This is perhaps as pretty a 
pedigree for murder as ever was found out by Garter- 
King-at-arms. — What would have been said, had 
any free-spoken people discovered such a lineage ? 



Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. 

Stanza xviii. 
A fact : see the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect 
remarking at the time to a friend : — " There is 
fame! a man is killed — his name is Grose, and 
they print it Grove." I was at college with the 
deceased, who was a very amiable and clever man, 
and his society in great request for his wit, gayety, 
and " chansons a boire." 

4. 
As any other notion, and not national. 

Stanza xxiii. 
See Major Valiancy and Sir Lawrence Parsons. 



'Tis pity " that such meanings should pave hell." 

Stanza xxr. 
The Portugese proverb says that "Hell is paved 
with good intentions." 

6. 
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon ! 

Stanza xxxiii. 
Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by 
this friar. 

7. 
Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. 

Stanza xlvii. 
They were but two feet high above the level. 



That you and I will win Saint George's collar. 
Stanza xcvii. 
The Russian military order. ' 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



733 



9. 



(Powers 
Eternal! such names mingled !) " Ismail's ours !" 

Stanza cxxxiii. 
In the original Russian — 

" Slava bogu ! slava vam 1 
Krepost Vzala, y la tam." 

A kind of couplet ; for he was a poet. 



m 

CANTO IX. 
l. 

Humanity would rise and thunder " Nay ! " 

Stanza i. 
Query, Ney ? — Printer's Devil. 

2. 

And send the sentinel before your gate. 
A slice or two from your luxurious meals. 

Stanza vi. 

" I at this time got a post, being for fatigue, with 
four others. — We were sent to break biscuit, and 
make a mess for Lord Wellington's hounds. I was 
very hungry, and thought it a good job at the time, 
as we got our own fill while we broke the biscuit, — a 
thing I had not got for some days. When thus 
engaged, the Prodigal Son was never once out of 
my mind ; and I sighed, as I fed the dogs, over my 
humble, situation and my ruined hopes." — Journal 
of a Soldier of the l\st Regt. during the tear in Spain. 

3. 

Because he could no more digest his dinner. 

Stanza xxxiii. 
He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper 
had been exasperated, by his extreme costivitv, to 
a degree of insanity. 

4. 

And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 
Stanza xlvii. 
He was the "grande passion" of the grande 
Catherine. — See her Lives, under the head of 
"Lanskoi." 

5. 
Bid Ireland's Londonderry 's Marquess show 
His parts of speech. Stanza xlix. 

This was written long before the suicide of that 
person. 

6. 

Your "fortune " icas in a fair way " to swell 
Avian," as Giles says. Stanza lxiii. 

" His fortune swells him, it is rank, he's married." 
—Sir Giles Overreach ; Massinger. — See "A New 
Way to Pay Old Debts" 



3. 



CANTO X. 
l. 

Would scarcely join again the " reformadoes." 

Stanza xiii. 
"Reformers," or rather " Reformed." The Bar- 
on Bradwardine, in Waverly, is authority for the 
■word. 

2. 

The endless soot bestoios a tint far deeper 
Thancan be hid by altering his shirt. 

Stanza xv. 
Query, suit? — Printer's Devil. 



Balgouine's Brig's black wall. 

Stanza xviii. 
The brig of Don, near the "auld toun " of Aber- 
deen, with its one arch and its blacK deep salmon 
stream below, is in my memory as yesterday. I 
still remember, though perhaps I may misquote, 
the awful proverb which made me pause to cross it, 
and yet lean over it with a childish»delight, being 
an only son, at least by the mother's side. The 
saying, as recollected by me, was this — but I have 
never heard or seen it since I was nine years of age : 

" Bug of Balgomiie, black's your wa J ; 
Wi 1 a wife's ae son and a mear's ae foal, 
Down ye shall fa' ! " 

4. 
Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant 
Thy praise, hypocrisy! Stanza xxxiv. 

A metaphor taken from the " forty-horse power " 
of a steam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend 
Sidney Smith, sitting by a brother-clergyman at din- 
ner, observed afterwards that his dull neighbor had 
a " twelve-parson power" of conversation. 



To strip the Saxons of their hydes like tanners. 
Stanza xxxvi. 
" Hyde." — I believe a hyde of land to be a legiti- 
mate word, and as such subject to the tax of a quib 
ble. ' 

6. 
Was given to her favorite, and now bore his. 
Stanza xlix. 
The Empress went to the Crimea, accompanied 
by the Emperor Joseph, in the year — I forget which. 

7. 
Which gave her dukes the graceless name of" Biron." 

Stanza lviii. 
In the Empress Anne's time, Biren her favorite 
assumed the name and arms of the " Birons " of 
France, which families are yet extant with that of 
England. There are still the daughters of Cour- 
land of that name ; one of them I remember seeing 
in England in the blessed year of the Allies — the 
Duchess of S. — to whom the English Duchess of 
Somerset presented me as a namesi^te. 



Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone 
The greatest number flesh hath ever known. 

Stanza lxii. 
St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were 
still extant in 1816, and may be so yet as much as 
ever. 

9. 
WJio butcher 'd half the earth, and bullied t'other. 

Stanza lxxxi. 
India. America. 



CANTO XI. 



l. 



Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing) 
So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing f 

Stanza xix. 
The advance of science and of language has ren- 
dered it unnecessary to translate the above good 
and true English, spoken in its original purit) by 
the select nobility and their patrons. The following 
is a stanza of a song which was very popular, at 
least in my early days : — 



734 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" Ou the high toby-spice flash the muzzle, 
In spite of each gallows old scout; 
If you at the spellken can't hustle, 
You'll lie hobbled in making a Clout. 

" Then your blowing will wax gallows haughty, 
When she hears of your scaly mistake, 
She'll surely turn snitch for the forty, 
That her Jack may be regular weight." 

If there be any gem'man so ignorant as to require 
a traduction, Prefer him to my old friend and cor- 
poreal pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Pro- 
fessor of Pugilism ; who I trust still retains the 
strength and symmetry of his model of a form, 
together with his good humor, and athletic as well 
as mental accomplishments. 

2. 
St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells." 
Stanza xxix. 
"Hells," gaming-houses. What their number 
may now be in this life, I know not. Before I was 
of age, I knew them pretty accurately, both " gold " 
and " silver." I was once nearly called out by an 
acquaintance, because when he asked me where 
I thought his soul would be found hereafter, I 
answered, "In Silver Hell." 



and therefore even 1 won't anent 

This subject quote. Stanza xliii. 

"Anent," was a Scotch phrase, meaning "con 
cerning," — " with regard to." It has been made 
English by the Scotch Novels ; and, as the French 
man said — " If it be not, ought to be English." 



The milliners tcho furnish " drapery misses." 

Stanza xlix. 

"Drapery misses" — This term is probably any 
thing now but a mystery. It was, however, almost 
so to me when I first returned from the East in 
1811-1812. It means a pretty, a high-born, a fash- 
ionable young female, well instructed by her friends, 
and furnished by her milliner with a wardrobe upon 
credit, to be repaid, when married, by the husband. 
The riddle was first read to me by a young and 
pretty heiress, on my praising the " drapery " of an 
"untochered" but "pretty virginities" (like Mrs. 
Anne Page) of the then day, which has now been 
some years yesjerday : — she assured me that the 
thing was common in London ; and as her own 
thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicity 
of array, put any suspicion in her own case out of 
the question, I confess I gave some credit to the 
allegation. If necessary, authorities might be cited, 
in which case I could quote both "drapery" and 
the wearers. Let us hope, however, that it is now 
obsolete. 

5. 

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 

Should Ut itself be snuff 'd out by an article. 
. Stanza lx. 

"Divmoe particulam aurse." 



CANTO XII. 



dives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 

Stanza xix. 
See Mitfoed's Greece. " Graecia Verax." His 
great pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusin°- 
Plutarch, spelling oddly, and writing quaintly ; and" 
what is strange after all, his is the best modern his- 
tory of Greece in any language, and he is perhaps 



the best of all modern historians whatsover. Hay- 
ing named his sins, it is but fair to state his virtues 
— learning, labor, research, wrath, and partiality. 
I call the latter virtues in a writer, because they 
make him write in earnest. 



A hazy widower turn'd of forty's sure, 

Stanza xxxvii. 
This line may puzzle the commentators more than 
the present generation. 

Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows. 

Stanza lxxiii. 
The Russians, as is well known, run out from 
their hot baths to plunge into the Neva : a pleasant 
practical antithesis, which it seems does them no 
harm. 

4. 
The world to gaze upon those northern lights.' 
Stanza lxxxii. 
For a description and print of this inhabitant s f 
the polar region and native country of the aurora 
borealis, see F ARBY' sVoy age in Search of the North- 
West Passage. 

5. 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. 

Stanza lxxxvi. 
A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a 
statue of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, 
I believe, a river in his pocket, with various other 
similar devices. But Alexander's gone, and Athos 
remains, I trust, ere long, to look over a nation of 
freemen. 



CANTO XIII. 



Right honestly, " he liked an honest hater." 

Stanza vii. 

"Sir, I like a good hater." — See the Life of Dr. 
Johnson, &c. 

2. 
Also there bin another pious reason. 

Stanza xxvi. 
"With every thing that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet arise." — Shakspeare. 

3. 

They and their bills " Arcadians both," are left. 

Stanza xlv. 
"Arcades ambo." 

4. 
Or wilder groups of savage Salvatore's. 

Stanza lxxi. 
Salvator Rosa. 

5. 
His bell-mouth' d goblet makes me feel quite Danish. 

Stanza lxxii. 

If I err not, "Your Dane" is one of Iago's cat- 
alogue of nations "exquisite in their drinking." 



u. 

Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura. 

Stanza lxxviii. 
In Assyria. 

7. 
" That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies," 

Stanza xcvi. 
" Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was 
blasphemous to talk of Scripture out of church." 
This dogma was broached to her husband — the best 
Christian in any book. See Joseph Andrews, in the 
' latter chapters. 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



735 



The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 

Should have a hook and a small trout to pull it. 

Stanza cvi. 

It would have taught him humanity at least. 
This sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to 
quote (among the novelists) to show their sympathy 
for innocent sports and old songs, teaches how to 
sew up frogs, and break their legs by way of experi- 
ment, in addition to the art of angling, the crudest, 
the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended sports. 
They may talk about the beauties of nature, but 
the angler merely thinks of his dish of fish ; he has 
no leisure to take his eyes from off the streams, and 
a single bite is worth to him more than all the 
scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a 
rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny 
fishery have somewhat of noble and perilous in 
them ; even net-fishing, trawling, &c, are more hu- 
mane and useful — but angling ! — No angler can be 
a good man. 

" One of the best men I ever knew — as humane, 
delicate-minded, generous, and excellent creature 
as any in the world — was an angler : true, he angled 
with painted flies, and would have been incapable 
of the extravagances of I. Walton." 

The above addition was made by a friend in read- 
ing over the MS. — "Audi alteram partem " — I leave 
it to counterbalance my own observation. 



CANTO XIV. 



l. 



And never craned, and made but few " faux pas." 

Stanza xxxiii. 
Craning. — "To crane" is, or was, an expression 
used to denote a gentleman's stretching out his 
neck over a hedge, " to look before he leaped: " — 
a pause in his "vaulting ambition," which in the 
field doth occasion some delay and execration in 
those who may be immediately behind the eques- 
trian skeptic. " Sir, if you don't choose to take 
the leap, let me " was a phrase which generally 
sent the x aspirant on again; and to good purpose: 
for though " the horse and rider " might fall, they 
made a gap, through which, and over him and his 
steed, the field might follow. 

2. 

Go to the coffee-house, and take another. 

Stanza xlviii. 

In Swift's or-HoRA.CE Walpole's Letters, I 
think it is mentioned that somebody regretting the 
loss of a friend, was answered by a universal Py- 
lades : " When I lose one, I go to the Saint James's 
Coffee-house, and take another." 

I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same 
kind. Sir W. D. was a great gamester. Coming 
in one day to the club of which he was a member, 
he was observed to look melancholy. "What is 
the matter, Sir William ? " cried Hare, of facetious 
memory. " Ah ! " replied Sir W. " I have just lost 
poor Lady D." "Lost! What! at — Quinze or 
Hazard?" was the consolatory rejoinder of the 
querist. 

3. 
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. 

Stanza lix. 

The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his 
son, on the latter expressing his surprise upon the 
great effects arising from petty causes in the pre- 
sumed mystery of politics : " You see by this, my 
son, with how little wisdom the kingdoms of the 
world are governed." 



CANTO XV. 



And Thou, diviner still. 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 

Stanza xviii. 
As it is necessary in these times to avoid am- 
biguity, I say, that I mean, by "Diviner still," 
Christ. If ever God was Man— or Man God— he 
was both. I never arraigned his creed, but the use 
—or abuse— made of it. Mr. Canning one day 
quoted Christianity to sanction Negro Slavery, and 
Mr. Wilberforce had little to say in reply. And 
was Christ crucified, that black men might be 
scourged ? If s# he had better been born a Mu- 
latto, to give both colors an equal chance of free- 
dom, or at least salvation. 

2. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargoed marriage 

In his harmonious settlement. 

Stanza xxxv. 

This extraordinary and flourishing German colony 
in America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as 
the " Shakers " do ; but lays such restrictions upon 
it as prevent more than a certain quantum of births 
within a certain number of years ; which births (as 
Mr. Hulme observes) generally arrive "in a little 
flock like those of a farmer's lambs, all within the 
same month perhaps." These Harmonists (so 
called from the name of their settlement) are 
represented as a remarkably flourishing, pious, and 
quiet people. See the various recent writers on 
America. 

3. 

Nor canvass what " so eminent a hand " meant. 
Stanza xxxviii. 

Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, was accus- 
tomed to call his writers " able pens " — "persons 
of honor " and especially " eminent hands." Vide 
correspondence, &c., &c. 

4. 
WTiile great Lucidlus' robe triumphale muffles — 
f There's fame)— young partridge fillets, deck'd with 
truffles. Stanza lxvi. 

A dish "a la Lucullus." This hero, \vho con- 
quered the East, has left his more extended celeb- 
rity to the transplantation of cherries (which he 
first brought into Europe) and the nomenclature of 
some very good dishes ; — and I am not sure that 
(barring indigestion) he has not done more service 
to mankind by his cookery than by his conquests. 
A cherry-tree may weigh against a bloody laurel ; 
besides, he has contrived to earn celebrity from 
both. 

5. 
But even sans "confitures," it no less true is, 
There's pretty picking in those " petitspuits." 

Stanza lxviii. 
" Petits puits d'amour garnis de confitures," a 
classical and well-known dish for part of the flank 
of a second course. 

G. 
For that with me's a " sine qua." 

Stanza lxxxvi. 
Subauditur "Non," omitted for the sake of euphony. 

7. 
In short, upon that subject I've some qualms very 
Like those of the Philosopher of Malmsbwn/'. 

Stanza xcvi. 
Hobbcs ; who doubting of his own soul, paid that 
compliment to the souls of other people as to de- 
cline their visits, of which he had some apprehen- 
sion. 



736 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XVI. 

l. 

If front a shell-fish or from cochineal. 

Stanza x. 

The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whe- 
ther from a shell-fish, or from cochineal, or from 
kermes, is still an article of dispute ; and even its 
color — some say purple, others scarlet : I say 
nothing. 

For a spoil'd carpet — but the " Attic Bee " 
Was much consoled by his own repartee. 

Stanza xliii. 

I think that it icas a carpet on^vhich Diogenes 
trod, with — "Thus I trample on the pride of 
Plato ! " — " With greater pride," as the other re- 
plied. But as carpets are meant to be trodden upon, 
my memory probably misgives me ; and it might be 
a robe, or tapestry, or a table-cloth, or some other 
expensive and uncynical piece of furniture. 

3. 
With " Tu mi chamas's " from Fortingale, 
To sooth our ears, lest Italy should fail. 

Stanza xlv. 

I remember that the mayoress of a provincial 
town, somewhat surfeited with a similar display 
from foreign parts, did rather indecorously break 
through the applauses of an intelligent audience — 
intelligent, I mean, as to music, — for the words, be- 
sides being in recondite languages (it was some 
years before the peace, ere all the world had trav- 
elled, and while I was a collegian) — were sorely 
disguised by the performers ; — this mayoress, I say, 
broke out with " Rot your Italianos ! for my part, 
I loves a simple ballat ! " Rossini will go a good 
way to bring most people to the same opinion some 
day. Who would imagine that he was to be the 
successor of Mozart ? However, I state this with 
diffidence, as a liege and loyal admirer of Italian 
music in general, and of much of Rossini's: but 
we may say, as the connisseur did of painting, in 
the Vicar of Wakefield, " that the picture would 
be better painted, if the painter had taken more 
pains." 



For Gothic daring shown in English money. 

Stanza lix. 
" Ausu Romano, sere Veneto" is the inscription 
(and well inscribed in this instance) on the sea- 
walls between the Adriatic and Venice. The walls 
were a republican work of the Venetians : the in- 
scription, I believe, imperial, and inscribed by Na- 
poleon. 

h. 
' Untying " squires " to fight against the churches." 

Stanza lx. 

" Though ye untie the winds, and bid them fight 
Against the churches." — Macbeth. 



They err — 'tis merely what is call'd mobility."' 
Stanza xcvii. 
In French "mobilite." I am not sure that mo- 
bility is English ; but it is expressive of a quality 
which rather belongs to other climates, though it is 
sometimes seen to great extent in our own. It 
may be defined as an excessive susceptibility of im- 
mediate impressions — at the same time without 
losing the past — and is, though sometimes appa- 
rently useful to the possessor, a most painful and 
unhappy attribute. 

7. 
Draperied her form with curious felicity. 

Stanza cii. 
" Curiosa felicitas." — Petronius Arbiter. 



A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass. 
Stanza cxiv. 
See the account of the ghost of the uncle ol 
Prince Charles of Saxony, raised by Schroepter— 
" Karl-Karl — was — wait wolt mich ? " 

• 9. 

How odd a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity 

Stanza cxx. 

" Shadow* to-night 
Have etruck more terror to the soul of Richard 
Than can the tubtt&nce of ten thousand soldiers, &c, &c." 
See Richard III. 



LETTERS 



LETTERS. 



LETTER I. 

TO MISS PIGOT OF SOUTHWELL. 

" Burgage Manor, August 29, 1804. 

" I received the arms, my dear Miss Pigot, and 
am very much obliged to you for the trouble you 
have taken. It is impossible I should have any 
fault to find with them. The sight of the drawings 
gives me great pleasure for a double reason, — in the 
first place, they will ornament my books ; in the 
next, they convince me that you have not forgotten 
me. I am, however, sorry you do not return sooner 
— you have already been gone an age. I perhaps 
may have taken my departure for London before 
you come back ; but, however, I will hope not. Do 
not overlook my watch-ribbon and purse, as I wish 
to carry them with me. Your note was given me 
by Harry, at the play, whither I attended Miss Lyon 

and Dr. S ; and now I have sat down to answer 

it before I go to bed. If I am at Southwell when 
you return, — and I sincerely hope you will soon, for 
I very much regret your absence, — I shall be happy 
to hear you sing my favorite, ' The Maid of Lodi.' 
My mother, together with myself, desires to be 
affectionately remembered to Mrs. Pigot, and be- 
lieve me, my dear Miss Pigot, I remain your affec- 
tionate friend, " Byron. 

"P.S. If you think proper to send me any an- 
swer to this, I shall be extremely happy to receive 
it. Adieu. 

" P.S. 2d. As you say you are a novice in the art 
of knitting, I hope it don't give you too much 
trouble. Go on slowly, but surely. Once more, 
adieu." 



LETTER II. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



" 16 Piccadilly, August 9, 1810. 

" My Dear Pigot, 

" Many thanks for your amusing narrative of the 
last proceedings of my amiable Alecto,* who now 
begins to feel the effects of her folly. I have just 
received a penitential epistle, to which, apprehen- 
sive of pursuit, I have despatched a moderate an- 
swer, with a kind of promise to return in a fort- 
night ; — this, however, fentre nous,) 1 never mean 
to fulfil. Her soft warblings must have delighted 
her auditors, her higher notes being particularly 
musical, and on a calm moonlight evening would be 
heard to great advantage. Had I been present as a 
spectator, nothing would have pleased me more ; 
but to have come forward as one of the ' dramatis 



* His Mother. Her recent violence of temper had compelled him to fly to 
Louden, 



persona;,' — St. Dominie defend me from such a 
scene ! Seriously, your mother has laid me under 
great obligations', and you, with the rest of your 
family, merit my warmest thanks for your kind con- 
trivance at my escape from ' Mrs. Byron furiosa.' 

" Oh ! for the pen of Ariosto to rehearse, in epic, 
the scolding of that momentous eve, — or rather, let 
me invoke the shade of Dante to inspire me, for 
none but the author of the 'Inferno ' could properly 
preside over such an attempt. But, perhaps, where 
the pen might fail, the pencil would succeed. What 
a group ! — Mrs. B. the principal figure; you cram- 
ming your ears with cotton, as the only antitode to 

total deafness ; Mrs. in vain endeavoring to 

mitigate the wrath of the lioness robbed of her 
whelp ; and last, though not least, Elizabeth and 
Wousky, — wonderful to relate! — both deprived of 
their parts of speech, and bringing up the rear in 
mute astonishment. How did S. B. receive the in- 
telligence ? How many puns did he utter on so fa- 
cetious an event ? In your next inform me on this 
point, and what excuse you made to A. You are 
probably by this time tired of deciphering this hie- 
roglyphical letter ; — like Tony Lumpkin, you will 

pronounce mine to be a d d up and down hand. 

All Southwell, without doubt, is involved in amaze- 
ment. Apropos, how does my blue-eyed nun, the 
fair * * ? is she ' robed in sable garb of too?' 

" Here I remain at least a week or ten days ; 
previous to my departure you shall receive my ad- 
dress, but what it will be I have not determined. 
My lodgings must be kept secret from Mrs. B. ; you 
may present my compliments to her, and say any 
attempt to pursue me will fail, as I have taken 
measures to retreat immediately to Portsmouth, on 
the first intimation of her removal from Southwell. 
You may add, I have now proceeded to a friend's 
house in the country, there to remain a fortnight. 

" I have now blotted (I must not say written) a 
complete double letter, and in return shall expect a 
?no?istrous budget. WithouJ doubt, the dames of 
Southwell reprobate the pernicious example' I have 
shown, and tremble lest their babes should disobey 
their mandates, and quit in dudgeon their mammas 
on any grievance. Adieu. When you begin your 
next, drop the ' lordship,' and put ' Byron ' in its 
place. Believe me yours, &c. " Byron." 



LETTER III. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



" London, August 10, 1806. 

"My Dear Bridget, 

"As I have already troubled your brother with 
more than he will find pleasure in deciphering, you 



740 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



are the next to whom I shall assign the difficult 
employment of perusing this second epistle. You 
will perceive from my first, that no idea of Mrs. B.'s 
arrival hd^pisturbed me at the time it was written ; 
not so the present, since the appearance of a note 
from the illustrious cause of my sudden decampment 
has driven the ' natural ruby from my cheeks,' and 
completely blanched my wo-begone countenance. 
This gunpowder intimation of her arrival, (confound 
her activity !) breathes less of terror and dismay than 
you will probably imagine from the volcanic tempera- 
ment of her ladyship, and concludes with the com 
fortable assurance of all present motion being pre 
vented by the fatigue of her journey, for which my 
blessings are due to the rough roads and restive 
quadrupeds of his majesty's highways. As I have 
not the smallest inclination to be chased round the 
country, I shall e'en make a virtue of necessity, 
and, since, like Macbeth, ' They've tied me to the 
stake, I cannot fly,' I shall imitate that valorous 
tyrant, and ' bear-like fight the course,' all escape 
being precluded. I can now engage with less disad- 
vantage, having drawn the enemy from her en- 
trenchments, though, like the prototype to whom I 
have compared myself, with an excellent chance of 
being knocked on the head. However, ' lay on, 

Macduff, and d d be he who first cries, hold, 

enough.' 

" I shall remain in town for, at least, a week, and 
expect to hear from you before its expiration. I 
presume the printer has brought you the olfspring 
of my poetic mania. Remember, in the first lin.e, 
to read loud the winds whistle,' * instead of 
'round,' which that blockhead Ridge has inserted 
by mistake, and makes nonsense of the whole 
stanza. Addio ! — Now to encounter my Hydra. 
Yours ever." 



LETTER IV. 



TO MR. riGOT. 



" London, Sunday, midnight, August 10, 180S. 

" Dear Pigot, 

"This astonishing packet will, doubtless, amaze 
you, but having an idle hour this evening, I wrote 
the enclosed stanzas, which I request you to deliver 
to Ridge, to be printed separate from my other com- 
positions, as you will perceive them to be improper 
for the perusal of ladies ; of course, none of the fe- 
males of your family must see them. I offer a 
thousand apologies for the trouble I have£iven you 
in this and other instances. Yours truly." 



LETTER V. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



" Piccadilly, August 16, 1806. 

_' : I cannot exactly say with Cocsar, ' Veni, vidi, 
rici : ' however, the most important part of his la- 
conic account of success applies to my present situ- 
ation ; for, though Mrs. Byron took the trouble of 
' coming ' and ' seeing,' yet your humble servant 
proved the victor. After an obstinate engagement 
of soir.3 hours, in which we suffered considerable 
damage, from the quickness of the enemy's fire, 
they at length retired in confusion, leaving behind 
the artillery, field equipage, and some prisoners : 
their defeat is decisive of the present campaign. To 
speak more intelligibly, Mrs. B. returns immedi- 
ately, but I proceed, with all my laurels, to Worth- 
ing, on the Sussex coast ; to which place you will 
address (to be left at the post-office) your next epis- 



See Hours of Idleness, page 413. 



tie. By the enclosure of a second jingle of rhyme, 
you will probably conceive my muse to be vastly 
prolific ; her inserted production was brought forth 
a few years ago, and found by accident on Thursday 
among some old papers. I have recopied it, and, 
adding the proper date, request it may be printed 
with the rest of the family. I thought your senti- 
ments on the last bantling would coincide with 
mine, but it was impossible to give it any other 
garb, being founded on facts. My stay at Worthing 
will not exceed three weeks, and you may possibly 
behold me again at Southwell the middle of Sep- 
tember. ***** 

" Will you desire Ridge to suspend the printing 
of my poems till he hears further from me, as I 
have determined to give them a new form entirely. 
This prohibition does not extend to the last two 
pieces I have sent with my letters to you. You will 
excuse the dull vanity of this epistle, as my brain is 
a chaos of absurd images, and full of business, 
preparations, and projects. 

" I shall expect an answer with impatience ; — be- 
lieve me, there is nothing at this moment could 
give me greater delight than your letter." 



LETTER VI. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



" London, August 18, 1806. 

" I am just on the point of setting $ff for Worth- 
ing, and write merely to request you will send that 
idle scoundrel Charles, [his groom,] with my horses 
immediately ; tell him I am excessively provoked 
lie has not made his appearance before, or written 
to inform me of the cause of his delay, particularly 
as I supplied him with money for his journey. On 
no pretext is he to postpone his march one day 
longer, and if, in obedience to the caprices of Mrs. 
B., (who I presume is again spreading desolation 
through her little monarchy,) he thinks proper to 
disregard my positive orders, I shall not, in future, 
consider him as my servant. He must bring the 
surgeon's bill with him, which I will discharge im- 
mediately on receiving it. Nor can I conceive the 
reason of his not acquainting Frank, [his valet,] 
with the state of my unfortunate quadrupeds. Bear 
Pigot, forgive this petulant effusion, and attribute 
it to the idle conduct of that precious rascal, who, 
instead of obeying my injunctions, is sauntering 
through the streets of that political Pandemonium, 
Nottingham. Present my remembrances, to your 
family and the Leacrofts, and believe me, &c. 

" P.S. I delegate to you the unpleasant task of 
despatching him on his journey — Mrs. B.'s orders 
to the contrary are not to be attended to ; he is to 
proceed first to London, and then to Worthing, 
without delay. Every thing I have left must be 
sent to London. My Poetics you will jxick up for 
the same place, and not even reserve a copy for 
yourself and sister, as I am about to give them an 
entire new form : when they are complete, you shall 
have the first fruits. Mrs. B. on no account is to 
see or touch them. Adieu." 



LETTER VII. 

TO MR. PIGOT. 

" Little Hampton, August 26, 1806. 

' 1 this morning received your epistle, which I 
was obliged to send for to Worthing, whence I 
have removed to this place, on the same coast, about 
eight miles distant from the, former. You will 



probably not be displeased with this letter, when it 
informs you that I am 39,000/. richer than I was at 
our parting having just received intelligence from 
my lawyer that a cause has been gained at Lancas- 
ter assizes,* which will be worth that sum by the 
time I come of age. Mrs. B. is doubtless acquainted 
of this acquisition, though not apprized of its exact 
Value, of which she had better be ignorant; for her 
behavior on any sudden piece of favorable intelli- 
gence is, if possible, more ridiculous than her de- 
testable conduct on the most trifling circumstance 
of an unpleasant nature. You may give my com- 
pliments to her, and say that her detaining my ser- 
vant's things shall only lengthen my absence; for 
unless they are immediately despatched to 16 Pic- 
cadilly, together with those which have been so long 
delayed belonging to myself, she shall never again 
behold my radiant countenance illuminating her 
gloomy mansion. If they are sent, I may probably 
appear in less than two years from the date of my 
present epistle. 

" Metrical compliment is an ample reward for my 
strains ; you are one of the few votaries of Apollo 
who unite the sciences o>ver which that deity pre- 
sides. I wish you to send my poems to my lodgings 
in London immediately, as I have several altera- 
tions and some additions to make ; every copy must 
be sent, as I am about to amend them, and you shall 
soon behold them in all their glory. I hope you 
have kept them from that Upas tree, that antidote 
to the arts, Mrs. B. Entre nous, — you may expect 
to see me soon. Adieu. Yours ever." 



LETTER VIII. 



TO MISS TIGOT. 



LETTERS. 741 

for the purpose of explaining (as far as possible, 
without involving some old friends of mine in the 
business) the cause of my behavior to him during 
my last residence at Harrow, (nearly two years ago,) 
which you will recollect was rather 'en cavalier.' 
Since that period I have discovered he was treated 
with injustice, both by those who misrepresented 
his conduct, and by me in consequence of their sug- 
gestions. I have therefore made all the reparation 
in my power, by apologizing for my mistake, though 
with very faint hopes of success ; indeed I never 
expected any answer, but desired one for form's 
sake ; that has not yet arrived, and most probably 
never will. However, I have eased my own con- 
science by the atonement, whfch is humiliating 
enough to one of my disposition, yet I could not 
have slept satisfied with the reflection of having, 
even unintentionally, injured any individual. I have 
done all that could be done to repair the injury, 
and there the affair must end. Whether we renew 
our intimacy or not is of very trivial consequence. 

" My time has lately been much occupied with 
very different pursuits. I have been transporting a 
servant,* who cheated me, — rather a disagreeable 
event ; performing in private theatricals ; publish- 
ing a volume of poems, (at the request of my 
friends, for their perusal;) making love and taking- 
physic. The last two amusements have not had 
the best effect in the toorld ; for my attentions have 
been divided among so many jfa;> damsels, and the 
drugs I swallow are of such variety in their compo- 
sitions, that between Venus and iEsculapius I am 
harassed to death. However, I have still leisure 
to devote some hours to the recollections of past, 
regretted friendships, and in the interval to take 
the advantage of the moment, to assure you how 
much I am, and ever will be, my dearest Clare, 
" Your truly attached and sincere 

"Byron." 



" My Dear, Bridget, 

" I have only just dismounted from my Pegasus, 
which has prevented me from descending to plain 
prose in an epistle of greater length to your fair 
self. You regretted in a former letter, that my 
poems were not more extensive ; I now for your sat- 
isfaction announce that I have nearly doubled them, 
partly by the discovery of some I conceived to be 
lost, and partly by some new productions. We 
shall meet on Wednesday next; till then, believe 
me yours affectionately, "Byron. 

" P. S. Your brother John is seized with a poetic 
mania, and is now rhyming away at the rate of 
three, lines per hour — so much for inspiration.' 

Adieu !" 



LETTER IX. 

TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 

" Southwell, Notts, February 6th, 1807. 

"My Dearest Clare, 

" Were I to make all the apologies necessary to 
atone for my late negligence, you would justly say 
you had received a petition instead of a letter, as it 
would be filled with prayers for forgiveness ; but in- 
stead of this, I will acknowledge my sins at once, 
and I trust to your friendship and generosity rather 
than to my own excuses. Though my health is not 
perfectly reestablished, I am out of all danger, 
and have recovered everything but my spirits, 
which are subject to depression. You will be as- 
tonished to hear I have lately written to Delawarre, 



In a suit undertaken for the recovery of the Rochdale property. 



LETTER X. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



" Southwell, Jan. 13, 1807. 

" I ought to begin with sundry apologies, for my 
own negligence, but the variety of my avocations in 
prose and verse must plead my excuse. With this 
epistle you will receive a volume of all my Juvenilia 
published since your departure : it is of considera- 
bly'greater size than the copy in your possession, 
which 1 beg you will destroy, as the present is much 
more complete. That unlucky poem to my poor 
Maryf has been the cause of some animadversion 
from ladies in years. I have not printed it in this 
collection, in consequence of my being pronounced 
a most profligate sinner, in short, a ' a young Moore,' 

by , your * * * friend. I believe in 

general they have been favorably received, and 
surely the age of their author will preclude severe 
criticism. The adventures of my life from sixteen 
to nineteen, and the dissipation into which I have 
been thrown in London, have given a voluptuous 
tint to my ideas, but the occasions which called forth 
my muse could hardly admit any other coloring. 
This volume is vastly correct and miraculously 
chaste. Apropos, talking of love, * * * * 

" If you can find leisure to answer this farrago of 
unconnected nonsense, you need not doubt what 
gratification will accrue from your reply to yours 
ever, &c." 



• His valet, Frank. 

t The " Mary " here mentioned was not the heiress of Annesrey, nor the 
" Mary " of Aberdeen. The verses in the Hours of Idleness, entitled, " To 
Mary, on receiving her picture," were addressed to her. 



742 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER XI. 



TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 



" Southwell, March 6, 1807. 

"Dear Bankes, 

" Your critique* is valuable for many reasons : 
in the first place, it is the only one in which flattery 
has borne so slight a part ; in the next, I am cloyed 
with insipid compliments. I have a better opinion 
of your judgment and ability than your feelings. 
Accept my most sincere thanks for your kind de- 
cision, not less welcome, because totally unex- 
pected. With regard to a more exact estimate, I 
need not remind you how few of the best poems, in 
our language, will stand the test of minute or verbal 
criticism ; it can therefore hardly be expected the 
effusions of a boy, (and most of these pieces have 
been produced at an early period,) can derive much 
merit either from the subject or composition. Many 
of them were written under great depression of 
spirits, and during severe indisposition ; hence the 
gloomy turn of the ideas. We coincide in opinion 
that the 'poesies erotiques 1 are the most exception- 
able ; they were however, grateful to the deities on 
whose altars they were offered — more I seek not. 

" The portrait of Pomposusf was drawn at Har 
row, after a long sitting ; this accounts for the re- 
semblance, or rather the caricatura. lie is your 
friend, he never was mine — for both our sakes I 
shall be silent on this head. The collegiate rhymes 
are not personal ; one of the notes may appear so, 
but could not be omitted. I have little doubt they 
will be deservedly abused ; a just punishment for 
my unfilial treatment of so excellent an Alma Ma- 
ter. I sent you no copy, lest we should be placed 
in the situation of Gil Bias and the Archbishop of 
Grenada: though running some hazard from the 
experiment, I wished your verdict to be unbiassed. 
Had my ' Libellus' been presented previous to your 
letter, it would have appeared a species of bribe to 
purchase compliment. I feel no hesitation in say- 
ing, I was more anxious to hear your critique, how- 
ever severe, than the praises of the million. On 
the same day I was honored with the enconiums of 
Mackenzie, the celebrated author of the ' Man of 
Feeling.' Whether his approbation or yours elated 
me most, I cannot decide. 

"You will receive my Juvenilia, at least all yet 
published. I have a large volume in manuscript, 
which may in part appear hereafter ; at present I 
have neither time nor inclination to prepare it for the 
press. In the spring I shall return to Trinity, to dis- 
mantle my rooms, and bid you ,a final adieu. The 
Cam will not be much increased by my tears on the 
occasion. Your father remarks, however, caustfc or 
bitter to a palate vitiated with the sweets of adula- 
tion, will be of service. Johnson has shown us 
that no poetry is perfect ; but<to correct mine would 
be an Herculean labor. In fact I never looked be- 
yond the moment of composition, and published 
merely at the request of my friends. Notwith- 
standing so much has been said concerning the 
' Genus irritabile vatum,' we shall never quarrel on 
the subject. Poetic fame is by no means the 
' acme' of my wishes. Adieu. 

" Yours ever, 

"Byron." 



LETTER XII. 

TO MR. "WILLIAM BANKES. — [FRAGMENT.] 

"For my own part, I have suffered severely in 
the decease of my two greatest friends, the only 



* On the " Houii of Idleness." 

t Doctor Sutler, Head Master of Harrow School. See " Hours of Idle- 
ness," page 443, &c. 



beings I ever loved, (females excepted :) I am there- 
fore a solitary animal, miserable enough, and so 
perfectly a citizen of the world, that whether I pass 
my 4<iys in Great Britain or Kamschatka is to me a 
matter of perfect indifference. I cannot evince 
greater respect for your alteration than by immedi- 
ately adopting it — this shall be done in the next 
edition. I am sorry your remarks are not more fre- 
quent, as I am certain they would be equally bene- 
ficial. Since my last I have received two critical 
opinions from Edinburgh, both too flattering for me 
to detail. One is from Lord Woodhouslee, at the 
head of the Scotch literati, and a most voluminous 
writer, (his last work is a life of Lord Kaimes ;) the 
other from Mackenzie, who sent his decision a sec- 
ond time, more at length. I am not personally 
acquainted with either of these gentlemen, nor ever 
requested their sentiments on the subject: their 
praise is voluntary, and transmitted through the 
medium of a friend, at whose house they read the 
productions. 

"Contrary to my former intention, I am now 
preparing a volume for the public at large ; my 
amatory pieces will be exchanged, and others substi- 
tuted in their place. The whole will be considerably 
enlarged, and appear the latter end of May This 
is a hazardous experiment ; but want of better em- 
ployment, the encouragement I have met with, and 
my own vanity, induce me to stand the test, though 
not without sundry palpitations. The book will 
circulate fast enough in this country, from mere 
euriosity, what I prin " 



LETTER XIII. 



TO MR. FALK.XER. 



"Sir, 

" The volume* of little pieces which accompanies 
this, would have been presented before, had I not 
been apprehensive that Miss Falkner's indisposition 
might render such trifles unwelcome. There are 
some errors of the printer which I have not had 
time to correct in the collection : you have it thus, 
with ' all its imperfections on its head,' a heavy 
weight, when joined with the faults of its author. 
Such ' Juvenilia,' as they can claim no great degree 
of approbation, I may venture to hope, will also 
escape the severity of uncalled for, though perhaps 
not undeserved, criticism. 

" They were written on many and various occa- 
sions, and are now published merely for the perusal 
of a friendly circle. Believe me, sir, if they afford 
the slightest amusement to yourself and the rest of 
my social readers, I shall have gathered all the bays 
I ever wish to adorn the head of 

" Yours, very truly, 
" Bykon. 

" P. S. I hope Miss F. is in a state of recovery." 



LETTER XIV. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



" Southwell, April, 1807. 

"My Dear Pigot, 

" Allow me to congratulate you on the success of 
your first examination, — 'Courage, mon ami.' The 
title of Dr. will do wonders with the damsels. I 
shall most probably be in Essex or London when 



The Hours of Idleness. 



LETTERS. 



743 



yon arrive at this d — d place, where I am detained 
by the publication of my rhymes. 

" Adieu. — Believe me yours«rery truly, 
"Byron. 
" P. S. Since we met, I have reduced myself by 
violent exercise, much physic, and hot bathing, from 
fourteen stone six lb. to twelve stone seven lb. In 
all I have lost twenty-seven pounds. Bravo ! — what 
say you ?" 



LETTER XV. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



"June 11, 1807. 

"Dear Queen Bess, 

"Savage ought to he immortal: — though not a 
thorough-bred bull-dog, he is the finest puppy I ever 
saio, and will answer much better ; in his great and 
manifold kindness he has already bitten my fingers, 
and disturbed the gravity of old Boatswain, who is 
grievously discomposed. I wish to be informed what 
he costs, his expenses, &c, &c, that I may indemnify 

Mr. G . My thanks are all I can give for the 

trouble he has taken, make a long speech and con- 
clude it with 12 3 4 5 6 7.* I am out of practice, 
so deputize you as Legate, — ambassador would not 
do in a matter concerning the Pope, which I pre- 
sume this must, as the whole turns upon a Bull. 

"Yours, 

"Byron. 

" P. S. I write in bed." 



LETTER XVI. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



" Cambridge, June 30, 1807. 

" ' Better late than never, Pal,' is a saying of 
which you know the origin, and as it is applicable on 
the present occasion, you will excuse its conspic- 
uous place in the front of my epistle. I am almost 
superannuated here. My old friends, (with the 
exception of a very few,) all departed, and I am 
preparing to follow them, but remain till Monday to 
be present at thre Oratorios, two Concerts, a Fair, 
and a Ball. I firm I am not only thinner, but taller 
by an inch since my last visit. I was obliged to tell 
every body my name, nobody having the least recol- 
lection or my visage or person. Even the hero of 
my Cornelian,f (who is now sitting vis-a-vis, read- 
ing a volume of my Poetics,) passed me in Trinity 
walks without recognising me in the least, and was 
thunderstruck at the alteration which had taken 
place in my countenance, &c, &c. Some say I 
look better, others worse, but all agree I am thinner 
— more I do not require. I have lost two pounds in 
my weight since I left our cursed, detestable and 
abhorred abode of scandal, where, excepting your- 
self and John Becher, I care not if the whole race 
were consigned to the Pit of Acheron, which I 
would visit in person rather than contaminate my 
sandals with the polluted dust of Southwell. Seri- 
ously, unless obliged by the emptiness of my purse 
to revisit Mrs. B., you will see me no more. 

" On Monday I depart for London. I quit Cam- 
bridge with little regret, because our set are vanished, 
and my musical protege 1 before mentioned has left 
the choir, and is stationed in a mercantile house of 
considerable eminence in the metropolis. You may 
have heard me observe he is exactly, to an hour, 



* He here alludes to an odd fancy or trick of his own : whenever he was 
«t a loss for something to say, he used to gaLble over "12 3 4 5 6 7." 

t Mr. Edleston. See the lines "to E." Hours of Idleness, page 415; 
and " The Cornelian." Hours of Idleness, page 417. 



two years younger than myself. I found him grown 
considerably, and, as you will suppose, very glad to 
see his_ former Patron. He is nearly my height, 
very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and light 
locks. My opinion of his mind you already know j 
— I hope I shall never have occasion to change it. 
Every body here conceives me to be an invalid 
The university at present is very gay, from th6 
fetes of divers kinds. I supped out last night, but 
eat (or ate) nothing, sipped a bottle of claret, went 
to bed at two and rose at eight. I have commenced 
early rising, and find it agrees with me. The 
Masters and the Fellows all very polite, but look a 
little askance — don't much admire lampoons — truth 
always disagreeable. 

" Write, and tell me how the inhabitants of your 
menagerie go on, and if my publication goes off 
well : do the quadrupeds growl f Apropos, my bull 
dog is deceased — ■' Flesh both of cur and man is 
grass.' Address your answer to Cambridge. If I 
am gone, it will be forwarded. Sad news just 
arrived — Russians beat — a bad set, eat nothing but 
oil, consequently must melt before a hard fire. I 
get awkward in my academic habiliments for want 
of practice. Got up in a window to hear the orato- 
rio at St. Mary's, popped down in the middle of the 
Messiah, tore a woful rent in the back of my best 
black silk gown, and damaged an egregious pair 
of breeches. Mem. — never tumble from a church 
window during service. Adieu, dear * * * * ! do not 
remember me to any body : — to forget and be forgot- 
ten by the people of Southwell is all I aspire to." 



LETTER XVII. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



" Trin. Coll. Camb. July 5, 1807. 

" Since my last letter I have determined to reside 
another year at Granta, as my rooms, &c, &c, are 
finished in great style, several old friends come up 
again, and many new acquaintances made ; con- 
sequently, my inclination leads me forward, and I 
shall return to college in October, if still alive. My 
life here has been one continued routine of dissipa- 
tion — out at different places every day, engaged to 
more dinners, &c, &c, than my stay would permit 
me to fulfil. At this moment I write with a bottle 
of claret in my head, and tears in my eyes ; for I 
have just parted from my ' Cornelian,' who spent 
the evening with me. As it was our last interview, 
I postponed my engagement to devote the hours 
of the Sabbath to friendship : — Edleston and I have 
separated for the present, and my mind is a chaos 
of hope and sorrow. To-morrow I set out for 
London : you will address your answer to ' Gordon's 
Hotel, Albemarle street,' where I sojourn during my 
visit to the metropolis. 

" I rejoice to hear you are interested in my 
protege : he has been my almost constant associate 
since October, 1805, when I entered Trinity College. 
His voice first attracted my attention, his counte- 
nance fixed it, and his manners attached me to him 
for ever. He departs for a mercantile house in town 
in October, and we shall probably not meet till the 
expiration of my minority, when I shall leave to 
his decision either entering as a partner through 
my interest, or residing with me altogether. Of 
course he would in his present frame of mind prefer 
the latter, but he may alter his opinion previous to 
that period ; — however, he shall have his choice. I 
certainly love him more than any human being, and 
neither time nor distance have had the least effect 
on my (in general) changeable disposition. In 
short, we shall put Lady E. Butler and Miss 
Ponsonby to the blush, Pylades and Orestes out of 
countenance, and~ want nothing but a catastrophe 
like Nisus and Euryalus, to give Jonathan and 



744 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



David the 'goby.' He certainly is perhaps more 
attached to me than even I am in return. Durin_ 
the whole of my residence at Cambridge we met 
every day, summer and winter, without passing one 
tiresome moment, and separated each time with 
increasing reluctance. I hope you will one day see 
us together — he is the only being I esteem, though 
I like many.* 

"The Marquis of Tavistock was down the other 
day ; I supped with him at his tutor's — entirely a 
whig party. The opposition muster strong here 
now, and Lord Huntingdon, the Duke of Leinster 
&c, &c, are to join us in October, so every tiling 
will be splendid. The music is all over at present. 
Met with another ' accidenci/' — upset a butter-boat 
in fhe lap of a lady — look'd very blue — sjiectators 
grinned — ' curse 'em ! ' Apropos, sorry to say, been 
drunk every day, and not quite sober yet — however, 
touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup, and vegeta- 
bles, consequently it does me no harm — sad dogs 
all the Cantabs. Mem. — we mean to reform next 
January. This place is a monotony of endless variety 
— like it — hate Southwell. Has Ridge sold well ? 
or do the ancients demur ? * What ladies have 
bought ? * . * * * * " *' * * 

" Saw a girl at St. Mary's the image of Anne * *, 
thought it was her — all in the wrong — the lady 
stared, so did I — I blushed, so did not the lady — sad 
thing — wish women had more modesty. Talkin^ 
of women, puts me in mind of my terrier Fanny — 
how is she ? Got a headache, must go to bed, up 
early in the morning to travel. My protege break 
fasts with me ; parting spoils my appetite — except- 
ing from Southwell. Mem. — I hate Southwell. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER XVIII. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



" Gordon's Hotel, July 13, 1807. 

" You write most excellent epistles — a fig for 
other correspondents with their nonsensical apolo- 
gies for ' knowing nought about it,' — you send me a 
delightful budget. I am here in a perpetual vortex 
of dissipation, (very pleasant for all that,) and, 
strange to tell, I get thinner, • being now below 
eleven stone considerably. Stay in town a month, 
perhaps six weeks, trip into Essex, and then, as a 
favor, irradiate Southwell for three days with the 
light of my countenance ; but nothing shall ever 
make me reside there again. I positively return to 
Cambridge in October ; we are to be uncommonly 
gay, or in truth I should cut the University. An 
extraordinary circumstance occurred to me at Cam- 
bridge, a girl so very like * * * made her appear- 
ance, that nothing but the most minute inspection 
could have undeceived me. I wish I had asked if 
she had ever been at H * * *. 

" What the devil would Ridge have ? is not fiftv 
in a fortnight, before the advertisements, .1 sufficient 
sale ? I hear many of the London booksellers 
have them, and Crosby has sent copies to the 
principal watering-places. Are they liked or not in 
Southwell ?*****! w i s h Boatswain had 
swallowed Damon ! How is Bran ? by the immortal 
gods, Bran ought to be a Count of the Holy Roman 
Empire. * * * 

"The intelligence of London cannot be interesting 
to you, who have rusticated all your life— the annals 
of routs, riots, balls and boxing-matches, cards and 
crim. cons., parliamentary discussions, political 
details, masquerades, mechanics, Argyle street 
Institution and aquatic races, love and lotteries, 
Brooks's and Bonaparte, opera-singers and orato- 
rios, wine, women, waxworks, and weathercocks, 



Edleston See Letter 101. 



can't accord with your insulated ideas of decorum 
and other silly expressions not inserted in ovr 
vocabulary. • 

" Oh ! Southwell, Southwell, how I rejoice to 
have left thee, and how I curse the heavy hours I 
dragged along, for so many months, among the 
Mohawks who inhabit your kraals ! — However, one 
thing I do not regret, which is having pared off a 
sufficient quantity of flesh to enable me to slip into 
' an eel skin,' and vie with the slim beaux of modern 
times ; though, I am sorry to say, it seems to be 
the mode among gentlemen to grow fat, and I am 
told I am at least fourteen pounds below the 
fashion. However, I decrease instead of enlarging, 
which is extraordinary, as violent exercise in Lon- 
don is impracticable ; but I attribute the phenom- 
enon to our evening squeezes at public and private 
parties. I heard from Ridge this morning, (the 
14th, my letter was begun yesterday:) he says the 
Poems go on as well as can be wished, the seventy- 
five sent to town are circulated, and a demand for 
fifty more complied with, the day he dated his 
epistle, though the advertisements are not yet half 
published. Adieu. 

"P. S. Lord Carlisle, on receiving my poems, 
sent, before he opened the book, a tolerably hand- , 
some letter : — I have not heard from him since. 
His opinions I neither know nor care about ; if he 
is the least insolent, I shall enroll him with Butler* 
and the other worthies. He is in Yorkshire, poor 
man ! and very ill ! He said he had not time to 
read the contents, but thought it necessary to 
acknowledge the receipt of the volume immediately. 
Perhaps the earl ' bears no brother near the throne,' 
— if so, I will make his sceptre totter in his hands. — 
Adieu ! " 



LETTER XIX. 

TO MISS PIGOT. 

" August 2, 1807. 

" London begins to disgorge its contents — town 
is empty — consequently I can scribble at leisure, as 
occupations are less numerous. In a fortnight I 
shall depart to fulfil a country engagement ; but 
expect two epistles from you previous to that 
period. Ridge does not proceed rapidly in Notts- 
very possible. In town things wear a more promis- 
ing aspect, and a man whose worte are praised by 
reviewers, admired by duchesses, and sold by every 
bookseller in the metropolis, does not dedicate 
much consideration to rustic readers. I have now a 
review before me, entitled ' Literary Recreations,' 
where my hardship is applauded far beyond my 
deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but think 
him a very discerning gentleman, and myself a 
devilish clever fellow. His critique pleases mc 
particularly because it is of great length, and a 
proper quantum of censure is administered, just to 
give an agreeable relish to the praise. You know 
I hate insipid, unqualified, common-place compli- 
ment. If you would wish to see it, order the 
thirteenth number of ' Literary Recreations ' for 
the last month. I assure you I have not the most 
distant idea of the writer of the article — it is printed 
in a periodical publication — and though I have 
written a paper, (a review of Wordsworth, f) which 



* Dr. Butler. See Letter XL 

t The first attempt of Lord Byron at reviewing;, (for he, once or twice 
afterward, tried his hand at this least poetical of employments.) is remarkable 

ly as 6howing how plausibly he could assume the established tone and 
phraseology of these minor judgment-seats of criticism. For instance : — 

The volumes before us are by the Author of Lyrical Ballads, a collection 
which has not undeservedly met with a considerable share of public applause. 
The characteristics of Mr. Wordsworth's muse are simple and flowing, 
though occasionally inharmonious, verse, — strong, and sometimes irresistiblo 
appeals to the feelings, with unexceptionable sentiments. Though tha 
present work may not equal his fonner efforts, many of the poems possess » 
iative elegance," &c, &c. — Moore. 



LETTERS. 



745 



appears in the same work, I am ignorant of every 
other person concerned in it — even the editor, 
whose name I have not heard. My cousin, Lord 
Alexander Gordon, who resided in the same hotel, 
told me his mother, her Grace of Gordon, requested 
he would introduce my poetical Lordship to her 
Highness, as she had bought my volume, admired it 
exceedingly in common with the rest of the fashion- 
able world, and wished to claim her relationship 
with the author. I was unluckily engaged on an 
excursion for some days afterward, and as the 
duchess was on the eve of departing for Scotland, 
I have postponed my introduction till the winter, 
when I shall favor the lady, wliose taste I shall not 
dispute, with my most sublime and edifying con- 
versation. She is now in the Highlands, and 
Alexander took his departure a few days ago, for 
the same blessed seat of « dark rolling winds.' 

" Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of 
his second importation, and has sent to Ridge for a 
third — at least so he says. In every bookseller's 
window I see my own name and say nothing, but 
enjoy my fame in secret. My last reviewer kindly 
requests me to alter my determination of writing 
no more, and 'a Friend to the Cause of Literature' 
begs I will gratify the public with some new work 
' at no very distant period.' Who would not be a 
bard ? — that is to say, if all critics would be so 
polite. However, the others will pay me off, I 
doubt not, for this gentle encouragement. If so, 
have at" 'em ! By-the-by, I have written at my 
intervals of leisure, after two in the morning, three 
hundred and eighty lines in blank verse, of Bosworth 
Field. I have luckily got Hutton's account. I 
shall extend the Poem to eight or ten books, and 
shall have finished it in a year. Whether it will be 
published or not must depend on circumstances. 
So much for egotism ! My laurels have turned my 
brain, but the cooling acids of forthcoming criticisms 
will probably restore me to modesty. 

" Southwell is a damned place — I have done with 
it — at least in all probability : excepting yourself, I 
esteem no one within its precincts. You were my 
only rationed companion; and in plain truth, I had 
more respect for you than the whole bevy, with 
whose foibles I amused myself in compliance with 
their prevailing propensities. You gave yourself 
more trouble with me and my manuscripts than a 
thousand dolls would have done. Believe me, I 
have not forgotten your good-nature in this circle 
of sin, and one day I trust I shall be able to evince 
my gratitude. Adieu, yours, &c. 

" P. S. Remember me to Dr. P." 



LETTER XX. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



London, Ang-nst 11, 1307. 

" On Sundav next I set off for the Highlands.* 
A friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to 
Edinburgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed in 
a tandem, (a species of open carriage,) through the 
western passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase 
shelties, to enable us to view places inaccessible to 
vehicular conveyances. On the coast we shall hire 
a vessel and visit the most remarkable of the He- 
brides, and, if we have time and favorable weather, 
mean to sail as far as Iceland, only three hundred 
miles from the northern extremity of Caledonia, to 
peep at Hecla. This last intention you will keep a 
secret, as my nice mamma would imagine I was on 
a Voyage of Discovery, and raise the accustomed 
maternal war-whoop. 



" Last week I swam in the Thames from Lam- 
beth through the two bridges, Westminster and 
Blackfriars, a distance, including the different 
turns and tacks made on the way, of three miles ! 
You see I am in excellent training in case of a 
squall at sea. I menu to collect all the Erse tradi- 
tions, poems, &c.j and translate, or expand the sub- 
ject to fill a volume, which may appear next spring 
under the denomination of ' The Highland Harp,' 
or some title equally picturesque. Of Bosworth 
Field, one book is finished, another just begun. It 
will be a work of three or four years, and most prob- 
ably never conclude. What would you say to some 
stanzas on Mount Hecla ? they would be written at 
least with^re. How is the immortal Bran? and 
the Phoenix of canine quadrupeds, Boatswain ? I 
have lately purchased a thorough-bred bull-dog, 
worthy to be the coadjutor of the aforesaid celestials 
— his name is Smut ! — ' bear it, ye breezes, on your 
balmy wings.' 

" Write to me before I set off, I conjure you by 
the fifth rib of your grandfather. Ridge goes on 
well with the books — I thought that worthy had 
not done much in the country. In town they have 
been very successful ; Carpenter (Moore!s publisher) 
told me a few days ago they sold all theirs immedi- 
ately, and had several inquiries made since, which, 
from the books being gone, they could not supply. 
The Duke of York, the Mnrchioness of Headfort, 
the Duchess of Gordon, &c, &c, were among the 
purchasers, and Crosby says the circulation will be 
still more extensive in the winter; the summer sea- 
son being very bad for a sale, as most people are 
absent from London. However, they have gone off 
extremely well altogether. I shall pass very near you 
on my journey through Newark, but cannot ap- 
proach. Don't tell this to Mrs. B., who supposes I 
travel a different road. If you have a letter, order 
it to be left at Ridge's shop, where I shall call, or 
the post-office, Newark, about six or eight in the 
evening. If your brother would ride over, I should 
be devilish glad to see him — he can return the same 
night, or sup with us and go home the next morn- 
ing — the Kingston Arms is my inn. Adieu. Yours 
ever, "Byron." 



• This plan (which he never put in practice) had been talked of by him 
before he left Southwell.— Moore. 

94 



LETTER XXI. 

TO MISS PIGOT. 
" Trinity College, Cambridge, Oct. 25, 1807. 

"My Dear ****, 

" Fatigued with sitting up till four in the morning 
for the last two days at hazard, I take up my pen 
to inquire how your highness and the rest of my 
female acquaintance at the seat of archiepiscopal 
grandeur go on. I know I deserve a scolding for 
my negligence in not writing more frequently : but 
racing up and down the country for these last three 
months, how was it possible to fulfil the duties of a 
correspondent ? Fixed at last for six weeks, I write, 
as thin as ever, (not having gained an ounce since 
my reduction,) and rather in better humor; — but, 
after, all, Southwell was a detestable residence. 
Thank St. Dominica, I have done with it : I have 
been twice within eight miles of it, but could 
not prevail on myself to suffocate in its heavy 
atmosphere. This place is wretched enough — a 
villanous chaos of din and drunkenness, nothing 
but hazard and Burgundy, hunting mathematics 
and Newmarket, riot and racing. Yet it is a para- 
dise compared with the eternal dulness of South- 
well. Oh ! the misery of doing nothing but make 
love, enemies, and verses. 

" Next January (but this is entre nous only, and 
pray let it be so, or my maternal persecutor will be 
throwing her tomahawk at any of my curious proj- 
ects) I am going to sea, for four or five months, 
with my cousin, Capt. Bettesworth, who commands 



746 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the Tartar, the finest frigate in the navy. I have 
seen most scenes, and wish to look at a naval life. 
We are going probably to the Mediterranean, or to 

the West Indies, or to the d 1 ; and if there is a 

possibility of taking me to the latter Bettesworth 
will do it; for he has received four-and-twenty 
wounds in different places, and at this moment pos- 
sesses a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating 
Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had 
more wounds than himself.* 

" I have got a new friend, the finest in the world, 
a tame bear. When I brought him here, they asked 
me what I meant to do with him, and my reply was, 
' he should sit for a felloxcship.' Sherard will ex- 
plain the meaning of the sentence, if it is ambigu- 
ous. This answer delighted them not. We have 
several parties here, and this evening a large as- 
sortment of jockeys, gamblers, boxers, authors, 
parsons, and poets, sup with me, — a precious mix- 
ture, but they go on well together : '•and for me, I 
am a spice of every thing except a jockey ; by-the- 
by, I was dismounted again the other day. 

" Thank your brother in my name for his treatise. 
I have written 214 pages of a novel, — one poem of 
380 lines, f to be published (without my name) in a 
few weeks, with notes, — 560 lines of Bosworth 
Field, and 250 lines of another poem in rhyme, be- 
sides half a dozen smaller pieces. The poem to be 
published is a Satire. Apropos, I have been praised 
to the skies in the Critical Review, and abused 
greatly in another publication. So much the better, 
they tell me, for the sale of the book ; it keeps up 
controversy, and prevents it being forgotten. Be- 
sides, the first men of all ages have had their share, 
nor do the humblest escape ; — so I bear it like a 
philosopher. It is odd two opposite critiques came 
out on the same day, and out of five pages of abuse 
my censor only quotes two lines from different 
poems, in support of his opinion. Now the proper 
way to cut up, is to quote long passages, and make 
them appear absurd, because simple allegation is no 
proof. On the other hand, there are seven pages of 
praise, and more than my modesty will allow said on 
the subject. Adieu. 

" P. S. Write, write, write ! ! ! " 



mention the two Lords Lyttleton in a manner they 
respectively deserve, and will be surprised to hear 
the person who is now addressing you has been 
frequently compared to the latter. I know I am in- 
juring myself in your esteem by this avowal, but 
the circumstance was so remarkable from your ob- 
servation, that I cannot help relating the fact. The 
events of my short life have been of so singular a 
nature, that though the pride commonly called 
honor has, and I trust ever will, prevent me from 
disgracing my name by a mean or cowardly action, 
I have been already held up as the votary of licen- 
tiousness, and the disciple of infidelity. How far 
justice may have dictated this accusation I cannot 
pretend to say, but like the gentleman to whom my 
religious friends, in the warmth of their charity, have 
already devoted me, I am made worse than I really 
am. However, to quit myself, (the worst theme I 
could pitch upon,) and return to my Poems, I can- 
not sufficiently express my thanks, and I hope I 
shall some day have an opportunity of rendering 
them in person. A second edition is new in the 
press, with some additions and considerable omis- 
sions ; you will allow me to present you with a copy. 
The Critical, Monthly, and Anti-Jacobin Reviews 
have been very indulgent ; but the Eclectic has pro- 
nounced a furious Philippic, not against the book 
but the author, where you will find all I have men- 
tioned asserted by a reverend divine who wrote the 
critique. s 

" Your name and connexion with our family have 
been long known to me, and I hope your person 
will be not less- so ; you will find me an excellent 
compound of a ' Brainless' and a ' Stanhope.'* I 
am afraid you will hardly be able to read this, for 
my hand is almost as bad as my character, but you 
will find me, as legibly as possible, 

" Your obliged and obedient servant, 
" Byron." 



LETTER XXII. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



Sir, 



1 Doraut's Hotel, Albemarle street, Jan. 20, ! 



" Your letter was not received till this morning, I 
presume from being addressed to me in Notts, 
where I have not resided since last June, and 
as the date is the 6th, you will excuse the delay of 
my answer. 

" If the little volume % you mention has given 
pleasure to the author of Percival and Aubrey, I 
am sufficiently repaid by his praise. Though our 
periodical censors have been uncommonly lenient, I 
confess a tribute from a man of acknowledged genius 
is still more flattering. But I am afraid I should 
forfeit all claim to candor, if I did not decline such 
praise as I do not deserve ; and this is, I am sorry 
to say, the case in the present instance. 

" My compositions speak for themselves, and 
must stand or fall by their own worth or demerit 
thus far I feel highly gratified by your favorable 
opinion. But my pretences to virtue are unluckily 
so few, that though I should be happy to merit, I 
cannot accept your applause in that respect. One 
passage in your letter struck me forcibly: you 



* See postscript to the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 
\ English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 
J Hours of Idleness. 



LETTER XXIII. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

" Dorant's, January 21, 1S08. 

" Sir, 

"Whenever leisure and inclination permit me the 
pleasure of a visit, I shall feel truly gratified in a 
personal acquaintance with one whose mind has 
been long known to me in his writings. 

"You are so far correct in your coiijecture, that I 
am a member of the University of Cambridge, 
where I shall take my degree of A. M. this term ; 
but were reasoning, eloquence, or virtue the objects 
of my search, Granta is not their metropolis, nor is 
the place of her situation an 'El Dorado,' far less 
a Utopia. The intellects of her children are as 
stagnant as her Cam,f and their pursuits limited to 
the church — not of Christ, but of the nearest bene- 
fice. 

" As to my reading, I believe I may aver, without 
hiperbole, it has been tolerably extensive in the his- 
torical ; so that few nations exist, or have existed 
with whose records I am not in some degree ac- 
quainted, from Herodotus down to Gibbon. Of the 
classics, I know about as much as most school boys 
after a discipline of thirteen years ; of the law of 
the land as much as enables me to keep ' within the 
statute' — to use the poacher's vocabulary. I did 
study the ' Spirit of Laws' and the Law of of Na- 
tions ; but when I saw the latter violated every 
month, I gave up my attempts at so useless an ac- 
complishment ; — of geography, I have seen more 
land on maps than I should wish to traverse on 
foot; — of mathematics, enough to give me the 



• Characters in the novel called Percival. 
t See E. B. and S. R. page 465. 



LETTERS. 



747 



headache without clearing the part affected : — of 
philosophy, astronomy, and metaphysics, more 
than I can comprehend, and of common sense so 
little, that I mean to leave a Byronian prize at each 
of our ' Alma? Matres' for the first discovery, — 
though I rather fear that of the Longitude will pre- 
cede it. 

"I once thought myself a philosopher, and 
talked nonsense with great decorum : I defied pain, 
and preached up equanimity. For some time this 
did very well, for no one was in pain for me but my 
friends, and none lost their patience but my hear- 
ers. At last, a fall from my horse convinced me 
bodily suffering was an evil ; and the worst of an 
argument overset my maxims and my temper at the 
same moment, so I quitted Zeno for Aristippus, and 
conceive that pleasure constitutes the to K<t\ov. In 
morality, I prefer Confucius to the Ten Command- 
ments, and Socrates to St. Paul, though the latter 
two agree in their opinion of marriage. In religion, 
I favor the Catholic emancipation, but do not ac- 
knowledge the Pope ; and I have refused to take 
the Sacrament, because I do not think eating bread 
or drinking wine from the hand of an earthly vicar 
will make me an inheritor of heaven. I hold virtue 
in general, or the virtues severally, to be only in the 
disposition, each a feeling, not a principle. I be- 
lieve truth the prime attribute of the Deity ; and 
death an eternal sleep, at least of the body. You 
have here a brief compendium of the sentiments of 
the wicked George Lord Byron ; and, till I get a 
# new suit, you will perceive I am badly clothed.* I 
remain, " Yours very truly, 

"Byron." 



LETTER XXIV. 

TO MR. HENRY DRURY.* 

" Dorant's Hotel, Jan. 13, 1808. 

"My Dear Sir, 

" Though the stupidity of my servants, or the 
porter of the house, in not showing you up stairs, 
(where I should have joined you directly,) pre- 
vented me the pleasure of seeing you yesterday, I 
hoped to meet you at some public place in the eve- 
ning. However, my stars decreed otherwise, as 
they generally do, when I have any favor to re- 
quest of them. I think you would have been sur- 
prised at my figure, for, since our last meeting, I am 
reduced four stone in weight. I then weighed four- 
teen stone seven pound, and now only ten stone and 
a half. I have disposed of my superfluities by 
means of hard exercise and abstinence. * * * 

" Should your Harrow engagements allow you to 
visit town between this and Febuary, I shall be 
most happy to see you in Albemarle street. If I 
am not so fortunate, I shall endeavor to join you 
for an afternoon at Harrow, though, I fear, your 
cellar will by no means contribute to my cure. As 
for my worthy preceptor, Dr. B., our encounter 
would by no means prevent the mutual endearments 
he and I were wont to lavish on each other. We 
have only spoken once since my departure from 
Harrow in 1805, and then he politely told Tatersall 
I was not a proper associate for his pupils. This 
was long before my strictures were in verse : but, in 
plain prose, had I been some years older, I should 
have held my tongue on his perfections. But being 
laid on my back, when that schoolboy thing was 
written — or rather dictated — expecting to rise no 
more, my physician having taken his sixteenth fee, 
and I his prescription, I could not quit this earth 
without leaving a memento of my constant attach- 
ment to Butler in gratitude for his manifold good 
offices. 



* Son of Doctor Drury, Lord Byron's former Master at Harrow School. 



"I meant to have been down-in July; but think- 
ing my appearance, immediately after the publica- 
tion, would be construed into an insult, I directed 
my steps elsewhere. Besides, I heard that some 
of the boys had got hold of my Libellus, contrary 
to my wishes certainly, for I never transmitted a 
single copy till October, when I gave one to a boy, 
since gone, after repeated importunities. You will, 
I trust, pardon this egotism. As you had touched 
on the subject, I thought some explanation neces- 
sary. Defence I shall not attempt, ' Hie murus 
aheneus esto, nil conscire sibi' — and 'so on' (as 
Lord Baltimore said, on his trial for a rape) — I have 
been so long at Trinity as to forget the conclusion 
of the line ; but, though I cannot finish my quota- 
tion, I will my letter, and entreat you to believe 
me, gratefully and affectionately, &c. 

" P. S. I will not lay a tax on your time by 
requiring an answer, lest you say, as Butler said to 
Tatersall, (when I had written his reverence an 
impudent epistle on the expression before men- 
tioned,) viz., 'that I wanted to draw him in,to a 
correspondence.' " 



LETTER XXV. 



TO MR. HARNESS. 



" Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle street, Feb. 11 1808. 

" My Dear Harness, 

" As I had no opportunity of returning my verbal 
thanks, I trust you will accept my written acknowl- 
edgments for the compliment you were pleased to 
pay some production of my unlucky muse last 
November — I am induced to do this not less from 
the pleasure I feel in the praise of an old school- 
fellow, than from justice to you, for I had heard the 
story with some slight variations. Indeed, when 
we met this morning, Wingfield had not undeceived 
me, but he will tell you that I displayed no resent- 
ment in mentioning what I had heard, though I 
was not sorry to discover the truth. Perhaps you 
hardly recollect some years ago a short, though, for 
the time, a warm friendship between us ! Why it 
was not of longer duration, I know not. I have 
still a gift of yours in my possession, that must 
always prevent me from forgetting it. I also 
remember being favored with the perusal of many 
of your compositions and several other circum- 
stances very pleasant in their day, which I will not 
force upon your memory, but entreat you to believe 
me, with much regret at their short continuance, 
and a hope they are not irrevocable, yours very 
sincerely, &c. "Byron." 



LETTER XXVI. 

TO MR. HARNESS. — [FRAGMENT.] 

" March, 1808. 

"We both seem perfectly to recollect, with a 
mixture of pleasure and regret, the hours we once 
passed together, and I assure you most sincerely 
they are numbered among the happiest of my brief 
chronicle of enjoyment. I am now getting into 
years, that is to say, I was txoenty a month ago, and 
another year will send me into the world to run my 
career of folly with the rest. I was then just four- 
teen, — you were almost the first of my Harrow 
friends, certainly the first in my esteem, if not in 
date ; but an absence from Harrow for some time, 
shortly after, and new connexions on your side, anc" 
the difference in our conduct (an advantage decidedl) 



748 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



in your favor) from that turbulent and riotous 
disposition of mine, which impelled me into every 
species of mischief, — all these circumstances com- 
bined to destroy an intimacy, which Affection urged 
me to continue, and Memory compels me to regret. 
But there is not a circumstance attending that 
period, hardly a sentence we exchanged, which is 
not impressed on my mind at this moment. I need 
not say more, — this assurance alone must convince 
you, had I considered them as trivial, they would 
have been less indelible. How well I recollect the 
perusal of your ' first nights ! ' There is another 
circumstance you do not know; — the Jirst lines I 
ever attempted at Harrow were addressed to you. 
You were to have seen them ; but Sinclair had the 
co'py in his possession when we went home ; — and, on 
our return , we were strangers. They were destroyed, 
and certainly no great loss ; but you will perceive 
from this circumstance my opinions at an age when 
we cannot be hypocrites. 

" I have dwelt longer on this theme than I 
intended, and I shall now conclude with what I 
ought to have begun. We were once friends, — nay, 
we have always been so, for our separation was the 
effect of chance, not of dissension. I do not know 
how far our destinations in life may throw us 
together, but if opportunity and inclination allow 
you to waste a thought on such a harebrained being 
as myself, you will find me at least sincere, and not 
so bigoted to my faults as to involve^ others in the 
consequences. 'Will you sometimes" write to me? 
I do not ask it often, and, if we meet, let us be 
what we should be and what we were." 



LETTER XXVII. 



TO MR. BECKER. 



" Dorant'6 Hotel, Feb. M, 1303. 

" My Deaii Becher, 

" * * ■ * * Now for Apollo. I am 
happy that you still retain your predilection, and 
that the public allow me some share of praise. I 
am of so much importance that a most violent 
attack is preparing for me in the next number of 
the Edinburgh Review. This I had from the 
authority of a friend who has seen the proof and 
manuscript of the critique. You know the system 
of the Edinburgh gentlemen is universal attack. 
They praise none ; and neither the public nor the 
author expect praise from them. It is, however, 
something to be noticed, as they profess to pass 
judgment only on works requiring the public- 
attention. You will see this, when it comes out; — 
it is, I understand, of the most unmerciful descrip- 
tion ; but I am aware of it, and hope you will not 
be hurt by its severity. 

"Tell Mrs. Byron not to be out of humor with 
them, and to prepare her mind for the greatest 
hostility on their part. It will do no injury what- 
ever, and I trust her mind will not be ruffled. They 
defeat their object by indiscriminate abuse, and they 
never praise, except the partizans of Lord Holland 
and Co. It is nothing to be abused when Southey, 
Moore, Lauderdale, Strangford, and Payne Knight 
share the same fate. 

"I am sorry — but 'Childish Recollections' must 
be suppressed during this edition I have altered, 
at your suggestion, the obnoxious allusions in the 
sixth stanza of my last ode. 

"And now, my dear Becher, I must return my 
best acknowledgments for the interest you have 
taken in me and my poetical bantlings, and I shall 
ever be proud to show how much I esteem the 
vdvicc and the adviser. 

" Believe me most truly, &c." 



LETTER XXVIII. 

TO MK. BECHER. 

" Dorant's, March 28, 1808. 

" I have lately received a copy of the new edition 
from Ridge, and it is high time for me to return my 
best thanks to you for the trouble you have taken 
in the superintendence. This I do most sincerely, 
and only regret that Ridge has not seconded you as 
I could wish, — at least, in the bindings, paper, &c, 
of the copy he sent to me. Perhaps those for thc- 
piiblic may be more respectable in such articles. 

"You have seen the Edinburgh Review, of 
course. I regret that Mrs. Byron is so much 
annoyed. For my own part, these ' paper bullets 
of the brain' have only taught me to stand fire; 
and, as I have been lucky enough upon the whole, 
my repose and appetite are not discomposed. Pratt, 
the gleaner, author, poet, &c, &c, addressed a 
long rhyming epistle to me on the subject, by way 
of consolation ; but it was not well done, so I do 
not send it, though the name of the man might 
make it go down. The E. R's. have not performed 
their task well ; at least the literati tell me this, 
and I "think I could write a more sarcastic critique 
on myself than any yet published. For instance, 
instead of the remark, — ill-natured enough, but not ■ 
keen, — about Mac Pherson, I (quoad reviewers) 
could have said, ' Alas, this imitation only proves 
the assertion of Doctor Johnson, that many men, 
wamen, ai#d children could write such poetry as 41 
Ossian's.' 

"I am thin and in exercise. During the spring 
or summer I trust we shall meet. I hear Lord 
Rufhyn leaves Newstead in April. * * * As soon 
as he quits it for ever, I wish you would take a ride 
over, survey the mansion, and give me your candid 
opinion on the most advisable mode of proceeding 
with regard to the house. Entre nous, I am cursedly 
dipped ; my debts, every thing inclusive, will be 
nine or ten thousand before I am twenty-one. But 
I have reason to think my property will turn out 
better than general expectation may conceive. Of 
Newstead I have little hope or care ; but Hanson, 
my agent, intimated my Lancashire property was 
worth three Newsteads. I believe we have it 
hollow ; though the defendants are protracting the 
surrender, if possible, till after my majority, for the 
purpose of forming some arrangement with me, 
thinking I shall probably prefer a sum in hand to a 
reversion. Newstead I may sell: — perhaps I will 
not, — though of that more anon. I will come 
down in May or June. * * * * 

" Yours most truly, &c." 



LETTER XXIX. 

TO MR. JACKSON.* 



" Dear Jack, 



N. A. Notts, Sept. 18, 1S0S. 



"I wish you would inform me what has been 
done by Jekyll, at No. 40 Sloane Square, concern- 
ing the pony I returned as unsound. 

" I have also to request you will call on Louch, 
at Brompton, and inquire what the devil he meant 
by sending such an insolent letter to me at Bright- 
on ; and at the same time tell him I by no means 
can comply with the charge he has made for things 
pretended to be damaged. 

"Ambrose behaved most scandalously about the 
pony. You may tell Jekyll if he does not refund 
the money, I shall put the affair into my lawyer's 



The Pugilist. See note to Don Juan, Canto XI. 



LETTERS. 



749 



hands. Five-and-twenty guineas is a sound price 

for a pony, and by » if it cost me five hundred 

pounds, I will "make an example of Mr. Jekyll, 
and that immediately, unless the cash is returned. 
"Believe me, dear Jack, &c." 



LETTER XXX. 



TO MR. JACKSON. 



" N. A., Notts, Oct. 4, 1S08. 

"You will make as good a bargain as possible 
with this Master Jekyll, if he is not a gentleman. 
If he is a gentleman, inform me, for I shall take very 
different steps. If he is not, you must get what 
you can of the money, for I have too much business 
on hand at present to commence an action. Besides, 
Ambrose is the man who ought to refund, — but I 
have done with him. You can settle with L. out 
of the balance, and dispose of the bidets, &c, as 
you best can. 

" I should be very glad to see you here; but the 
house is filled with workmen, and undergoing a 
thorough repair. I hope, however, to be more 
fortunate before many months have elapsed. 

"If you see Bold Webster, remember me to him, 
and tell him I have to regret Sydney, who has 
perished, I fear, in my rabbit warren, for we have 
seen nothing of him for the last fortnight. 

" Adieu. — Believe me, &c." 



LETTER XXXI. 



TO MR. JACKSON. 



My Dear Jack, 



1 N. A., Notts, Dec. i 



"You will get the greyhound from the owner at 
any price, and as many more of the same breed 
(male or female) as you can collect. 

" Tell D'Egville his dress shall be returned — I 
am obliged to him for the pattern. I am sorry you 
should have .so much trouble, but I was not aware 
of the difficulty of procuring the animals in ques- 
tion. I shall have finished part of my mansion in 
a few weeks, and, if you can pay me a visit at 
Christmas, I shall be very glad to see you. 

" Believe me, &c." 



LETTER XXXII. 



TO MR. BECHEK. 



" Newstead Abbey, Notts, Sept. 14, 1808. 

" My Dear Becher, 

"I am much obliged to you for your inquiries, 
and shall profit by them accordingly. I am going 
to get up a play here ; the hall will constitute a most 
admirable theatre. I have settled the dram. pers. 
and can do without ladies, as I have some young 
friends who will make tolerable substitutes for 
females, and we only want three male characters, 
beside Mr. Hobhouse and myself, for the play we 
have fixed on, which will be the Revenge. Pray 
direct Nicholson the carpenter to come over to me 
immediately, and inform me what day you will dine 
and pass the night here. " Believe me, &C." 



LETTER XXXIII. 



TO THE HONORABLE* MRS. BYRON. 



" Newstead Abbey, Notts, Oct. 7, 1808. 

"Dear Madam, 

" I have no beds for the H * * a, or any body else 
at present. The II * * s sleep at Mansfield. I do 
not know that I resemble Jean Jacques Rousseau. f 
I have no ambition to be like so illustrious a mad- 
man — but this I know, that I shall live in my own 
manner, and as much alone as possible. When my 
rooms are ready I shall be glad to see you ; at pres- 
ent it would be improper, and uncomfortable to 
both parties. You can hardly object to my render- 
ing my mansion habitable, notwithstanding my 
departure for Persia in March, (or May at farthest,) 
since you will be tenant till my return ; and in case 
of any accident,) for I have already arranged my 
will to be drawn up the moment I am twenty-one,) 
I have taken care you shall have the house and ma- 
nor for life, besides a sufficient income. So you see 
my improvements are not entirely selfish. As 
I have a friend here, we will go to the Infirmary 
Ball on the 12th ; we will drink tea with Mrs. By- 
ron at eight o'clock, and expect to see you at the 
ball. If that lady will allow us a couple of rooms 
to dress in, we shall be highly obliged: — if we are 
at the ball by ten or eleven it will be time 
enough, and we shall return to Newstead a!bout 
three or four. Adieu. Believe me, 

" Yours, very truly, 

" Byron." 



LETTER XXXIV. 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



" Newstead Abbey, Nov. 2, 1308. 

"Dear Mother, 

" If you please, we will forget the things you 
mention. I have no desire to remember them. 
When my rooms arc finished, I shall be happy to 
see you ; as I tell but the truth, you will not suspect 
me of evasion. I am furnishing the house more for 
you than myself, and I shall establish you in it be- 
fore I sail for India, which I expect to do in March, 
if nothing particularly obstructive occurs. I am 
now fitting up the green drawing-room ; the red for 
a bed-room, and the rooms over as sleeping-rooms. 
They will be soon completed ; — at least, I hope so. 

"I wish you would inquire of Major Watson 
(who is an old Indian) what things will be necessary 
to provide for my voyage. I have already pro- 
cured a friend to write to the Arabic professor at 
Cambridge for some information I am anxious to 
procure. I can easily get letters from Government 
to the ambassadors, consuls, &c, and also to the 
governors at Calcutta and Madras. I shall place 
my property and will in the hands of trustees till 
my return, and I mean to appoint you one. From 
Hanson I have heard nothing — when I do you shall 
have the particulars. 

" After all, you must own my project is not a bad 
one. If I do not travel now, I never shall, and all 
men should one day or other. I have at present no 
connections to keep me at home ; no wife, or un- 
provided sisters, brothers, &c. I shall take care of 
you, and when I return I may possibly become a 
politician. A few years' knowledge of other coun- 
tries than our own will not incapacitate me for that 
part. If we see no nation but our own we do not 



• Thus addressed always by Lord Byron, but without any right to the 
distinction, 
t See Memorandum, page 1013. 



750 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



give mankind a fair chance — it is from experience, 
not books, we ought to judge of them. There is 
nothing like inspection, and trusting to our own 
senses. " Yours very truly, 

"Byron." 



LETTER XXXV. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



" A few weeks ago I wrote to * * *, to request he 
would receive the son of a citizen of London, well 
known to me, as a pupil ; the family having been 
particularly polite during the short time I was with 
them induced me to this application. Now, mark 
what follows, — as somebody sublimely saith. On 
this day arrives an epistle, signed * * *, containing 
not the smallest reference to tuition, or nituition, 
but a petition for Robert Gregson, of pugilistic no- 
toriety, now in bondage for certain paltry pounds 
sterling, and liable to take up his everlasting abode 
in Banco Pegis. Had the letter been from any of 
my lay acquaintance, or, in short, from any person 
but the gentleman whose signature it bears, I should 
have marvelled not. If * * * is serious, I congrat- 
ulate pugilism on the acquisition of such a patron, 
and shall be most happy to advance any sum neces- 
sary for the liberationof the captive Gregson. But 
I certainly hope to be certified from you, or some re- 
spectable housekeeper, of the fact, before I write 
to * * * on the subject. When I say the fact, I 
mean of the letter being written by * * *, not hav- 
ing any doubt as to the authenticity of the state- 
ment. The letter is now before me, and I keep it 
for your perusal." 



LETTER XXXVI. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

" Rcddish's Hotel, Jan. 25, 1S09. 

"My Dear Sir, 

" My only reason for not adopting your lines* is 
because they are your lines. You will recollect 
what Lady Wortley Montague said to Pope : ' No 
touching, for the good will be given to you, and the 
bad attributed to me.' I am determined it shall be 
all my own, except such alterations as may be abso- 
lutely requisite ; but I am much obliged by the 
trouble you have taken and your good opinion. 

"The couplet on Lord C. may be scratched out, 
and the following inserted : . 

" Roscommon ! Sheffield ! wilh your spirits fled, &c. 

" This will answer the purpose of concealment. 
t*Iovr for some couplets on Mr. Crabbe, which you 
luajT place after ' GifFord, Sotheby, McNeil :' 

" There be who say in these enlightened days, 4c. 

"I am sorry to differ with you with regard to the 
title, but I mean to retain it with this addition : 
' The English Bards and Scotch Reviewers ;' and, 
if we call it a Satire, it will obviate the objection, as 
the bards also were Welsh. * * * * 
" Yours very' sincerely, 
" Byron." 



• Mr. Dallas had written some lines, and requested Lord Byron to insert 
8h*m in the Satire, the " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," then in 
press.— The letters following to Mr. Dallas, relate to that work. 



LETTER XXXVIL 

to r. c. dallas, esq. 

"My Dear Sir, 
"Suppose we have this couplet — * 



' Feb. 7, 1809. 



01", 



" Though sweet the sound, disdain a borrow'd tone, 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own ; 

" Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone, 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 



" So much for your admonitions ; but my note ot 
notes, f my solitary pun must not be given up — no, 
rather 

" ' Let mightiest of all the beasts of chace, 
That roam in woody Caledou' 

come against me : my annotation must stand. 

" We shall never sell a thousand ; then why print 
so many ? Did you receive my yesterday's note ? 
I am troubling you, but I am apprehensive some of 
the lines are omitted by your young amanuensis, to 
whom, however, I am infinitely obliged. 

" Believe me, yours very truly, 
" Byron." 



NOTES TO MR. DALLAS. 

" Feb. 11, 1809. 

" I wish you to call, if possible, as I have some 
alterations to suggest as to the part about Brougham. 

"B." 

" Excuse the trouble, but I have added two lines 
which are necessary to complete the poetical char- 
acter of Lord Carlisle. 

" . in his age 

His scenes alone had damn' d our sinking stage ; 
But managers for once cried, * hold, enough !' 
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 



' Feb. 12, 1809." 



" Yours, &c. 



l B." 



" I wish you much to call on me, about one, not 
later, if convenient, as I have some thirty or forty 
lines for addition. Believe me, &c. " B." 

«' Feb. 15, 1809." 

" Ecce iterum Crispinus ! — I send you some lines 
to be placed after ' Gifford, Sotheby, McNeil.' Pray 
call to-morrow any time before two, and believe 
me, &c. " B." 

"P. S. Print soon, or I shall overflow with more 
rhyme. 

" Feb. IS, 1809." 

" I enclose some lines to be inserted, the six first 
after, ' Lords too are bards, &c.,' or rather immedi- 
ately following the line : 

" ' Oh I who would take their titles with their rhymes V 

The four next will wind up the panegyric on Lord 
Carlisle, and come after ' tragic stuff.' 

" Yours, truly, "B." 

" Feb. 19, 1809." 

" A cut at the opera — Ecce signum ! from last 
night's observation, and inuendces against the 
Society for the suppression of Vice. The lines will 
come well in after the couplets concerning Naldi 
and Catalini. " Yours truly, 

" Byron." 



"Feb. 22, 1 



• Mr. Dallas objected to the lines as originally written : 
" Translation's servile work at length disown, 
And quit Achaia's muse to court your own." 
f See English Bards, and note, p. 460. 



LETTERS. 



751 



LETTER XXXVIII. 

TO MRS. BYRON. 

" 8, St. James's si., March, 6, 1309. 

" Dear Mother, 

" My last letter was written under great depres- 
sion of spirits from poor Falkland's death,* who 
has left without a shilling four children and his 
wife. I have been endeavoring to assist them, 
which, God knows, I cannot do as I could wish, 
from my own embarassments, and the many claims 
upon me from other quarters. 

" "What you say is all very true: come what may 
Newstead and I stand or fall together. I have now 
lived on the spot, I have fixed my heart upon it, 
and no pressure, present or future, shall induce me 
to barter the last vestige of our inheritance. I 
have that pride within me which will enable me 
to support difficulties. I can endure privations ; 
but could I obtain in exchange for Newstead 
Abbey the first fortune in the country, I would re 
ject the proposition. Set your mind at ease on that 
score ; Mr. Hanson talks like a man of business on 
the subject, I feel like a man of honor, and I will 
not sell Newstead. 

" I shall get my seat on the return of the affida- 
vits from Carhais, in Cornwall, and will do some- 
thing in the House soon ; I must dash, or all is over. 
My Satire must be kept secret for a month ; after 
that you may say what you please on the subject. 
Lord Carlisle has used me infamously, and refused 
to state any particulars of my family to the Chan- 
cellor. I have lashed him in my rhymes, and per- 
haps his Lordship may regret not being more con- 
ciliatory. They tell me it will have a sale ; 1 hope 
so, for the bookseller has behaved well, as far as 
publishing well goes. Believe me, yours truly. 

"P. S. You shall have a mortgage on one of 
the farms." 



LETTER XXXIX. 



TO MR. HARNESS. 



" 8, St. James's street, March 18, 1809. 

" There was no necessity for your excuses ; if you 
have time and inclination to write, ' for what we re- 
ceive, the Lord make us thankful.' — If I do not 
hear from you, I console myself with the idea that 
you are much more agreeably employed. 

" I send down to you by this post a certain Satire 
lately published, and in return for the three and six- 
pence expenditure upon it, only beg; that if you 
should guess the author, you will keep his name 
secret ; at least, for the present. London is full of 
the Duke's business. The Commons have been at 
it these last three nights and are not yet come to a 
decision. I do not know if the affair will be brought 
before our House, unless in the shape of an impeach- 
ment. If it makes its appearance in a debatable 
form, I believe I shall be tempted to say something 
on the subject — I am glad to hear you like Cam- 
bridge : firstly, because to know that you are happy 
is pleasant to one who wishes you all possible sub- 
lunary enjoyment ; and, secondly, I admire the mo- 
rality of the sentiment. Alma Mater was to me 
injusta noverca ; and the old Beldam only gave me 
my M. A. degree because she could not avoid it. — 
You know what a farce a noble Cantab, must per- 
form. 



* See English Bards, and note, p. Ml. 



" I am going abroad, if possible, in the spring, 
and before I depart I am collecting the pictures 
of my most intimate schoolfellows ; I have already 
a few, and shall want yours, or my cabinet will be 
incomplete. I have employed one of the first 
miniature-painters of the day to take them, of 
course at my own expense, as I never allow my 
acquaintance to incur the least expenditure to 
gratify a whim of mine. To mention this may 
seem indelicate ; but when I tell you a friend of 
ours first refused to sit, under the idea that he was 
to disburse on the occasion, you will see that it is 
necessary to state these preliminaries to prevent 
the recurrence of any similar mistake. I shall see 
you in time, and will carry you to the limner. It 
will be a tax on your patience for a week, but pray 
excuse it, as it is possible the resemblance may be 
the sole trace I shall be able to preserve of our past 
friendship and present acquaintance. Just now it 
seems foolish enough, but in a few years, when 
some of us are dead, aud others are separated by 
inevitable circumstances, it will be a kind of satis- 
faction to retain in these images of the living the 
idea of our former selves, and to contemplate in the 
resemblance of the dead, all that remains of judg- 
ment, feeling, and a host of passions. But all this 
would be dull enough for you, and so good night, 
and to end my chapter, or rather my homily, believe 
me, dear H., yours most affectionately. 

" P. S. I do not know how you and Alma Mater 
agree. I was but an untoward child myself, and I 
believe the good lady and her brat were equally 
rejoiced when I was weaned ; and, if I obtained her 
benediction at parting, it was, at best, equivocal." 



LETTER XL. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



1 April 25, 1809. 



" Dear Sir, 

" I am just arrived at Batt's Hotel, Jermyn street, 
St. James's, from Newstead, and shall be very glad 
to see you when convenient or agreeable. Hob- 
house is on his way up to town, full of printing 
resolution, and proof against criticism. 

" Believe me, with great sincerity, yours truly, 

" Byron." 



LETTER XLI. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 

" Twelre o'clock, Frftiay r.t£l:J. 

"My Dear Bankes, 

1 "I have just received your note; believe me, I' 
regret most sincerely that I was not fortunate 
enough to see it before, as I need not repeat to you, 
that your conversation for half an hour would have 
been much more agreeable to me than gambling or 
drinking, or any other fashionable mode of passing 
an evening abroad or at home. I really am very 
sorry that I went out previous to the arrival of your 
despatch : in future, pray let me hear from you 
before six, and whatever my engagements may be, I 
will always postpone them. Believe me, with that 
deference which I have always from my childhood 
paid to your talents, and with somewhat a better 
opinion of your heart than I have hitherto enter- 
tained. '* Yours ever, &c." 



752 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER XLII. 



TO MRS. BYItON. 



" Falmouth, June 22, 1809. 

" Dear Mother, 

" I am about to sail in a few days ; probably 
Defore this reaches you. Fletcher begged so hard, 
that I have continued him in my service. If he does 
not behave well abroad, I will send him back in a 
transport. ' I have a German servant, (who has 
been with Mr. Wilbraham in Persia before, and was 
strongly recommended to me by Dr. Butler of Har- 
row,*) Robert, and William ; they constitute my 
whole suite. I have letters in plenty — you shall 
hear from me at the different ports I touch upon ; 
but you must not be alarmed if my letters miscarry. 
The continent is in a fine state — an insurrection 
has broken out at Paris, and the Austrians are 
beating Bonaparte — the Tyrolese have risen. 

" There is a picture of me in oil, to be sent down 
to Newstead scon. — I wish the Miss Pigots had 
something better to do than carry my miniatures to 
Nottingham to copy. Now they have done it, you 
may ask them to copy the others, which are greater 
favorites than my own. As to money matters^ 1 
am ruined — at least till Rochdale is sold; and if 
that does not turn out well, I shall enter into the 
Austrian or Russian service — perhaps the Turkish, 
if I like their manners. The world is all before me, 
and I leave England without regret, and without 
a wish to revisit any thing it contains, except your- 
self, and your present residence. 

" Believe me, yours ever sincerely. 

" P. S. Pray tell Mr. Rushton his son is well, 
and doing well ; so is Murray, indeed better than 1 
ever saw him ; he will be back in about a month. 
I ought to add the leaving Murray to my few regrets, 
as his age perhaps will prevent my seeing him 
again. Robert I take with me ; I like him, because, 
like myself, he seems a friendless animal." 



laid down my pen, but have promsed to contributt 
a chapter on the state of morals, &c, &c. 



' The cock is crowing, 
I musl be going, 
And can no more.' — Ghost of Caffei 



'Adieu. Believe me, &c, &c." 



LETTER XLIV. 



TO MR. IIODGSON. 



LETTER XL1II. 

TO Mil. HENRY pRURY. 

" Falmouth, June 25, 1809. 

"My Dear Drury, 

" We sail to-morrow in the Lisbon packet, having 
been detained till now by the lack of wind, and 
other necessaries. These being at last procured, 
by this time to-morrow evening we shall be 
embarked on the aide vorld of waters, ror all the 
i>orld like Robinson Crusoe. The Malta vessel not 
sailing for some weeks, we have determined to go 
by way of Lisbon, and, as my servants term it, to 
see ' that there Portingale ;' thence to Cadiz and 
Gibralter, and so on our old route to Malta and 
Constantinople, if so be that Captain Kidd, our 
gallant commander, understands plain sailing and 
Mercator, and takes us on our voyage all according 
to the chart. 

" Will you tell Dr. Butler that I have taken the 
treasure of a servant, Friese, the native of Prussia 
Proper, into my service from his recommendation. 
He has been all among the Worshippers of Fire in 
Persia, and seen Persepolis and all that. 

" Hobhouse has made woundy preparations for a 
book on his return ; — one hundred pens, two gallons 
of japan ink, and several volumes of best blank, is 
no bad provision for a discerning public. I have 



"Falmouth, June 25, 1808. 

" My Dear Hodgson, 

" Before this reaches you, Hobhouse, two officers' 
wives, three children, two waiting-maids, ditto sub- 
alterns for the troops, three Portugese esquires and 
domestics, in all nineteen souls, will have sailed in 
the Lisbon packet, with the noble Captain Kidd, a 
gallant commander as ever smuggled an anchor 
of right Nantz. 

'• We are going to Lisbon first, because the 
Malta packet has sailed, d'ye see ? — from Lisbon 
to Gibralter, Malta, Constantinople, and 'all that,' 
as Orator Henley said, when he put the Church, 
and ' all that,' in danger. 

" This town of Falmouth, as you will partly 
conjecture, is no great ways from the sea. It is 
defended on the sea-side by tway castles, St. Maws 
and Pendennis, extremely well calculated for annoy- 
ing every body except an enemy. St. Maws is 
garrisoned by an able-bodied person of fourscore, a 
widower. He has the whole command and sole 
management of six most unmanageable pieces of 
ordnance, admirably adapted for the destruction 
of Pendennis, a like tower of strength on the 
opposite side of the Channel. We have seen St. 
Maws, but Pendennis they will not let us Jiehold, 
save at a distance, because Hobhouse and I are 
suspected of having already taken St. Maws by a 
coup de main. 

" The town contains many quakers and salt fish 
— the oysters have a taste of copper, owing to the 
soil of a mining countr) — the women (blessed be 
the Corporation therefor!) are flogged at the cart's 
tail when they pick and steal, as happened to one 
of the fair sex yesterday noon. She was pertina- 
cious in her behavior, and damned the mayor. * * * 

" Hodgson ! remember me to the Drury, and 
remember me to — yourself when drunk : — I am not 
worth a sober thought. Look to my Satire at Caw- 
thorne's, Cockspur street. * * * * 

" I don't know when I can write again, because 
it depends on that experienced navigator, Captain 
Kidd, and the ' stormy winds that (don't) blow,' at 
this season. I leave England without regret— I 
shall return to it without pleasure. I am like 
Adam, the first convict, sentenced to transporta- 
tion, but Iliave no Eve, and have eaten no apple 
but what was sour as a crab ; and thus ends my 
first chapter. Adieu. "Yours, &c." 



* The Page and Yeoman of the 
Childe Harold. 



•Good Night," in the first Cantu of 



LETTER XLV. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



•' Lisbon, July 16, 1809. 

" Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all 
sorts of m'arvellous sights, palaces, convents, &c— 
which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse's 
forthcoming Book of Travels, I shall not anticipate 
by smuggling any account whatsoever to you m a 
private and clandestine manner. I must just observe 



LETTERS. 



753 



that the village of Cintra* in Estremadura is the 
most beautiful, perhaps, in the world. * * * 

" I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, 
and talk bad Latin to the monks, who understand 
it, as it is like their own, — and I goes into society, 
(with my pocket pistols,) and I swims in the Tagus 
all across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, 
and swears Portuguese, and have got a diarrhoea and 
bites from the musquitoes. But what of that ? 
Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a 
pleasuring. * * * 

" When the Portuguese are pertinacious, I say, 
' Carraeho !' — the great oath of the grandees, that 
very well supplies the place of ' Damme,' — and, 
when dissatisfied with my neighbor, I pronounce 
him ' Ambra di merdo.' With these two phrases, 
and a third. ' Avra Bouro,' which signifieth ' Get an 
ass,' I am universally understood to be a person of 
degree and a master of languages. How merrily 
we lives that travellers be ! — if we had food and 
raiment. But, in sober sadness, any thing is better 
than England, and I am infinitely amused with my 
pilgrimage as far as it has gone. 

" To-morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles 
as far as Gibraltar, where we embark for Melita and 
Byzantium. A letter to Malta will find me, or to 
be forwarded, if I am absent. Pray embrace the 
Drury and Dwyer and all the Ephcsians you encoun- 
ter. I am writing with Butler's donative pencil, 
which makes my bad hand worse. Excuse illegi- 
bility. * * * 

"Hodgson! send me the news, and the deaths, 
and defeats, and capital crimes, and the misfortunes 
of one's friends ; and let us hear of literary matters, 
and the controversies and the criticisms. All this 
will be pleasant — ' Suave mari magno,' &c. Talk 
ing of that, I have been sea-sick, and sick of the 
sea. Adieu. " Yours faithfully, &c." 



LETTER XLVI. 

TO MR HODGSON. 

" Gitrolter, August S, 1809. 

"I have just arrived at this place after a journey 
through Portugal, and a part of Spain, of nearly 
five hundred miles. We left Lisbon and travelled 
on horseback to Seville and Cadiz, and thence in 
the Hyperion frigate to Gibralter. The horses are 
excellent — we rode seventy miles a day. Eggs and 
wine and hard beds are all the aeommodatiun we 
found, and, in such torrid weather, quite enough. 
My health is better than in England. * * * * 

" Seville is a fine town, and the Sierra Morena, 
part of which we crossed, a very sufficient mountain, 
— but damn description, it is always disgusting. 
Cadiz, sweet Cadiz ! — it is the first spot in the 
creation. * * * The beauty of its streets and 
mansions is only excelled by the loveliness of its 
inhabitants. For, with all national prejudice, I 
must confess the women of Cadiz are as far superior 
to the English women in beauty as the Spaniards 
are inferior to the English in every quality that 
dignifies the name of man. * * * Just as I 
began to know the principal persons of the city, I 
was obliged to sail. 

" You will not expect a long letter after my riding 
so far 'on hollow pampered jades of Asia.' Talk- 
ing of Asia puts me in mind of Africa, which is 
within five miles of my present residence. I am 
going over before I go on to Constantinople. 

ti* * * Cadiz is a complete Cythera. Many 
of the grandees who have left Madrid during the 
troubles reside there, and I believe it the prettiest 
and cleanest town in Europe. London is filthy in 



See Childe Harold, canto i., stanaa xviii., &c. 

95 



the comparison. * * *. The Spanish women are 
all alike, their education the same. The wife of a 
duke is, in information, as the wife of a peasant, — 
the wife of a peasant, in manner, equal to a duchess. 
Certainly, they are fascinating ; but their minds 
have only one idea, and the business of their lives 
is intrigue. * * * 

" I have seen Sir John Carr at Seville and Cadiz, 
and like Swift's barber, have been down on my 
knees to beg he would not put me into black and 
white. Pray remember me to the Drurys and the 
Davies, and all of that stamp who are yet extant. 
Send me a letter and news to Malta. My next 
epistle shall be from Mount Caucasus or Mount 
Sion. I shall return to Spain before I see England, 
for I am enamored of the country. 

"Adieu, and believe me, &c." 



LETTER XLVII. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

"Gibralter, Aug. 11, 1809. 

"Dear Mother, 

" I have been so much occupied since my depar- 
ture from England, that till I could address you at 
length, I have forborne writing altogether. As I 
have now passed through Portugal, and a consider- 
able part of Spain, and have leisure at this place, I 
shall endeavor to give you a short detail of my 
movements. We sailed from Falmouth on the 2d of 
July, reached Lisbon after a very favorable passage of 
four days and a half, and took up our abode in that 
city. It has often been described without being 
worthy of description ; for, except the view from the 
Tagus, which is beautiful, and some fine churches 
and convents, it contains little but filthy streets and 
more filth}' inhabitants.* 

" To make amends for this, the village of Cintra, 
about fifteen miles from the capital, is, perhaps in 
every respect, the most delightful in Europe ; it 
contains beauties of every description, natural and 
artificial. Palaces and gardens rising in the midst 
of rocks, cataracts, and precipices ; convents on 
stupendous heights — a distant view of the sea and 
the Tagus ; and, besides (though that is a sec- 
dary consideration) is remarkable as the scene of 
Sir H. D.'s Convention. f It unites in itself all the 
wildness of the western highlands, with the ver- 
dure of the South of France. Near this place, 
about ten miles to the right, is the palace of Mafra, 
the boast of Portugal, as it might be of any coun- 
try, in point of magnificence without elegance. 
There is a convent annexed ; the monks, who pos- 
sess large revenues, are courteous enough, and un- 
derstand Latin, so that we had along conversation: 
they have a large library, arid asked me if the 
English had any books in their country. 

" I sent my baggage and part of the servants' by 
sea to Gibralter, and travelled on horseback from 
Aldea Galheda, (the first stage from Lisbon, which 
is only accessible by water,) to Seville, (one of the 
most famous cities in Spain,) where the govern- 
ment called the Junta is now held. The distance 
to Seville is nearly four hundred miles, and to Cadiz 
almost ninety miles further towards the coast. I 
had orders from the government, and every possible 
accommodation on the road, as an English noble- 
man, in an English uniform, is a very respectable 
personage in Spain at present. The horses are re- 
markably good, and the roads (I assure you upon 
my honor, for you will hardly believe it) very far 
superior to the best British roads, without the 



* See Childe Harold, Canto i., stanza : 
f Ibid, xxiv. 



754 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



smallest toll or turnpike. You will suppose this 
when I rode post to Seville in four days, through 
this parching country, in the midst of summer, 
without fatigue of annoyance. Seville is a beauti- 
ful town ; though the streets are narrow they are 
clean.* We lodged in the house of two Spanish 
unmarried ladies, who possess six houses in Seville, 
and gave me a curious specimen of Spanish man- 
ners, f They are women of character, and the eld- 
est, a fine woman, the youngest pretty, but not so 
good a figure as Donna Josepha. The freedom of 
manner which is general here, astonished me not a 
little ; and in the course of further obervation I find 
that reserve is not the characteristic of the Spanisli 
belles, who are, in general, very handsome, with 
large black eyes, and very fine forms. The eldest 
honored your unworthy son with very particular 
attention, embracing him with great tenderness at 
parting, (I was there but three days,) after cutting 
oft" a lock of his hair, and presenting him with one 
of her own, about three feet in length, which I 
send, and beg you will retain till my return. Her 
last words were, ' Adios, tu hermoso ! me gusto 
mucho.' — ' Adieu, you pretty fellow, you please me 
much.' She offered, a share of her apartment, which 
my virtue induced me to decline : she laughed, and 
said I had some English 'amante,' (lover,) and 
added that she was going to be married to an officer 
in the Spanish army. 

"I left Seville, and rode on to Cadiz, through a 
beautiful country. At Xeres, where the sherry we 
drank is made, I met a great merchant, a Mr. Gor- 
don of Scotland, who was extremely polite, and fa- 
vored me with the inspection of his vaults and cel- 
lars, — so that I quaffed at the fountain head. 

" Cadiz, % sweet Cadiz, is the most delightful town 
I ever beheld, very different from our English cities 
in every respect, except cleanliness, (and it as clean 
as London,) but still beautiful and full of the finest 
women in Spain, the Cadiz belles being the Lan- 
cashire witches of their land. Just as I was intro- 
duced, and began to like the grandees, I was forced 
to leave it for this accursed place ; but before I re- 
turn to England I will visit it again. The night 
before I left it, I sat in the box at the opera with 
Admiral Cordova's family ; he is the commander 
whom Lord St. Vincent "defeated in 1797, and has 
an aged wife and a fine daughter, Senorita Cordova ; 
the girl is very pretty in the Spanish style, in my 
opinion by no means inferior to the English in 
charms, and certainly superior in fascination. Long 
black hair, dark languishing eyes, clear olive com- 
plexions, and forms more graceful in motion than 
can be conceived by an Englishman used to the 
drowsy, listless air of his countrywomen, added to 
the most becoming dress, and, at the same time, 
the most decent in the world, render a Spanish 
beauty irresistible. I beg leave to observe that in- 
trigue here is the business of life ; when a woman 
marries she throws off all restraint, but I believe 
their conduct is chaste enough before. If yon make 
a proposal, which in England would bring a box on 
the ear from the meekest of virgins, to a Spanish 
girl, she thanks you for the honor you intend her, 
and replies, ' Wait till I am married, and I shall be 
too happy.' This is literally and strictly true. Miss 
C. and her little brother understood a little French, 
and, after regretting my ignorance of the Spanish, 
she proposed to become my preceptress in that lan- 
guage. I could only reply by a low bow, and express 
my regret that I quitted Cadiz too soon to permit 
me to make the progress which would doubtless at- 
tend my studies under so charming a directress. I 
was standing at the back of the box, which resem- 
bles our opera boxes, (the theatre is large, and 
finely decorated, the music admirable,) in the man- 
ner in which Englishmen generally adopt, for fear 



of incommoding the ladies in front, when this fair 
Spaniard dispossessed an old woman (an aunt or a 
duenna) of her chair, and commanded me to be 
seated next herself, at a tolerable distance from her 
mamma. At the close of the performance I with- 
drew, and was lounging with a party of men in the 
passage, when, en passant, the lady turned round 
and called me, and I had the honor of attending 
her to the admiral's mansion. I have an invitation 
on my return to Cadiz, which I shall accept, if I 
repass through the country on my return from Asia. 

" I have met Sir John Carr, knight errant, at Se- 
ville and Cadiz. He is a pleasant man. I like the 
Spaniards much. You have heard of the battle 
near Madrid, and in England they call it a victory — 
a pretty victory ! two hundred officers, and five 
thousand men killed, all English ; and the French 
in as great force as ever. I should have joined the 
army, but we have no time to lose before we get up 
the Mediterranean and Archipelago. I am going over 
to Africa to-morrow ; it is only six miles from this 
fortress. My next stage is Cagliari in Sardinia, 
where I shall be presented to his majesty. I have 
a most superb uniform as a court dress, indis- 
pensable in travelling. 

August 13th. — I have not been to Africa ; the 
wind is contrary ; but I dined yesterday at Alge- 
siras, with Lady Westmoreland, where I met Gen- 
eral Castanos, the celebrated Spanish leader, in the 
late and present war : to-day I dine with him ; he 
has offered me letters to Tetuan in Barbary, for the 
principal Moors ; and I am to have the house for a 
few days of one of the great men, which was in- 
tended for Lady W., whose health will not permit 
her to cross the Straits. 

August \oth. — I could not dine with Castanos yes- 
terday, but this afternoon I had that honor ; he is 
pleasant, and for aught I know to the contrary, 
clever. I cannot go to Barbary. The Malta packet 
sails to-morrow, and myself in it. Admiral Purvis, 
with whom I dined at Cadiz, gave me a passage in a 
frigate to Gibralter, but we have no ship of war des- 
tined for Malta at present. The packets sail fast, 
and have good accommodations. You shall hear 
from me on our route. Joe Murray delivers this. I 
have sent him and the boy back ; pray show the 
lad every kindness, as he is my great favorite. I 
hope this will find you well. 

" Believe me, ever yours sincerely, 
" Byron. 

" P. S. So Lord G. is married to a rustic ! well 
done ! If I wed, I will bring you home a Sultana. 
with half a dozen cities for a dowry, and reconcile 
you to an Ottoman daughter-in-law with a bushel of 
pearls, not larger than ostrich eggs or smaller than 
walnuts." 



* See Childe Harold, canto i., stanza Ixv., &c 

t Don Juan, canto i., stanza viii. 

% See Childe Harold, canto i., utaiua Ixt., 4c. 



LETTER XLVIII. 



TO MR. RTJSIITOX. 



"Gibraltar, August 15, 1809. 

"Mr. Rushtox, 

" I have sent Robert home with Mr. Murray, be- 
cause the country which I am about ^to travel 
through is in a state which renders it unsafe, par- 
ticularly for one so young. I allow you to deduct 
five-and-twenty pounds a year for his education for 
three years, provided I do not return before that 
time, and I desire he may be considered as in my ser- 
vice. Let every care be taken of him, and let hirn 
be sent to school. In case of my death I have pro- 
vided enough in my will to render him independent. 
He has behaved extremely well, and has travelled 
a great deal for the time of his absence. Deduct 
the expense of his education from your rent. 

" Byron." 



LETTERS. 



755 



LETTER XLIX. 

TO THE HONORABLE MRS. BYRON. 

"Malta, Sept. 13, 1809. 

' Dear Mother, 

" Though I have a very short time to spare, being 
to sail immediately for Greece, I cannot avoid 
taking an opportunity of telling you that I am well. 
I have been in Malta, a short time, and have found 
the inhabitants hospitable and pleasant. This letter 
is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary 
woman, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. 
Spencer Smith,* of whose escape the Marquis de 
Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She 
has since been shipwrecked, and her life has been 
from its commencement so fertile in remarkable in- 
cidents, that in a romance they would appear im- 
probable. She was born at Constantinople, where 
her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambas- 
sador ; married unhappily, yet has never been 
impeached in point of character ; excited the ven- 
geance of Bonaparte by a part in some conspi- 
racy ; several times risked her life ; and is not yet 
twenty-five. She is here in her way to England, 
to join her husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, 
where she was paying a visit to her mother, by 
the approach of the French, and embarks soon 
in a ship of war. Since my arrival here, I have 
had scarcely any other companion. I have found 
her very pretty, very accomplished, and extremely ec- 
centric. Bonaparte is even now so incensed against 
her, that her life would be in some danger if she 
were taken prisoner a second time. 

You have seen Murray and Robert by this time, 
and received my letter — little has happened since 
that date. I have touched at Cagliari, in Sardinia, 
and at Girgenti, in Sicily, and embark to-morrow 
for Patras, from whence I proceed to Yanina, where 
Ali Pacha holds his Court, so I soon shall be among 
the Mussulmans. 

"Adieu. Believe me with sincerity, yours ever, 

"Byron." 



LETTER L. 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



" Preresa, Not. 12, 1309. 

••My Dear Mother, 

. * 
" I have now been some time in Turkey ; this 

place is on the coast, but I have traversed the inte- 
rior of the province of Albania on a visit to the 
Pacha. I left Malta in the Spider, a brig of war, 
on the 21st of September, and arrived in eight days 
at Prevesa. I thence have been about one hundred 
and fifty miles as far as Tepalen, his highness's 
country palace, where I stayed three days.f The 
name of the Pacha is Ali, and he is considered a 
man of the first abilities : he governs the whole of 
Albania, (the ancient Illyricum,) Epirus, and part 
of Macedonia. His son, Vely Pacha, r?> whom he 
has given me letters, governs the Morea, and has 
great influence in Egypt ; in short he is one of the 
most powerful men in the Ottoman empire. When 
I reached Yanina, the capital, after a journey of 
three days over the mountains, through a country 
of the most picturesque beauty, I found that Ali 
Pacha was with his army in Illyricum, besieging 
Ibrahim Pacha in the castle of Berat. He had 
heard that an Englishman of rank was in his do- 
minions, and had left orders in Yanina with the 
commandment to provide a house, and supply me 
with every kind of necessary (/ratis ■ and though I 
have been allowed to make presents to the slaves, 



* The "Florence" of several of his smaller poems; and alluded to in 
shilde Harold, canto ii., stanza xxx. 
| See Guide Harold, canto U., stanza Ixt. 



&c., I have not been permitted to pay for a single 
article of household consumption. 

" I rode out on the vizier's horses, and saw the 
palaces of himself and grandsons : they are splen- 
did, but too much ornamented with silk and gold. 
I then went over the mountains through Zitza, a vil- 
lage with a Greek monastery, (where I slept on my 
return,) in the most beautiful situation (always ex- 
cepting Cintra, in Portugal) I ever beheld. In nine 
days I reached Tepalen. Our journey was much 
prolonged by the torrents that had fallen from the 
mountains, and intersected the roads. I shall never 
forget the singular scene on entering Tepalen at 
five in the afternoon, as the sun was going down. It 
brought to my mind (with some change of dress, 
however) Scott's description of Branksome Castle 
in his Lay, and the feudal system. The Albanians, 
in their dresses, (the most magnificent in the 
world, consisting of a long white kilt, gold-worked 
cloak, crimson velvet gold laced jacket and waist- 
coat, silver-mounted pistols and daggers,) the Tar- 
tars witli their high caps, the Turks in their vast 
pelisses and turbans, the soldiers and black slaves 
witli the horses, the former in groups in an im 
mense large open gallery in front of the palace, 
the latter placed in a kind of cloister below it, two 
hundred steeds ready caparisoned to move in a 
moment, couriers entering or passing out with dis- 
patches, the kettle-drums beating, boys calling the 
hour from the minaret of the mosque— altogether, 
with the singular appearance of the building itself,- 
formed a new and delightful spectacle to a stran- 
ger. I was conducted to a very handsome apart- 
ment, and my health inquired after by the vizier's 
secretary, ' a la-mode Turque ! ' 

"The next day I was introduced to Ali Pacha. 1 
was dressed in a full suit of staff uniform, with a 
very magnificent sabre, &c. The vizier received me 
in a large room paved with marble ; a fountain* 
was playing in the centre ; the apartment was 
surrounded by scarlet ottomans. lie received me 
standing, a wonderful compliment from a Mussul- 
man, and made me sit down on his right hand. I 
have a Greek interpreter for general use, but a 
physician of Ali's, named Femlario, who under- 
stands Latin, acted for me on this occasion. His 
first question was, why, at so early an age, I left 
my country ? — (the Turks have no idea of travelling 
for amusement.) He then said, the English min- 
ister, Captain Leake, had told him I was of a great 
family, and desired his respects to my mother ; 
which I now, in the name of Ali Pacha, present to 
you. He said he was certain I was a man of birth, 
because I had small ears, curling hair, and little 
white hands, f and expressed himself pleased with 
my appearance and garb. He told me to^ consider 
him as a father while I was in Turkey, and said he 
looked on me as his son. Indeed, he treated me 
like a child, sending me almonds and sugared 
sherbet, fruit and sweetmeats, twenty times a day. 
He begged me to visit him often, and at night, 
when he was at leisure. I then after coffee and 
pipes, retired for the first time. I saw him thrice 
afterward. It is singular that the Turks, who have 
no hereditary dignities, and few great families, 
except the Sultans, pay so much respect to birth ; 
for I found mv pedigree more regarded than my 
title. 

"His highness is sixty years old, very fat, and 
not tall, but with a fine face, light blue eyes, and a 
white beard ; his manner is very kind, and at the 
same time he possesses that dignity which I find 
universal among the Turks. — He has the appear- 
ance of any thing but his real character ; for he is a 
remorseless tyrant, guilty of the most horrible 
cruelties, very brave, and so good a general that 
they call him the Mahometan Bonaparte. Napoleon 
has twice offered to make him king of Epirus, but 



* See Don Juan, canto v., stanza It., and note, 
f Ibid, stanza cvi., and note. 



756 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



he prefers the English interest, and abhors the 
French, as he himself told me. He is of so much 
consequence, that he is much courted by both ; the 
Albanians being the most warlike subjects of the 
Sultan, though Ali is only nominally dependent on 
the Porte. He has been a mighty warrior ; but is 
as barbarous as he is successful, roasting rebels, 
&c, &c. Bonaparte sent him a snuff-box, with his 
picture ; he said the snuff-box was very well, but 
the picture he could excuse, as he neither liked it 
nor the original. His ideas of judging of a man's 
birth from ears, hands, &c, were curious enough. 
To me, he was, indeed, a father, Riving me letters, 
guards, and every possible accommodation. Our 
next conversations were of war aud travelling, pol- 
itics and England. He called my Albanian soldier, 
who attends me, and told him to protect me at all 
hazard. His name is Viscillie, and like all the 
Albanians, he is brave, rigidly honest, and faithful ; 
but they are cruel, though not treacherous ; and 
have several vices, but no meannesses. They are, 
perhaps, the most beautiful race, in point of counte- 
nance, in the world ; their women are sometimes 
handsome also, but they are treated like slaves, 
beaten, and, in short, complete beasts of burden ; 
they plough, dig, and sow. I found them carrying 
wood, and actually repairing the highways. The 
men are all soldiers, and war and the chase their 
sole occupation. The women are the laborers, 
which, after all, is no great hardship in so delightful 
a climate. Yesterday, the 11th of November, I 
bathed in the sea ; to-day it is so hot that I am 
writing in a shady room of the English consul's, 
with three doors wide open, no fire, or evenjire-place 
in the house ; except for culinary purposes. 

"To-day I saw the remains of the town of Acti- 
um,* near which Antony lost the world, in a small 
bay, where two frigates could hardly manoeuvre : a 
broken wall is the sole remnant. On another part 
of the gulf stands the ruins of Nicopolis, built by 
Augustus in honor of his victory. Last night I was 
at a Greek marriage ; but this and a thousand things 
more I have neither time nor space to describe. 

"I am going to-morrow, with a guard of fifty 
men, to Patras in the Morea, and thence to Athens, 
where I shall winter. Two days ago I was nearly 
lost in a Turkish ship of war, owing to the igno- 
rance of the captain and crew, though the storm 
was not violent. Fletcher yelled after his wife, the 
Greeks called on all the saints, the Mussulmans on 
Alia ; the captain burst into tears and ran below 
deck, telling us to call on God ; the sails were split, 
the mainyard shivered, the wind blowing fresh, the 
night setting in, and all our chance was to make 
Corfu, which is in possession of the French, or (as 
Fletcher pathetically termed it) ' a watery grave.' 
I did what I could to console Fletcher, but finding 
him incorrigible, wrapped myself up in my Albanian 
capote, (an immense cloak,) and lay down on deck 
to wait the worst. I have learned to philosophize 
in my travels, and if I had not, complaint was use- 
less. Luckily the wind abated, and only drove us 
on the coast of Suli, on the main land, where we 
landed, and proceeded, by the help of the natives, 
to Prevcsa again ; but I shall not trust Turkish 
sailors in future, though the Pacha had ordered one 
of his own galliots to take me to Patras. I am there- 
fore going as far as Misselonghi by land, and there 
have only to cross a small gulf to get to Patras. 

" Fletcher's next epistle will be full of marvels : 
we were one night lost for nine hours in the moun- 
tains in a thunder-storm, and since nearly wrecked. 
In both cases, Fletcher was sorely bewildered, from 
apprehensions of famine and banditti in the first, 
and drowning in the second, instance. His eyes 
were a little hurt by the lightning, or crying, (I 
don't know which,) but are now recovered. When 
you write, address to me at Mr. Stranes, English 
consul, Patras, Morea. 



See Childe Harold, canto ii., stanza xlv. 



" I could tell you I know not how many incidents 
that I think would amuse you, but they crowd on 
my mind as much as they would swell my paper, 
and I can neither arrange them in the one, nor put 
them down on the other, except in the greatest 
confusion. I like the Albanians much ; they are 
not all Turks ; some tribes are Christians. But 
their religion makes little difference in their man- 
ner or conduct. They are esteemed the best troops 
in the Turkish service. I lived on my route two 
days at once, and three days again, in a barrack at 
Salora, and never found soldiers so tolerable, though 
I have been in the garrisons of Gibraltar and Malta, 
and seen Spanish, French, Sicilian, and British 
troops in abundance. I have had nothing stolen, 
and was always welcome to their provision and 
milk. Not a week ago an Albanion chief, (every 
village has its chief, who is called Primate,) after 
helping us out of the Turkish galley in her distress, 
'ii ding us, and lodging my suite, consisting or 
Fletcher, a Greek, two Athenians, a Greek priest, 
and my companion, Mr. Hobhouse, refused any 
compensation but a written paper stating that 1 
was well received; and when I pressed him to 
accept a few sequins, ' No,' he replied ; ' I wish you 
to love me, not to pay me.' These are his words. 

"It is astonishing how far money goes in this 
country. While I was in the capital. I had nothing 
to pay, by the vizier's order ; but since, though I 
have generally had sixteen horses, and generally 
six or seven men, the expense has not been half as 
much as staying only three weeks in Malta, though 
Sir A. Ball, the governor, gave me a house" for 
nothing, and I had only one tenant. By-the-by, I 
expect Hanson to remit regularly ; for I am not 
about to stay in this province for ever. Let him 
write to me at Mr. Strane's, Euglish consul, Patras. 
The fact is, the fertility of the plains is wonderful, 
and specie is scarce, which makes this remarkable 
cheapness. I am going to Athens to study modern 
Greek, which differs much from the ancient, though 
radically similar. I have no desire to return to 
England, nor shall I, unless compelled by absolute 
want, and Hanson's neglect; but I shall not enter 
into Asia for a year or two, as I have much to see 
in Greece, and I may perhaps cross into Africa, at 
least the Egyptian part. Fletcher, like all English- 
men, is very much dissatisfied, though a little 
reconciled to the Turks by a present of eighty 
piastres from the vizier, which, if you consider 
every thing, and the value of specie here, is nearly 
ten guineas English. He has suffered nothing but 
from cold, heat, and vermin, which those who lie in 
cottages and cross mountains in a cold country 
must undergo, and of which I have equally partaken 
with himself; but he is not valiant, and is afraid of 
robbers and tempests. I have no one to be remem- 
bered to in England, and wish to hear nothing from 
it, but that you are well, and a letter or two on 
business from Hanson, whom you may tell to write. 
I will write when I can, and beg you to believe me, 
" Y'our affectionate son, 

" Bvnqx. 

" P. S. Miave some very 'magnifique ' Albanian 
dresses, the only expensive article in this country. 
They cost fifty guineas' each, and have so much 
gold they would cost in England two hundred. I 
have been introduced to Hussim Bey and Mahmout 
Pacha, both little boys, grand-children of Ali, at 
Yanina, They are totally unlike our lads, have 
painted complexions like rouged dowagers, large 
black eyes, and features perfectly regular. They 
are the prettiest little animals I ever saw, and are 
broken into the court ceremonies already. The 
Turkish salute is a slight inclination of the head, 
with the hand on the breast. Intimates always 
kiss. Mahmout is ten years old, and hopes to see me 
again. We are friends without understanding each 
other, like many other folks, though from a different 
cause. He has given me a letter to his father in th* 
Morea, to whom I have also letters from Ali Pacha." 



LETTERS. 



75; 



LETTER LI. 

TO MRS. BYRON. 

" Smyrna, March 19, 1810 

" Dear Mother, 

" I cannot write you a long letter, but as I know 
you will not be sorry to receive any intelligence of 
my movements, pray accept what I can give. .1 
have traversed the greatest part of Greece, besides 
Epirus, &c, &c, resided ten weeks at Athens, and 
am now on the Asiatic side on my way to Constan- 
tinople. I have just returned from viewing the 
ruins of Ephesus, a day's journey from Smyrna. I 
presume you have received a long letter I wrote from 
Albania, with an account of my reception by the 
Pacha of the province. 

" When I arrive at Constantinople, I shall deter- 
mine whether to proceed into Persia or return, 
which latter I do not wish, if I can avoid it. But I 
have no intelligence from Mr. Hanson, and but one 
letter from yourself. I shall stand in need of remit- 
tances, whether I proceed or return. I have written 
to him repeatedly, that he may not plead ignorance 
of my situation for neglect. I can give you no ac- 
count of any thing, for I have not time or opportu- 
nity, the frigate sailing immediately. Indeed, the 
farther I go the more my laziness increases, and my 
aversion to letter-writing becomes more confirmed. 
I have written to no one but yourself and Mr. Han- 
son, and these are communications of business and 
duty rather than of inclination. 

"Fletcher is very much disgusted with his fatigues, 
though he has undergone nothing that I have not 
shared. He is a poor creature ; indeed English 
servants are detestable travellers. I have, besides 
him, two Albanian soldiers and a Greek interpreter ; 
all excellent in their way. Greece, particularly in 
the vicinity of Athens, is delightful ; cloudless skies 
and lovely landscapes. But I must reserve all 
account of my adventures till we meet. I keep no 
journal, but my friend Hobhouse writes incessantly. 
Pray take care of Murray and Robert, and tell the 
boy it is the most fortunate thing for him that he 
did not accompany me to Turkey. Consider this 
as merely a notice of my safety, and believe me, 
"Yours, &c, &c, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LII. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

" Smyrna, April 10, 1810. 

M Dear Mother, 

" To-morrow, or this evening, I sail for Constan- 
tinople in the Salsette frigate, of thirty-six guns. 
She returns to England with our ambassador, whom 
she is going up on purpose to receive. I have 
written to you short letters from Athens, Smyrna, 
and a long one from Albania. I have not yet 
mustered courage for a second large epistle, and 
you must not be angry, since I take all opportuni- 
ties of apprizing you of my safety : but even that 
is an effort, writing is so irksome. I have been 
traversing Greece, and Epirus, Illyria, &c, &c, 
and you see by my date, have got into Asia. I 
have made but one excursion lately, to the ruins of 
Ephesus. Malta is the rendezvous of my letters, 
so address to that island. Mr. Hanson has not 
written, though I wished to hear of the Norfolk 
sale, the Lancashire lawsuit, &c, &c. I am 
anxiously expecting fresh remittances. I believe 
you will like Nottinghamshire, at least, my share 
of it. Pray accept my good wishes in lieu of a long 
' ; etter, and believe me, 

" Yours sincerely and affectionately, 

"Byron." 



LETTER LIII. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

" Salselte Frigate, off the Dardanelles, April 17, 1810. 

" Dear Madam, 

" I write at anchor, (in our way to Constantino- 
ple,) off the Troad, which I traversed two days ago. 
All the remains of Troy arc the tombs of her 
destroyers, among which I see that of Antilochus 
from my cabin window. These are large mounds 
of earth, like the barrows of the Danes in your 
island. There are several monuments, about twelve 
miles distant, of the Alexandrian Troas, which I 
also examined ; but by no means to be compared 
with the remnants of Athens and Ephesus. This 
will be sent in a ship of war bound with despatches 
for Malta. In a few days we shall be at Constanti- 
nople, barring accidents. I have also written from 
Smyrna, and shtll, from time to time, transmit 
short accounts of my movements, but I feel totally 
unequal to long letters. 

" Believe me, yours vei^y sincerely, 

" Byron. 

" P. S. No accounts from Hanson ! Do not 
complain of short letters, — I write to nobody but 
yourself and Mr. Hanson." 



LETTER LIV. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

" Constantinople, May IS, 1310. 

" Dear Madam, 

" I arrived here in an English frigate, from 
Smyrna, a few days ago, without any events worth 
mentioning, except landing to view the plains of 
Troy, and afterwards, when we were at anchor 
in the Dardanelles, swimming from Sestos to Aby- 
dos, in imitation of Monsieur Leander, whose story 
you no doubt know too well for me to add any 
thing on that subject, except that I crossed the 
Hellespont without so good a motive for the under- 
taking. As I am just going to visit the Capitan 
Pacha, you will excuse the brevity of my letter. 
When Mr. Adair takes leave, I am to see the Sultan 
and the mosques, &c. 

" Believe me, yours ever, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LV. 



TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 



" Salsette Frigate, May 3, 1810. 

"My Dear Drury, 

"When I left England, nearly a year ago, you 
requested me to write to you — I will do so. I have 
crossed Portugal, traversed the south of Spain, vis- 
ited Sardinia, Sicily, Malta, and thence passed into 
Turkey, where I am still wandering. I first landed 
in Albania, the ancient Epirus, where we penetrated 
as far as Mount Tomarit — excellently treated by the 
chief, Ali Pacha ; and, after journeying through 
Illyria, Chaonia, &c, crossed the gulf of Actium, 
with a guard of fifty Albanians, and passed the 
Achelous in our route through Acarnania and 
.Etolia. We stopped a short time in the Mqrea, 
crossed the gulf of Lepanto, and landed at the foot 
of Parnassus ; saw all that Delphi retains, and so 
on to Thebes and Athens, at which last we remained 
ten weeks. 

"His majesty's ship Pylades brought us to 



758 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Smyrna ; but not before we had topographized At- 
tica, including, of course, Marathon and the Simian 
promontory. From Smyrna to the Troad (which we 
visited when at anchor, for a fortnight, off the 
tomb of Antilo-chus) was our next stage ; and now 
we are in the Dardanelles, waiting for a wind to pro- 
ceed to Constantinople. 

"This morning I swam from Sestos to Abydos* 
The immediate distance is not above a mile, but the 
current renders it hazardous ; — so much so that I 
doubt whether Leander's conjugal affection must 
not have been a little chilled in his passage to Para- 
dise. I attempted it a week ago, and failed, — owing 
to the north wind, and the wonderful rapidity of the 
tide, — though I have been from my childhood a 
strong swimmer. But, this morning being calmer, 
I succeeded, and crossed the ' broad Hellespont' in 
an hour and ten minutes. 

"Well, my dear sir, I have left my home, and 
seen part of Africa and Asia, and a tolerable por- 
tion of Europe. I have been wfth generals and 
admirals, princes and pachas, governors and 
ungovernables, — but I have not time or paper to 
expatiate. I wish to let you know that I live with 
a friendly remembrance of you, and a hope to meet 
you again; and, if I do this" as shortly as possible, 
attribute it to any thing but forgetfulness. 

" Greece, ancient and modern, you know too well 
to require description. Albania, indeed, I have 
seen more of than any Englishman, (except a Mr. 
Leake,) for it is a country rarely visited, from the 
savage character of the natives, though abounding 
in more natural beauties than the classical regions 
of Greece, — which, however, are still eminently 
beautiful, particularly Delphi and Cape Colonna in 
Attica. Yet these are nothing to parts of Illyria 
and Epirus, where places without a name, and 
rivers not laid down in maps, may, one day, when 
more known, be justly esteemed superior subjects, 
for the pencil and the pen, to the dry ditch of the 
Ilissus and the bogs of Bceotia. 

"The Troad is a fine field for conjecture and 
snipe-shooting, and a good sportsman and an inge- 
nious scholar may exercise their feet and faculties 
to great advantage upon the spot ; or, if they pre- 
fer riding, lose their way (as I did) in a cursed 
quagmire of the Scamander, who wriggles about as 
if the Dardan virgins still offered their wonted trib- 
ute. The only vestige of Troy, or her destroyers, 
are the barrows supposed to contain the carcasses 
of Achilles, Antilochus, Ajax, &c. — but Mount Ida 
is still in high feather, though the shepherds are 
now-a-days not much like Ganymede. But why 
should I say more of these things ? are they not 
written in the Boke of Gell? and has not H. got a 
journal. I, keep none, as I have renounced scrib- 
bling. 

"I see not much difference between ourselves 
and the Turks, save that we have * *, and they 
have none — that they have long dresses, and we 
short, and that we talk much and they little. 

***** They are sensible people. Ali 
Pacha told me he was sure I was a man of rank, 
because I had small ears and hands and curling 
'hair. By-the-by, I speak the Romaic, or modern 
Greek, tolerably. It does not differ from the an- 
cient dialects so much as you would conceive ; but 
the pronunciation is diametrically opposite. Of 
verse, except in rhyme, they have no idea. 

"I like the Greeks, who are plausible rascals, — 
with all the Turkish vices, without their courage. 
However, some are brave, and all are beautiful, very 
much resesembling the busts of Alcibiades : — the 
women not quite so handsome. I can swear in Turk- 
ish ; but, except one horrible oath, and 'pimp,' and 
' bread/ and ' water,' I have got no great vocabu- 
lary in that language. They are extremely polite 
to strangers of any rank, properly protected ; and 
as I have two servants and two soldiers, we get on 



See letter cccclxxrii., &c. 



with great eclat. We have been occasionally in 
danger of thieves, and once of shipwreck, — but al- 
ways escaped. 

" At Malta I fell in love with a married woman,* 
and challenged an aid-de-camp of General * * (a 
rude fellow, who grinned at something, — I never 
rightly knew what) — but he explained and apolo- 
gized, and the lady embarked for Cadiz, and so I 
escaped murder and crirh. con. Of Spain I sent 
some account to our Hodgson, but have subse- 
quently written to no one, save notes to relations 
and lawyers, to keep them out of my premises. I 
mean to give up all connexion, on my return, with 
many of my best friends — as I supposed them — and 
to snarl all my life. But I hope to have one good- 
humored laugh with you, and to embrace Dwyer, and 
pledge Hodgson, before I commence cynicism. 

" Tell Doctor Butler I am now writing with the 
gold pen he gave me before I left England, which 
is the reason my scrawl is more unintelligible than 
usual. I have been at Athens and seen plenty of 
these reeds for scribbling, some of which he refused 
to bestow upon me, because topographic Gell had 
brought them from Attica. But I will not describe, 
— no — you must be satisfied with simple detail till 
my return ; and then we will unfold the floodgates 
of colloquy. I am in a thirty-six gun frigate, going 
up to fetch Bob Adair from Constantinople, who 
will have the honor to carry this letter. 

" And so H.'s boke is out,t with some sentimen- 
tal sing-song of my own to fill up, — and how does 
it take, eh ? and where the devil is the second edi- 
tion of my Satire, with additions ? and my name on 
the title-page ? and more lines tagged to the end. 
with a new exordium and what not, hot from my 
anvil before I cleared the Channel ? The Mediter- 
ranean and the Atlantic roll between me and criti- 
cism ; and the thunders of the Hyperborean Re- 
view are deafened by the roar of the Hellespont. 

" Rememember me to Claridge, if not translated 
to college, and present to Hodgson assurances of 
my high consideration. Now, you will ask, what 
shall I do next ? and I answer, I do not know. I 
may return in a few months, but I have intents 
and projects after visiting Constantinople. Hob 
house, however, will probably be back in September. 

",On the 2d of July we have left Albion one year 
'oblitus meorum obliviscendus etillis.' I was sick of 
my own country, and not much prepossessed in favor 
of any other ; but I ' drag on' ' my chain' without 
' lengthening it at each remove.' — I am like the 
Jolly Miller, caring for nobody and not cared for. 
All countries are much the same in my eyes. I 
smoke, and stare at mountains, and twirl my mus- 
taches very independently. I miss no comforts, and 
the mosquitoes that wrack the morbid frame of H. 
have, luckily for me, little effect on mine, because I 
live more temperately. 

" I omitted Ephesus in my catalogue, which I 
visited during my sojourn at Smyrna ; but the Tem- 
ple has almost perished, and St. Paul need not 
trouble himself to epistolfze the present brood of 
Ephesians, who have converted a large church built 
entirely of marble into a mosque, and I don't know 
that the edifice looks the worse for it. 

" My paper is full, and my ink ebbing — good af- 
ternoon ! If you address to me at Malta, the letter 
will be forwarded wherever I may be. Hobhouse 
greets you ; he pines for his poetry, — at least some 
tidings of it. I almost forgot to tell you that I am 
dying for love of three Greek girls at Athens, sis- 
ters. I lived in the same house. Teresa, Mari- 
ana, and Katinka, are the names of these divinities, 
all of them under 15. 

" Your Taireii>oTciTo$ dKAoc, 

"Byron." 



• See Letter xlix. 

t Hobhouse's Miscellanies, in which several of Lord Byron's smaller 
pieces were originally published. 



LETTERS. 



759 



LETTER LVI. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



" Salsette Fngate, in the Dardanelles, off 
Abydoa, May 5, 1810. 

" I am on my way to Constantinople, after a tour 
through Greece, Epirus, &c., and part of Asia 
Minor, some particulars of which I have just com- 
municated to our friend and host, H. Drury. With 
these, then, I shall not trouble you ; but, as you will 
perhaps-be pleased to hear that I am well, &c, I 
take the opportunity' of our ambassador's return 
to forward the few lines I have time to despatch. 
"We have undergone some inconveniences and in- 
curred partial perils, but ho events worthy of com- 
munication, unless you will deem it one that two 
days ago I swam from Sestos to Abydos. This, — 
with a few alarms from robbers, and some danger of 
shipwreck in a Turkish- galliot six months ago, a 
visit to a Pacha, a passion for a married woman at 
Malta, a challenge to an officer, an attachment to 
three Greek girls at Athens, with a great deal of 
buffoonery and fine prospects, — form all that has 
distinguished my progress since my departure from 
Spain. 

" Hobhouse rhymes and journalizes ; I stare and 
do nothing — unless smoking can be deemed an ac- 
tive amusement. The Turks take too much care 
of-their women to permit them to be scrutinized ; 
but I have lived a good deal with the Greeks, whose 
modern dialect I can converse in enough for my 
purposes. With the Turks I have also some male 
acquaintances — female society is out of the ques- 
tion. I have been very well treated by the Pachas 
and Governors, and have no complaint to make of 
any kind. Hobhouse will one day inform you of all 
our adventures, — were I to attempt the recital, 
neither my paper nor your patience would hold out 
during the operation. 

"Nobody, save yourself, has written tome since I 
left England; but indeed I did not request it. I 
except my relations, who write quite as often as I 
wish. Of Hobhouse's volume I know nothing, ex- 
cept that it is out ; and of my second edition I do 
not even know that, and certainly do not, at this 
distance, interest myself in the matter. * * * * 
I hope you and Bland roll down the stream of sale 
with rapidity. 

" Of my return I cannot positively speak, but 
think it probable Hobhouse will precede me in that 
respect. We have been very nearly one year abroad. 
I should wish to gaze away another, at least, in 
these ever-green climates ; but I fear business — law 
business — the worst of employments, will recall me 
previous to that period, if not very quickly. If so, 
you shall have due notice. 

" I hope you will find me an altered personage, — 
I do not mean in body, but in manner, for I begin 
to find out that nothing but virtue will do in this 
d — d world. I am tolerably sick of vice, which I 
have tried in its agreeable varieties, and mean, 
on my return, to cut all my dissolute acquaintance, 
leave off wine and carnal company, and betake my- 
self to politics and decorum. I am very serious and 
cynical, and a good deal disposed to moralize ; but, 
fortunately for you, the coming homily is cut off by 
default of pen and defection of paper. 

" Good morrow ! I If you write, address to me at 
Malta, whence your letters will be forwarded. You 
need not remember me to any body, but believe me 
"Yours with all faith, 
"Byron." 



LETTER LVII. 



TO THE HONORABLE MRS. BYRON. 



" Constantinople, May 24, 1810. 

" Dear Mother, 

" I wrote to you, very shortly, the other day on my 
arrival here, and as another opportunity avails, take 
up my pen again, that the frequency of my letters 
may atone for their brevity. Pray did you ever re- 
ceive a picture of me in oil by Sanders, in Vlgo-lane, 
London ? (a noted limner:) if not, write for it im- 
mediately ; it was paid for, except the frame, (if 
frame there be,) before I left England. I believe I 
mentioned to you in my last, that my only notable 
exploit, lately, has been swimming from Sestos to 
Abydos on the third of this rftonth, in humble imi- 
tation of Leander, of amorous memory, though I 
had no Hero to receive me on the other shore of the 
Hellespont. Of Constantinople you have, of 
course, read fifty descriptions by sundry travellers, 
which are in general so correct, that I have nothing 
to add on the subject. 

' When our ambassador takes his leave, I shall 
accompany him to see the sultan, and afterward 
probably return to Greece. I have heard nothing of 
Mr. Hanson, but one remittance, without any letter 
from that gentleman. If you have any occasion for 
any pecuniary supply, pray use my funds as far as 
they go without reserve ; and, lest this should not 
be enough, in my next to Mr. Hanson I will direct 
him to advance any sum you may want, leaving it 
to your discretion how much, in the present state of 
my affairs, you may think proper to requirre. I 
have already seen^ the most interesting parts of 
Turkey in Europe and Asia Minor, but shall not 
proceed farther till I hear from England: in the 
mean time I shall expect occasional supplies, ac- 
cording to circumstances, and shall pass my sum- 
mer among my friends, the Greeks of the Morea. 

"You will direct to Malta, where my letters are 
forwarded, and believe me to be, 

" With great sincerity, yours ever. 

" P. S. Fletcher is well ; pray take care of my 
boy Robert, and the eld man Murray. It is fortu- 
nate they returned ; neither the youth of the one, 
nor the age of the other, would have suited 1 the 
changes of climate and fatigues of travelling." 



LETTER LVIII. 



TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 



" Constantinople, June 17, 1810. 

' Though I wrote to you so recently, I break in 
upon you again to congratulate you on a child being 
born, as a letter from Hodgson apprizes me of that 
event, in which I rejoice. 

" I am just come from an expedition through the 
Bosphorus to the Black Sea and the Cyanean Sym- 
plegades, up which last I scrambled at as great a 
risk as ever the Argonauts escaped in their hoy. 
You remember the beginning of the nurse's dole in 
the Medea, of which I beg you to take the follow- 
ing translation, done on the summit. 

" Oh how I wish tlint an embargo 
Had kept in port the good ship Argo ! 
Who, still uiilaunch'il front Grecian docks, 
Had never pass'd the Azure rocks ; 
But now 1 fear her trip will be a 
Damn'd business fur my Miss Medea, &c, &c. 

as it very nearly was to me ; — for, had not this 
sablime passage been in my head, I should never 
have dreamed of ascending the said rocks,* and 
bruising my carcass in honor of the ancients. 



See Childe Harold, Canto i 



alf}0 answer to Bowles. 



760 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" I have now sat on the Cyaneans, swam from 
Sestos to Abydos, (as I trumpeted in my last,) and, 
after passing through the Morea again, shall set 
sail for Santa Maura, and toss myself from the 
Leucadian promontory ; — surviving which opera- 
tion, I shall probably rejoin you in England. H., 
who will deliver this, is bound straight for these 
parts ; and as he is bursting with his travels, I shall 
not anticipate his narratives, but merely beg you 
not to believe one word he says, but reserve your 
ear for me, if you have any desire to be acquainted 
with the truth. ****** * 

" I am bound for Athens once more, and thence 
to the Morea ; but my stay depends so much on my 
caprice, that I can say nothing of its probable 
duration. I have been out a year already, and may 
stay another ; but I am quicksilver, and say noth- 
ing positively. We are all very much occupied doing 
nothing, at present. We have seen every thing 
but the mosques, which we are to view with a 
firman on Tuesday next. But of these and other 
snudries let H. relate, with this proviso, that / am 
to be referred to for authenticity ; and I beg leave 
to contradict all those things whereon he lays 
particular stress. But, if he soars, at any time, 
into wit, I give you leave to applaud, because that 
is necessarily stolen from his fellow pilgrim. Tell 
Daviesthat H. has made excellent use of his best 
jokes in many of his majesty's ships of war; but 
add, also, that I always took care to restore them 
to the right owner ; in consequence of which he, 
(Davies.) is not less famous by water than by land, 
wid reigns unrivalled in the cabin, as in the ' Cocoa 
Tree.' 

" And Hodson has been publishing more poesy — 
I wish he would send me his ' Sir Edgar,' and 
'Bland's Anthology* to Malta, where they will be 
forwarded. In my last, which I hope you received, 
\ gave an outline of the ground we have covered. 
[f you have not been overtaken by this despatch, 
H.'s tongue is at your service. Remember me to 
Dwycr, who owes rj e eleven guineas. Tell him to 
put them in my banker's hands at Gibralter or 
Constantinople. I believe he paid them once, but 
that goes for nothing, as it was an annuity. 

" I wish you would write. I have heard from 
Hodgson frequently. Malta is my post-office. I 
mean to be with you by next Montem. You 
remember the last, — I hope for such another; but, 
after having swam across the ' broad Hellespont,' I 
disdain Datchett. Good afternoon ! 

" I am yours, very sincerely, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LIX. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON". 

" Constantinople, June 2S, 1S10. 

"My Dear Mother, 

" I regret to perceive, by your last letter, that 
several of mine have not arrived, particularly a very 
long one, written in November last, from Albania, 
when I was on a visit to the Pacha of that province. 
Fletcher has also written to his spouse perpetually. 
Mr. Hobhouse, who will forward or deliver this, and 
is on his return to England, can inform you of our 
different movements, but I am very uncertain as to 
my own return. He will probably be down to 
Nott's, some time or other ; but Fletcher, whom I 
send back as an incumbrance, (English servants 
are sad travellers,) will supply his place in the 
interim, and describe our travels, which have been 
tolerably extensive. I have written twice briefly 
from this capital, from Smyrna, from Athens, and 
other parts of Greece ; from Albania, the Pacha of 
which province desired his respects to my mother, 



and said he was sure I was a man of high birth, 
because I had small ears, curling hair, and white 
hands ! ! He was very kind to me, begged me to 
consider him as a father, and gave me a guard of 
forty soldiers through the forests of Acarnania. 
But of this and other circumstances I have written 
at large, and yet hope you will receive my letters. 

" I remember Mahmout Pacha, the grandson of 
Ali Pacha, at Yanina, (a little fellow of ten years 
of age, with large black eyes, which our ladies 
would purchase at any price, and those regular 
features which distinguish the Turks,) asked me 
how I came to travel so young, without any body to 
take care of me. This question was put by the 
little man with all the gravity of threescore. I 
cannot now write copiously ; I have only time to 
tell you that I have passed many a fatiguing, but 
never a tedious moment : and that all I am afraid 
of is, that I shall contract a gipsy-like wandering 
disposition, which will make home tiresome to me : 
this, I am told, is very common with men in the 
habit of peregrination, and, indeed, I feel it so. On 
the third of May, I swam from Sestos to Abydos. 
You know the story of Leander, but I had no Hero 
to receive me at landing. 

' I also passed a fortnight in the Troad : the 
tombs of Achilles and Esyetes still exist in large 
barrows, similar to those you have, doubtless, seen 
in the North. The other day I was at Belgrade, (a 
village in these environs,) to sec the house built on 
the same site as Lady Mary Wortley's ; by-the-by, 
her Ladyship, as far as I can judge, has lied, but 
not half so much as any other woman would have 
done in the same situation. I have been in all the 
principal mosques by the virtue of a firman ; this is 
a favor rarely permitted to infidels, but the ambas- 
sador's departure obtained it for us. I have been 
up the Bosphorus into the Black Sea, round the 
walls of the city, and indeed I know more of it by 
sight, than I do of London. 

" I hope to amuse you some winter's evening 
with the details, but at present you must excuse 
me ; I am not able to write long letters in June. I 
eturn to spend my summer in Greece. I shall not 
proceed further into Asia, as I have visited Smyrna, 
Ephesus, and the Troad. I write often, but you 
must not be alarmed when you do not receive my 
letters ; consider we have no regular post further 
than Malta, where I beg you will in future send 
your letters, and not to this city. Fletcher is a 
poor creature, and requires comforts that I can 
dispense with. He is very sick of his travels, but 
you must not believe his account of the country ; 
he sighs for ale, and idleness, and a wife, and the 
devil knows what besides. I have not been disap- 
pointed or disgusted. I have lived with the highest 
and the lowest. I have been for days in a Pacha's 
palace, and have passed many a night in a cow- 
house, and I find the people inoffensive and kind. 
I have also passed some time with the principal 
Greeks in the Morea and Livadia, and, though 
inferior to the Turks, they are better than the 
Spaniards, who, in their turn, excel the Portuguese. 
Of Constantinople you will find many descriptions 
in different travels ; but Lady Wortley errs strangely 
when she says, ' St. Paul's would cut a strange 
figure by St. Sophia's.' I have been in both, sur- 
veyed them inside and out attentively. St. Sophia's 
is undoubtedly the most interesting from its im- 
mense antiquity, and the circumstance of all the 
Greek emperors, from Justinian, having been 
crowned there, and several murdered at the altar, 
besides the Turkish sultans, who attend it regularly. 
But it is inferior in beauty and size to some of the 
mosques, particularly ' Soleyman,' &c, and not 
to be mentioned in the same page with St. Paul's, 
(I speak like a Cockney.) However, I prefer the 
Gothic cathedral of Seville to St. Paul's, St. 
Sophia's, and any religious building I have ever 
seen. 

" The walls of the Seraglio are like the walls of 



LETTERS. 



7G1 



Newstead gardens, only higher, and much in the 
same order ; but the ride by the walls of the city, 
»n the land side, is beautiful. Imagine four miles 
»f immense triple battlements, covered with ivy, 
surmounted with two hundred and eighteen towers, 
and, on the other side of the road, Turkish burying- 
grounds, (the loveliest spots on earth,) full of 
enormous cypresses. I have seen the ruins of 
Athens, of Ephesus, and Delphi. I have traversed 
great part of Turkey, and many other parts of 
Europe, and some of Asia ; but I never beheld a 
work of nature or art which yielded an impression 
like the prospect on each side from the Seven 
Towers to the end of the Golden Horn. 

"Now for England. I am glad to hear of the 
progress of 'English Bards,' &c, — of course, you 
observed I have made great additions to the new 
edition. Have you recived my picture from San- 
der's, Vigo lane, London ? It was finished and 
paid for long before I left England : pray, send for 
it. You seem to be a mighty reader of magazines : 
where do you pick up all this intelligence, quota- 
tions, &c, &e. ? Though I was happy to obtain 
my seat without the assistance of Lord Carlisle, I 
had no measures to keep with a man who declined 
interfering as my relation on that occasion, and I 
have done with him, though I regret distressing 
Mrs. Leigh, poor thing ! — I hope she is happy. 

" It is my opinion that Mr. B * * ought to marry 
Miss R * *. Our first duty is not to do evil ; but, 
alas ! that is impossible : our next is to repair it, if 
in our power. The girl is his equal : if she were his 
inferior, a sum of money and provision for the child 
would be some, though a poor compensation : as it 
is, he should marry her. I will have no gay 
deceivers on my estate, and I shall not allow my 
tenants a privilege I do not permit myself, that of 
debauching each other's daughters. God knows I 
have been guilty of many excesses ; but, as I have 
laid down a resolution to reform, and lately kept it, 
I expect this Lothario to follow the example, and 
begin by restoring this girl to society, or, by the 
beard of my father ! he shall hear of it. Pray take 
some notice of Robert, who will miss his master : 
poor boy, he was very unwilling to return. I trust 
you are well and happy. It will be a pleasure to 
hear from you. 

" Believe me, yours very sincerly, 

" Byron." 

" P. S. How is Joe Murray ? 

"P. S. I opened my letter again to tell you that 
Fletcher having petitioned to accompany me into 
the Morea, I have taken him with me, contrary to 
the intention expressed in my letter." 



LETTER LX. 



TO MRS. BYRON'. 



" Athens, July 25, 1S10. 

" Dear Mother, 

" I have arrived here in four days from Constan- 
tinople, which is considered as singularly quick, 
particularly for the season of the year. You 
northern gentry can have no conception of a Greek 
summer ; which, however, is a perfect frost com- 
pared with Malta and Gibralter, where I reposed 
myself in the shade last year, after a gentle gallop 
of four hundred miles, without intermission, through 
Portugal and Spain. You see/ by my date, that I 
am at Athens again, a place which I think I prefer, 
upon the whole, to any I have seen. * * * * 

" My next movement is to-morrow into the 

Morea, where I shall probably remain a month or 

two, and then return to winter here, if I do not 

change my plans, which, however, are very variable, 

96 



as you may suppose ; but none of them verge to 
England. 

" The Marquis of Sligo, my old fellow-collegian, 
is here, and wishes to accompany me into the 
Morea. We shall go together for that purpose. 
Lord S. will afterward pursue his way to the capital ; 
and Lord B., having seen all the wonders in that 
quarter, will let you know what he does next, of 
which at present he is not quite certain. Malta is 
my perpetual post-office, from which my letters are 
forwarded to all parts of the habitable globe : — by- 
the-by, I have now been- in Asia, Africa, and the 
east of Europe, and, indeed, made the most of my 
time without hurrying over the most interesting 
scenes of the ancient world. Fletcher, after having 
been toasted, and roasted, and baked, and grilled, 
and eaten by all sorts of creeping things, begins to 
philosophize, is grown a refined as well as resigned 
character, and promises at his return to become an 
ornament to his own parish, and a very prominent 
person in the future family pedigree of the Fletch- 
er's, whom I take to be Goths by their accomplish- 
ments, Greeks by their aeuteness, and ancient 
Saxons by their appetite. He (Fletcher) begs 
leave to send half a dozen sighs to Sally his spouse, 
and wonders (though I do not) that his ill written 
and worse spelled letters have never come to hand ; 
as for that matter, there is no great loss in either 
of our letters, saving and except that I wish you to 
know we are well, and warm enough at this present 
writing, God knows. You must not expect long 
letters at present, for they are written with the 
sweat of my brow, I assure you. It is rather singu- 
lar that Mr. Hanson has not written a syllable 
since my departure. Your letters I have mostly 
received, as well as others ; from which I conjecture 
that the man of law is either angry or busy. 

" I trust you like Newstead, and agree with your 
neighbors ; but you know you, are a vixen — is not 
that a dutiful appellation ? Pray, take care of my 
books and several boxes of papers in the hands of 
Joseph ; and pray leave me a few bottles of cham- 
pagne to drink, for I am very thirsty ; — but I do not 
insist on the last article, without you like it. I 
suppose you have your house full of silly women, 
prating scandalous things. Have j'ou ever received 
my picture in oil from Sanders, London ? It has 
been paid for these sixteen months : why do you 
not get it ? My suite, consisting of two Turks, 
two Greeks, a Lutheran, and the nondescript 
Fletcher, are making so much noise that I am glad 
to sign myself " Yours, &c., &c, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LXI. 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



" Patras, July 30, 1810. 

"Dear Madam, 

" In four days from Constantinople, with a favor- 
able wind, I arrived in the frigate at the island of 
Ceos, from whence I took a boat to Athens, where 
I met my friend the Marquis of Sligo, who ex- 
pressed a wish to proceed with me as far as Corinth. 
At Corinth we separated, he for Tripolitza, I for 
Patras, where I had some business with the consul, 
Mr. Strane, in whose house I now write. He has 
rendered me every service in his power since I 
quitted Malta on my way to Constantinople, whence 
I have written to you twice or thrice. In a few 
days I visit the Pacha at Tripolitza, make the tour 
of the Morea, and return again to Athens, which at 
present is my head-quarters. The heat is at present 
intense. In England, if it reaches 98°, you are 
all on fire : the other day, in travelling between 
Athens and Megara, the thermometer was at 



762 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



\2o° ! ! Yet I feci no inconvenience ; of course I 
am much bronzed, but I live temperately, and never 
enjoyed better health. 

" Before I left Constantinople, I saw the Sultan, 
(with Mr. Adair.) and the interior of the mosques, 
things which rarely happen to travellers. Mr. Hob- 
house is gone to England : I am in no hurry to re- 
turn, but have no particular communications for 
your country, except my surprise at Mr. Hanson's 
silence, and my desire that he will remit regularly. 
1 suppose some arangement has been made with re- 
gard to AVymondhaih and Rochdale. Malta is my 
post-office, or to Mr. Strane, consul-general, Patras, 
Morea. You complain of my silence — I have writ- 
ten twenty or thirty times within the last year : 
never less than twice a month, and often more. If 
my letters do not arrive, you must not conclude 
that we are eaten, or that there ffe a war, or a pesti- 
lence, or famine : neither must you credit silly re- 
ports, which I dare say you have in Notts, as usual. 
I am very well, and neither more nor less harjpy 
than I usually am ; except that I am very glad to 
be once more alone, for I was sick of my compan- 
ion, — not that he was a bad one, but because my na- 
ture leads me to solitude, and that every day adds 
to this disposition. If I chose, here are many men 
who would wish to join me — one wants me to go to 
Egypt, another to Asia, of which I have seen 
enough. The greater part of Greece is already my 
own, so that I shall only go over my old ground, 
and look upon my old seas and mountains, the only 
acquaintances I ever found improve upon me. 

"I have a tolerable suite — a Tartar, two Alba- 
nians, an interpreter, besides Fletcher ; but in this 
country these are easily maintained. Adair received 
me wonderfully well, and indeed I have no com- 
plaints against any one. Hospitality here is neces- 
sary, for inns are not. I have lived" in the houses 
of "Greeks, Turks, Italians and English — to-day in 
6. palace, to-morrow in a cow-house ; this day with 
the Pacha, the next with a shepherd. I shall con- 
tinue to write briefly, but frequently, and am glad 
to hear from you; but you fill your letters with 
things from the papers, as if English papers were 
not found all over the world. I have at this mo- 
ment a dozen before me. Pray take care of my 
books, and believe me, 

" My dear Mother, yours very faithfully, 

"Byron." 



LETTER LXII. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

"Patras, Oct. 2d, 1810. 

"Dear Madam, 

" It is now several months since I have received 
any communication from you ; but at this I am not 
surprised, nor indeed have I any complaint to make, 
since you have written frequently, for which I 
thank you ; but I very much condemn Mr. Hanson, 
who has not taken the smallest notice of my many 
letters, nor of my request before I left England, 
which I sailed from on this very day fifteen months 
ago. Thus one year and a quarter have passed 
away, without -my receiving the least intelligence 
on the state of my affairs, and they were not in a 
posture to admit of neglect, and I do conceive and 
declare that Mr. Hanson has acted negligently and 
culpably in not apprizing me of his proceedings ; I 
will also add uncivily. His letters, were there any, 
could not easily miscarry: the communications 
with the Levant are slow, but tolerably secure, at 
least as far as Malta, and there I left directions 
which I know would be observed. I have written to 
you several times from Constantinople and Smyrna. 
You wil.' perceive by my date I am returned into 



the Morea, of which I have been making the tour, 
and visiting the Pacha, who gave me a fine horse, 
and paid me all possible honors and attention. I 
have now seen a good portion of Turkey in Europe 
and Asia Minor, and shall remain at Athens, and in 
the vicinity, till I hear from England. I have 
punctually obeyed your injunctions of writing fre- 
quently, but I shall not pretend to describe coun- 
tries which have been already amply treated of. I 
believe before this time Mr. Hobhouse will have ar- 
rived in England, and he brings letters from me, 
written at Constantinople. In these I mention 
having seen the Sultan and the mosques, and that I 
swam from Sestos to Abydos, an exploit of which I 
take care to boast. 

" I am here on business at present, but Athens is 
my head-quarters, where I am pleasantly situated in 
a Franciscan convent. 

" Believe me to be, with great sincerity, 

" Yours, very affectionately, 
" Byron. 

" P. S. Fletcher is well, and discontented as 
usual ; his wife don't write, at least, her scrawls 
have not arrived. You will address to Malta. Pray 
have you never received my picture in oil from San- 
ders, Yigo-lane, London ? " 



LETTER LXIII. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 

" Patras, Morea, October 3, 1810. 

"As I have just escaped from a physician and a 
fever which confined me five days to bed, you won't 
expect much ' allegrezza' in the ensuing letter. In 
this place there is an indigenous distemper, which, 
when the wind blows from the gulf of Corinth, (as 
it does five months out of six,) attacks great and 
small, and makes woful work with visiters. Here 
be also two physicians, one of whom trusts to his 
genius (never having studied) — the other to a cam- 
paign of eighteen months against the sick of 
Otranto, which he made in his youth with great 
effect. 

" When I was seized with my disorder, I pro- 
tested against both these assassins ; — but what can 
a helpless, feverish, toasted-and-watered poor 
wretch do ? In spite of my teeth and tongue, the 
English consul, my Tartar, Albanians, dragoman, 
forced a physician upon me, and in three days vom- 
ited and giystered me to the last gasp. In this 
state I made my epitaph — take it. 

" Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove 
To keep my lamp in strongly strove ; 
But Romanelli was so stout, 
He beat all three— and blew it out. 

But Nature and Jove, being piqued at my doubts, 
did in fact, at last, beat Romanelli, and here I am, 
well but weakly, at your service. 

" Since I left Constantinople, I have made a tour 
of the Morea, and visited Very Pacha, who paid 
me great honors and gave me a pretty stallion. H. 
is doubtless in England before even the date of this 
letter — he bears a despatch from me to your bard- 
ship. He writes to me from Malta, and requests 
my journal, if I keep one. I have none, or he 
should have it ; but I have replied, in a consolatory 
and exhortatory epistle, praying him to abate three 
and sixpence in the price of his next Boke, seeing 
that half a guinea is a price not to be given for any 
thing save an opera-ticket. 

" As for England, it is long since I have heard 
from it. Every one at all connected with my con- 
cerns is asleep, and you are my only correspondent, 
agents excepted. I have really no friends in the 
world ; though all my old school-companions ara 



LETTERS. 



763 



gone forth into that world, and walk about there in 
monstrous disguises, in the garb of guardsmen, 
lawyers, parsons, fine gentlemen, and such other 
masquerade dresses. So, I here shake hands and 
cul with all these busy people, none of whom write 
to me. Indeed, I asked it not ; and here I am, a 
poor traveller and heathenish philosopher, who hath 
perambulated the greatest part of the Levant, and 
seen a great quantity of very improvable land and 
sea, and, after all, am no better than when I set 
out — Lord help me ! 

" I have been out fifteen months this very day, 
and I believe my concerns will draw me to England 
soon ; but of this I will apprize you regularly from 
Malta. On all points, Hobhouse will inform you, if 
yon are curious as to our adventures. I have seen 
some old English papers up to the loth of May. I 
see the ' Lady of the Lake' advertised. Of course 
it is in his old ballad style, and pretty. After all, 
Scott is the best of them. The end of all scribble- 
itient is to amuse, and he certainly succeeds there. 
I long to read his new romance. 

"And how does 'Sir Edgar?' and your friend, 
Bland ? I suppose you are involved in some lite- 
rary squabble. The only way is to despise all 
brothers of the quill. I suppose you won't allow 
me to be an author, but I contemn you all, you 
dogs ! — I do. 

" You don't know D s, do you ? He had a 

farce ready for the stage before I left England, and 
asked me for a prologue, which I promised, but 
sailed in such a hurry, I never penned a couplet. I 
am afraid to ask after his drama, for fear it should 
be d:unned — Lord forgive me for using such a word ! 
— but the pit, sir, you know, the pit — they will do 
those things in spite of merit. I remember this 
farce from a curious circumstance. When Drury- 
Li ne was burnt to the ground, by which accident 
Sheridan and his son lost the few remaining shil- 
lings they were worth, what doth my friend D 

do ? Why, before the fire was out, he writes a note 
to Tom Sheridan, the manager of this combustible 
concern, to inquire whether this farce was not con- 
verted into fuel, with about two thousand other un- 
actable manuscripts, which of course were in great 
peril, if not actually consumed. Now, was not this 
characteristic ? — the ruling passions of Pope are 
nothing to it. While the poor distracted manager 
was bewailing the loss of a building only worth 
,300,000/., together with some twenty thousand 
pounds of rags and tinsel in the tiring rooms, Blue- 
beard's elephants, and all that — in comes a note 
from a scorching author, requiring at his hands two 
acts and odd scenes of a farce ! ! 

"Dear H., remind Drury that I am his well- 
wisher, and let Scrope Davies be well affected to- 
wards me. I look forward to meeting you at 
Newstead, and renewing our old champagne eve- 
nings with all the glee of anticipation. I have writ- 
ten by every opportunity, and expect responses 
as regular as those of the liturgy, and somewhat 
longer. As it is impossible for a man in his senses 
to hope for happy days, let us at least look forward 
to merry ones, which come nearest to the other 
in appearance, if not in reality ; and in such ex- 
pectations I remain, &c." 



LETTER LXIV. 

TO MRS. BYRON. 

" Athens, January 14, 1811. 

" My Dear Madam, 

" I seize an occasion to write as usual, shortly, 
but frequently, as the arrival of letters, where there 
exists - no regular communication, is, of course, very 



precarious. I have lately made several small tours 
of some hundred or two miles about the Morea, At- 
tica, &c, as I have finished my grand giro by the 
Troad, Constantinople, &c, and am returned down 
again to Athens. I believe I have mentioned tc 
you more than once, that I swam (in imitation o{ 
Leander, though without his lady) across the Hel- 
lespont, fror» Sestos to Abydos. Of this, and all 
other particulars, F., whom I have sent home with 
papers, &c, will apprize you. I cannot find that he 
is any loss, being tolerably master of the Italian 
and modern Greek languages, which last I am also 
studying with a master, — I can order and discourse 
more than enough for a reasonable man. Besides 
the perpetual lamentations after beef and beer, the 
stupid, bigoted contempt for every thing foreign, 
and insurmountable incapacity of acquiring even a 
few words of any language, rendered him, like , all 
other English servants, an incumbrance. I do as- 
sure you, the plague of speaking for him, the com- 
forts he required, (more than myself by fur,) the 
pilaws, (a Turkish dish of rice and meat,) which he 
could not eat, the wines which he could not drink, 
the beds where he could not sleep, and the long list 
of calamities, such as stumbling horses, want of 
tea! ! ! Sec, which assailed him, would have made a 
lasting source of laughter to a spectator, and in- 
convenience to a master. After all, the man is 
honest enough, and, in Christendom, capable 
enough ; but in Turkey, Lord forgive me ! my Al- 
banian soldiers, my Tartars and Janizary, worked 
for him and us too, as my friend Hobhouse can 
testify. 

" It is probable I may steer homewards in spring ; 
but to enable me ta do that, I must have remit- 
tances. My own funds would have lasted me very 
well ; but I was obliged to assist a friend, who, I 
know, will pay me ; but in the mean time, I am out 
of pocket. At present, I do not care to venture a 
winter's voyage, even if I were otherwise tired o.f 
travelling ; but I am so convinced of the advan- 
tages of looking at mankind instead of reading 
about them, and the bitter effects of staying at 
home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, 
that I think there should be a law among us to set 
our young men abroad, for a term, among the few 
allies our wars have left us. 

"Here I see and have conversed with French, 
Italians, Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, Ameri- 
cans, &c, &c, &c. ; and, without losing sight of my 
own, I can judge of the countries and manners of 
others. Where I see the superiority of England, 
(which, by-the-by, we are a good deal mistaken 
about in many things,) I am pleased, and where I 
find her inferior, I am at least enlighted. Now, I 
might have stayed, smoked in your towns, or fogged 
in your country, a century, without being sure of 
this, and without acquiring any thing more useful 
or amusing at home. I keep no journal, nor have 
I any intention of scribbling my travels. I have 
done with authorship ; and if, in my last produc- 
tion, I have convinced the critics of the world I 
was something more than they took me for, I am 
satisfied ; nor will I hazard that reputation by a fu- 
ture effort. It is true I have some others in manu- 
script, but I leave them for those who come after 
me ; and, if deemed worth publishing, they may 
serve to prolong my memory when I myself shall 
cease to remember. I have a famous Bavarian 
artist taking some views of Athens, &c, &c, forme. 
This will be better than scribbling, a disease I hope 
myself cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead a 
quiet, recluse life, but God knows and does best for 
us all ; at least, so they say, and I have nothing 
to object, as on the whole, I have no reason to com- 
plain of my lot. I am convinced, however, that 
men do more harm to themselves than ever the 
devil could do them. I trust this will find you vsll, 
and as happy as we can be; you will, at least, b<» 
pleased to hear I am so, and yours ever." 



764 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER LXV. 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



" Athenj, Feb. 23, 1311. 

• Dear Madam, 

"As I have received a firman for Egypt, &c., I 
shall proceed to that quarter in the faring, and I 
beg you will state to Mr. Hanson that it is neces- 
sary to further remittances. On the_ subject of 
Newstead I answer, as before, no. If it is neces- 
sary to sell, sell Rochdale. Fletcher will have ar- 
rived by this time with my letters to that purport. 
I will tell ymi fairly, I have in the first place, no 
opinion of funded property ; if, by any particular 
circumstances, I shall be led to adopt such a deter- 
mination, I will at all events, pass my life abroad, 
as my only tie to England is Newstead, and, that 
once gone, neither' interest nor inclination lead me 
northward. Competence in your country is ample 
wealth in the East, such is the difference in the 
value of money and the abundance of the necessa- 
ries of life; and I feel myself so much a citizen of 
the world, that the spot where I can enjoy a deli- 
cious climate, and every luxury, at a less expense 
than a common college life in England, will always 
be a country to me ; and such are in fact the shores 
of the Archipelago. This then is the alternative — 
if I preserve Newstead, I return ; if I sell it, I stay 
away. I have had no letters since yours of June, 
but I have written several times, and shall continue, 
as usual, on the same plan. 

" Believe me, yours ever, 
"Byron." 

" P. S. I shall most likely see you in the course 
of the summer, but, of course, at such a distance, 
I cannot specify any particular month." 



LETTER LXVI. 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



" Yolage frigate, at sea, June 25, 1311. 

" Dear Mother, 

"This letter, which will be forwarded on our ar- 
rival at Portsmouth, probably about the fourth of 
July, is begun about twenty-three days after our 
departure from Malta. I have just been two years 
to a day, on the second of July) absent from Eng- 
land, and I return to it with much the same feel- 
ings which prevailed on my departure, viz., indif- 
ference ; but within that apathy I certainly do not 
comprise yourself, as I will prove by every means in 
my power. You will be good enough to get my 
apartments ready at Newstead, but don't disturb 
yourself on any account, particularly mine, nor con- 
sider me in any other light than as a visitor. I 
must only inform you that for a long time I have 
been restricted to an entire vegetable diet, neither 
fish nor flesh coming within my regimen ; so I ex- 
pect a powerful stock of potatoes, greens, and bis 
cuit : I drink no wine. I have two servants, mid 
die-aged men, and both Greeks. It is my inten- 
tion to proceed first to town, to see Mr. Hanson, 
and thence to Newstead, on my way to Rochdale. 
I have only to beg you will not forget my diet, 
which it is very necessary for me to observe. I 
am well in health, as I have generally been, with 
the exception of two agues, both of which I quickly 
got over. 

" My plans will so much depend on circum- 
stances, that I shall not venture to lay down an 
opinion on the subject. My prospects are not very 
promising, but I suppose we shall wrestle through 
life like our neighbors ; indeed, by H.'s last ad- 
rices, I have some apprehensions of finding New- 



stead dismantled by Messrs. Brothers, &c., and he 
seems determined to force me into selling it, but he 
will be baffled. I don't suppose I shall be much 
pestered with visiters ; but if I am, you must re- 
ceive them, for I am determined to have nobody 
breaking in upon my retirement : you know that I 
never was fond of society, and I am less so than be- 
fore. I have brought you a shawl, and a quantity 
of attar of roses, but these I must smuggle, if pos- 
sible. I trust to find my library in tolerable order. 

" Fletcher is no doubt arrived. I shall separate 
the mill from Mr. B * *'s farm, for his son is too 
gay a deceiver to inherit both, and place Fletcher 
in it, who has served me faithfully, and whose wife 
is a good woman ; besides, it is necessary to sober 
young Mr. B * *, or he will people the parish with 
bastards. In a word, if he had seduced a dairymaid, 
he might have found something like an apology ; 
but the girl is his equal, and in high life or low life 
reparation is made in such circumstances, But I 
shall not intefere further than (like Bonaparte) by 
dismembering Mr. B. 's kingdom, and erecting part 
of it into a principality for field-marshal Fletcher ! 
I hope you govern my little empire and its sad load 
of national debt with a wary hand. To drop my 
metaphor, I beg leave to subscribe myself, yours, 
&c. 

"P. S. This letter was written to be sent from 
Portsmouth, but, on arriving there, the squadron 
was ordered to the Nore, from whence I shall for- 
ward it. This I have not done before, supposing 
you might be alarmed by the interval mentioned in 
the letter being longer than expected between our 
arrival in port and my appearance at Newstead." 



LETTER LXVII. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



" Volaje frigate, at sea, June 29, 1811. 

" In a week, with a fair wind, we shall be at 
Portsmouth, and on the 2d of July, I shall have 
completed (to a day) two years of peregrination, 
from which I am returning with as little emotion as 
I set out. I think upon the whole, I was more 
grieved at leaving Greece than England, which I am 
impatient to see, simply because I am tired of a 
long voyage. 

"Indeed, my prospects are not very pleasant. 
Embarrassed in my private affairs, indifferent _ to 
public, solitary without the wish to be social, with 
a body a little enfeebled by a succession of fevers, 
but a spirit, I trust, yet unbroken, I am returning 
home without a hope, and almost without a desire. 
The first thing I shall have to encounter will be a 
lawyer, the next a creditor, then colliers, farmers, 
surveyors, and all the agreeable attachments to 
estates out of repair and contested coal-pits. In 
short, I am sick and sorry, and when I have a little 
repaired my irreparable affairs, away I shall march, 
either to campaign in Spain, or back again to the 
East, where I can at least have cloudless skies and 
a cessation from impertinence. 

" I trust to meet, or see you, in town or at New- 
stead, whenever you can make it convenient. I 
suppose you are in love and in poetry, as usual. 
That husband, H. Drury, has never written to me, 
albeit I have sent him more than one letter ; — but I 
dare say the poor man has a family, and of course 
all his cares are confined to his circle. 

" ' For children fresh expenses get, 

And Dicky now for school is fit.'— Warton. 

If you see him, tell him I have a letter for him from 
Tucker, a regimental chirurgeon and friend of his, 
who prescribed for me, * * * and is a very 



LETTERS. 



765 



worthy man, but too fond of hard words. I should 
be too late for a speech-day, or I should probably 
go down to Harrow. 

******** 

I regretted very much in Greece having omitted to 
carry the Anthology with me — I mean Bland and 
Merivale's. 

******** 

"What has Sir Edgar done ? And the Imitations 
and Translations — where are they ? I suppose you 
don't mean to let the public off so easily, but 
charge them home with a quarto. For me, I am 
' sick of fops and poesy and prate,' and shall leave 
the ' whole Castalian state' to Bufo, or any body 
else. But you are a sentimental and sensibilitous 
person, and will rhyme to the end of the chapter. 
Howbeit, I ha,ve written some four thousand lines, 
of one kind or another, on my travels. 

" I need not repeat that I shall be happy to" see 

you. I shall be in town about the 8th, at Dorant's 

Hotel, in Albemavle-street, and proceed in a few 

days to Notts, and thence to Rochdale on business. 

"I am, here and there, yours, &c." 



poor fellow among you : had it not been for his 
patrons, he might now have been in very good 
plight, shoe (not verse) making ; but you have 
made him immortal with a vengeance. I write this, 
supposing poetry, patronage, and strong waters tc 
have been the death of him. If you are in town in 
or about the beginning of July, you will find me at 
Dorant's in Albemarle-street, glad to see you. I 
have an Imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry ready 
for Cawthorn, but 'don't let that deter you, for I 
shan't inflict it upon you. You know I never read 
my rhymes to visitors. I shall quit town in a few 
days for Notts, and thence to Rochdale\ I shall 
send this the moment we arrive in harbor, that is a 
week hence. 

"Yours ever sincerely, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LXVIII. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



" Volage frig-ate, at sea, June, 28, 1811. 

" After two years absence, (to a day, on the 2d of 
July, before which we shall not arrive at Ports- 
mouth,) I am retracing my way to England. I 
have, as you know, spent the greater part of that 
period in Turkey, except two months in Spain and 
Portugal, which were then accessible. I have seen 
every thing most remarkable in Turkey, particu- 
larly the Troad, Greece, Constantinople, and Alba- 
nia, into which last region very few have penetrated 
so high as Hobhouse and myself. I don't know 
that I have done any thing to distingush me from 
other voyagers, unless you will reckon my swim- 
ming from Sestos to Abydos, on May 3d, 1810, a 
tolerable feat for a modem. 

" I am coming back with little prospect of pleas- 
ure at home, and with a body a little shaken by 
one or two smart fevers, but a spirit I hope yet un- 
broken. My affairs, it seems, are considerably in- 
volved, and much business must be done with law- 
yers, colliers, farmers, and creditors. Now this, to a 
man who hates bustle as he hates a bishop, is a seri- 
ous concern. But enough of my home department. 

" I find I have been scolding Cawthorn without a 
cause, as I found two parcels with two letters from 
you on my return to Malta. By these it appears 
you have not received a letter from Constantinople, 
addressed to Longman's, but it was of no conse- 
quence. 

"My Satire, it seems, is in a fourth edition, a 
success rather above the middling run, but not 
much for a production which, from its topics, must 
be temporary, and of course be successful at first, 
or not at all. At this period, when I can think and 
act more coolly, I regret that I have written it, 
though I shall probably find it forgotten by all ex- 
cept those whom it has offended. 

" Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany has not succeeded, 
but he himself writes so good humoredly on the 
subject, I don't know, whether to laugh or cry with 
him. He met with your son at Cadiz, of whom he 
speaks highly. 

"Yours and Pratt's protege, Blackett, the cob- 
bler,* is dead in spite of his rhymes, and is proba- 
bly one of the instances where death has saved a 
man from damnation. You were the ruin of that 



• See note to Hints from Horace, p. 478. 



LETTER LXIX. 



ME. HENRY DRURY. 



— " Volag-e frigate, oft' Ushant, July 17, 1811. 

" My Dear DrtAiy, 

"After two years' absence (on the second) and 
some odd days, I am approaching your country. 
The day of our arrival you will see by the outside 
date of my letter. At present, we are becalmed 
comfortably, close to Brest Harbor ; I have never 
been as near it since I left Duck Puddle. * * * 
We left Malta thirty-four days ago, and have had a 
tedious passage of it. You will either see or hear 
from or of me, soon after the receipt of this, as I 
pass through town to repair my irreparable affairs ; 
and thence I want to go to Notts, and raise rents, 
and to Lanes, and sell collieries, and back to Lon- 
don and pay debts ; for it seems I shall neither 
have coals or comfort till I go down to Rochdale in 
person. 

" I have brought home some marbles for Hob- 
house ; for myself, four ancient Athenian skulls,* 
dug out of Sarcophagi ; a phial of attic hemlock ;f 
four live tortoises ; a greyhound, (died on the pas- 
sage;) two live Greek servants, one an Athenian, 
t' other a Yaniote, who can speak nothing but, Ro- 
maic and Italian ; and myself, as Moses in the Vicar 
of Wakefield says, slyly, and I may say it ton, for 
I have as little cause to boast of my expedition as 
he had of his to the fair. 

" I wrote to you from the Cyanean Rocks, to tell 
you I had swum from Sestos to Abydos ; have you 
received my letter ? * * * Hodgson, I suppose 
is four deep by this time. What would he have 
given to have seen, like me, the real Parnassus, 
where I robbed the Bishop of Crissa? of a book ol 
geography ; but this I only call plagiarism, as it 
was done within an hour's ride of Delphi." 



LETTER LXX. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

"Kedclish's Hotel, July 23, 1811. 
" St. James's street, London. 

My Dear Madam, 

"I am only detained by Mr. Hanson, to sign 
some coppyhold papers, and will give you timely 
notice of my approach. It is with great reluctance 
I remain in town. I shall pay a short visit as we gl 



* Given afterward to Sir Walter Scott, 
t In the possession of Mr. Murray. 



766 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



on to Lancashire, on Rochdale business. I shall 
attend to your directions, of course, and am, 
" With great respect, yours ever, 

" Byron. 
" P. S. you will consider Newstead as your house, 
not mine ; and me only as a visitor." 



LETTER LXXI. 

TO DR. PIGOT. 

" Newport Pagnell, August 2, 1811. 

" My Dear Doctor, 

" My poor mother died yesterday ! and I am on 
my way from town to attend her to the family vault. 
I heard one day of her illness, the next of her 
death. — Thank God her last moments were most 
tranquil. I am told she was in little pain, and not 
aware of her situation. — I now feel the truth of Mr. 
Gray's observation, 'That we can only have one 
mother.' — Peace be with her ! I have to thank you 
for your expressions of regard, and as in six weeks 
I shall be in Lancashire on business, I may extend 
to Liverpool and Chester, — at least I shall endeavor. 

"If it will be any satisfaction, I have to inform 
you that in November next the editor of the Scourge 
will bg tried for two different libels on the late Mrs. 
B. and myself, (the decease of Mrs. B. makes no 
difference in the proceedings,) and as he is guilty, 
by his very foolish and unfounded assertion, of a 
breach of privilege, he will be prosecuted with the 
utmost rigor. 

" I inform you of this, as you seem interested in 
the affair, which is now in the hands of the attorney- 
general. 

" I shall remain at Newstead the greater part of 
this month, where I shall be happy to hear from 
you, after my two years' absence in the East. 
" I am, dear Pigot, yours very truly, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LXXIII. 



LETTER LXXII. 



TO MR. SCROPE DAVIES. 



" Newstead Abbey, August 7, 131 1. 

' My Dearest Dayies, 

" Some curse hangs over me and mine. My 
mother lies a corpse in this house : one of my best 
friends is drowned in a ditch. What can I say, or 
think, or do ? I received a letter from him the 
day before yesterday. My dear Scrope, if you can 
spare a moment, do come down to me — I want a 
friend. Matthews's last letter was written on 
Friday, — on Saturday he was not. In ability, who 
was like Matthews'? * How did we all shrink 
before him ? You do me but justice in saying, I 
would have risked my paltry existence to have pre- 
served his. This very evening did I mean to write, 
inviting him, ay I invite you, my very dear friend, 
to visit me. God forgive * * * for his apathy ! 
What will our poor Hobhouse feel ! His letters 
breathe but of Matthews. Come to me, Scrope, I 
am almost desolate— left almost alone in the world 
—I had but you, and H., and M., and let me enjoy 
the survivors while I can. Poor M., in his letter 
of Friday, speaks of his intended contest for Cam- 
bridge, and a speedy journey to London. Write or 
come, but come if you can, or one or both. 

" Yours ever." 



See Letter cccclx 



TO BOLTON, ESQ. 

" Newstead Abbey, August 12, 1811. 

"Sir, 

" I enclose a rough draft of my intended will 
which I beg to have drawn up as soon as possible in 
the firmest manner. The alterations are principally 
made in consequence of the death of Mrs. Byron. 
I have only to request that it may be got ready in a 
short time, and have the honor to be, 

" Your most obedient humble servant, 

"Byron." 



" Newstead Abbey, August 12, 1811. 
" DIRECTIONS FOR THE CONTENTS OF A WILL TO 
BE DRAWN UP IMMEDIATELY. 

" The estate of Newstead to be entailed (subject 
to certain deductions) on George Anson Byron, 
heir at law, or whoever may be the heir at law on 
the death of LordB. The Rochdale property to be 
sold in part or the whole, according to the debts 
and legacies of the present Lord B. 

" To Nicolo Giraud of Athens, subject of France, 
but born in Greece, the sum of seven thousand 
pounds sterling, to be paid from the sale of such 
parts of Rochdale, Newstead, or elsewhere, as may 
enable the said Nicolo Giraud, (resident at Athens 
and Malta in the year 1810,) to receive the above 
sum on bis attaining the age of twenty-one years. 

" To William Fletcher, Joseph Murray, and 
Demetrius Zograffb,* (native of Greece,) servants, 
the sum of fifty pounds per ann. each, for their 
natural lives. To W m Fletcher the mill at New- 
stead, on condition that he payeth the rent, but not 
subject to the caprice of the landlord. To R l Rush- 
ton the sum of fifty pounds per ann. for life, and a 
further sum of one thousand pounds on attaining 
the age of twenty-five years. 

" To J" Hanson, Esq., the sum of two thousand 
pounds sterling. 

" The claims of S. B. Davies, Esq., to be satisfied 
on proving the amount of the same. 

" The body of Lord B. to be buried in the vault 
of the garden of Newstead, without any ceremony 
or burial-service whatever, or any inscription, save 
his name and age. His dog not to be removed from 
the said vault. 

" My library and furniture of every description to 
my friends J" Cam Hobhouse, Esq., and S. B. 
Davies, Esq., my executors. In case of then- 
decease, the Rev. J. Becher of Southwell, Notts, 
and R. C. Dallas, Esq., of Mortlake, Surrey, to be 
executors. 

" The produce of the sale of Wymondham in 
Norfolk, and the, late Mrs. B.'s Scotch property, to 
to be appropriated in aid of the payment of debts 
and legacies." 



"This is the last will and testament of me the 
Rt. Hon hle George Gordon Lord Byron, Baron 
Byron of Rochdale in the county of Lancaster. — I 
desire that my body may be buried in the vault of 
the garden of Newstead, without any ceremony or 
burial-service whatever, and that no inscription, 
save my name and age, be written on the tomb or 
tablet ; and it is my will that my faithful clog may 
not be removed from the said vault. To the per- 
formance of this, my particular desire, I rely on the 
attention of my executors hereinafter named." 



* " If the papers lie not, (which they generally do,) Demetrius Zogn no 
of Athens is at the head of the Athenian part of the Greek insurrection. He 
was my servant in 1S09, 1310, 1811, 1812, at different intervals in those years, 
(fur I fit him in Greece whin 1 went to Constantinople,) and accompanied 
me to England in 1811; he returned tn Greece, spring, 1812. He was a 
clever, but not apparently an enterprising man ; but circumstances make 
men. His two sons (t/ien infants) were named Miltiades and Alcibiades : 
may the omen be hapy '. " — MS. Journal. 



LETTERS. 



767 



" It is submitted to Lord Byron whether this 
ilause relative to the funeral had not better be omit- 
ted. The substance of it can be given in a letter 
from his lordship to the executors, and accompany 
the will; and the tuill may state that the funeral 
shall be performed in such manner as his lordship 
may by letter direct, and, in default of any such 
letter, then at the discretion of his executors." 

" It must stand. , "B." 

" I do hereby specifically order and direct that 
all the claims of the said S. B. Davies upon me 
shall be fully paid and satisfied as soon as conve- 
niently may be after my decease, on his proving 
[by vouchers, or otherwise, to the satisfaction of 
my executors hereinafter named*] the amount 
thereof and the correctness of the same." 

" If Mr. Davies has any unsettled claims upon 
Lord Byron, that circumstance is a reason for his 
not being appointed executor ; each executor Juicing 
an opportunity of paying himself his own debt with- 
out consulting his co-executors." 

" So much the better — if possible, let him be an 
executor. " B." 



In sending a copy of the will, framed on these 
instructions, to Lord Byron, the solicitor accom- 
panied some of the clauses with marginal queries, 
calling the attention of his client to points which 
he considered inexpedient or questionable : one or 
two of the clauses are here inserted in full, with 
the respective queries and answers annexed. 



The two following letters contain further instruc- 
tions on the same subject : 

LETTER LXXIV. 



TO MR. BOLTON. 



Sir, 



' Newstead Abbey, August 16, 1811. 



" I have answered the queries on the margin, f 
I wish Mr. Davies's claims to be most fully allowed, 
and, further that he be one of my executors. I 
wish the will to be made in a manner to prevent all 
discussion, if possible, after my decease ; and this I 
leave to you as a professional gentleman. 

" With regard to the few and simple directions 
for the disposal of my carcass, I must have them 
implicitly fulfilled, as they will, at least, prevent 
trouble and expense : — and (what would be of little 
consequence to me, but may quiet the conscience 
of the survivors) the garden is consecrated ground. 
These directions are copied verbatim from my 
former will ; the alterations in other parts have 
arisen from the death of Mrs. B. 
"I have the honor to be, 

" Your most obedient, humble servant, 

"Byron." 



• Over the words here placed between brackets, Lord Byron drew his pen. 

(■ In the clause enumerating the names and places of abode ot the executors, 
the solicitor had left blanks for the Christian names of these gentlemen, and 
Lord Byron, having filled up all but that of Dallas, writes in the margin — " 1 
forget the Christian name of Dallas — cut him out." He also executed on 
the twenty-e : ghth of this month, a codicil, by which he revoked the bequest of 
his " honseh' Id goods and furniture, library, pictures, sabres, watches, plate, 
linen, trinkets, and other personal estate, (except money and securities,) 
situate within the walls of the mansion-house and premises at his decease — 
nm\ bequeathed the same (except his wine and spirituous liquors) to his 
friends, the said J. C. Hobhouse, S. B. Davies, and Francis Hodgson, their 
executors, &c, to be equally divided between them for their own use ; — and 
he bequeathed his wine and spirituous liquors, which should be in the cellars 
and premises at Newstead, unto his friend the said J. Becher, for his own 
use, and requested the said J. C. Hobhouse, S. E. Davies, F. Hodgson, and 
i. Becher, respectively, to accept the bequest therein contained, to them 
respectively, as a token of his friendslup." 



LETTER LXXV. 



TO MR. BOLTON. 



Sir, 



" Newstead Abbey, AugJBt 20, 1811. 



" The witnesses shall be provided from among 
my tenants, and I shall be happy to see you on any 
day most convenient to yourself. I forgot to men- 
tion that it must be specified by codicil, or other- 
wise, that my body is on no account to be removed 
from the vault where I have directed it to be placed ; 
and, in case any of my successors within the entail, 
(from bigotry, or otherwise,) might think proper 
to remove the carcass, such proceeding shall be 
attended by forfeiture of the estate, which, in such 
case, shall go to my sister, the Hon Ue Augusta 
Leigh and her heirs on similar conditions. I have 
the honor to be, sir, 

" Your very obedient, humble servant, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LXXVI. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



"Newstead Abbey, Notts, August 12, 1811. 

" Peace be with the dead! Regret cannot wake 
them. With a sigh to the departed, let us resume 
the dull business of life, in the certainty that we 
shall also have our repose. Besides her who gave 
me being, I have lost more than one who made that 
being tolerable. The best friend of my friend Hob- 
house, Matthews, a man of the first talents, and also 
not the worst of my narrow circle, has perished mis 
erably in the muddy waves of the Cam, always fatal 
to genius ; — my poor schoolfellow Wingfield, at 
Coimbra — within a month,* and while I heard from 
all three, but not seen one. Matthews wrote to me 
the very day before his death ; and though I feel for 
his fate, I am still more anxious for Hobhouse, who, 
I very much fear, will hardly retain his senses ; his 
letters to me since the event have been most inco- 
herent. But let this pass — we shall all one day pass 
along with the rest — the world is too full of such 
things, and our very sorrow is selfish. 

" I received a letter from you which my late oc- 
cupations prevented me from duly noticing, — I hope 
your friends and family will long hold together. I 
shall be glad to hear from you, oft business, on com- 
monplace, or any thing, or nothing — but death — I 
am already too familiar with the dead. It is 
strange that I look on the skulls which stand 
beside me (I have always had four in my study) 
without emotion, but I cannot strip the features of 
those I have known of their fleshy covering, even 
in idea, without a hideous sensation ; but the 
worms are less ceremonious. Surely, the Romans 
did well when they burned the dead. I shall be 
happy to hear from you, and am 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER LXXVII. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



" Newstead Abbey, August 22, 1811. 

"You may have heard of the sudden death of 
my mother, and poor Matthews, which, with that 
of Wingfield, (of which I was not fully aware till 
just before I left town, and indeed hardly believed 
it,) has made a sad chasm in my connexions. In- 



See Childe Harold, note 19, to canto i. 



768 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



deed the blows followed each other so rapidly that I 
am yet stupid from the shock, and though I do eat, 
and drink, and talk, and even laugh, at times, yet I 
can hardly persuade myself that I am awake, did 
not every morning convince me mournfully to the 
contrary. I shall now waive the subject, — the dead 
are at rest, and none but the dead can be so. 

" You will feel for poor Hobhouse, — Matthews 
was the ' god of his idolatry ; ' and if intellect could 
exalt a man above his fellows, no one could refuse 
him preeminence. I knew him most intimately, 
and valued him proportionably, but I am recurring 
so let us talk of life and the living. 

"If you should feel a disposition to come here, 
you will find ' beef and a sea-coal fire,' and not un- 
generous wine. Whether Otway's two other re- 
quisites for an Englishman or not, I cannot tell, but 
probably one of them. Let me know when I may 
expect you, that I may tell you when I go and 
when return. I have not yet been to Lanes. * * 
Davies has been here, and has invited me to Cam- 
bridge for a week in October, so that peradventure, 
we may encounter glass to glass. His gayety 
(death cannot mar it) has done me service ; but, 
after all, ours was a hollow laughter. 

" You will write to me. I am solitary, and I never 
felt solitude irksome before. Your anxiety about 
the, critique on * *'s book is amusing ; as it was 
anonymous, certes, it was of little consequence: I 
wish it had produced a little more confusion, being 
a lover of literary malice. Are you doing nothing ? 
writing nothing ? printing nothing ? why not your 
Satire on Methodism ? the subject (supposing the 
public to be blind to merit) would do wonders. Be- 
sides, it would be as well for a destined deacon to 
prove his orthodoxy. It really would give me plea- 
sure to see you properly appreciated. I say really, 
as, being an author, my humanity might be sus- 
pected. 

" Believe me, dear II. yours always." 



LETTER LXXVIII. 



TO ME. DALLAS. 



" Newstead, August 21, 1811. 

" Your letter gives me credit for more acute feel- 
ings than I possess ; for though I feel tolerably mis- 
erable, yet I am at the same time subject to a kind 
of hysterical merriment, or rather laughter without 
merriment, which I can neither account for nor 
conquer; and yet I do not feel relieved by it ; but 
an indifferent person would think me in excellent 
spirits. ' We must forget these things,' and have 
recourse to our old selfish comforts, or rather com- 
fortable selfishness. I do not think I shall return 
to London immediately, and shall therefore accept 
freely what is offered courteously — your mediation 
between me and Murray. I don't think my name 
will answer the purpose, and you must be aware 
that my plaguy Satire will bring the north and 
south Grub-streets down upon the ' Pilgrimage ;' 
— but, nevertheless, if Murray makes a point of it, 
and you coincide with him, I will do it daringly ; so 
let it be entitled, « By the Author of English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers.' My remarks on the Ro- 
maic, &c, once intended to accompany the Hints 
from Horace,' shall go along with the other, as 
being indeed more appropriate ; also the smaller 
poems now in my possession, with a few selected 
from those published in Hobhouse's Miscellany. I 
have found among my poor mother's papers all my 
letters from the East, and one in particular of some 
length from Albania. From this, if necessary, I 
can work up a note or two on that subject. As I 
kept no journal, the letters written on the spot are 



the best. But of this anon, when we have defi- 
nitely arranged. 

" Has Murray shown the work to any one ? He 
may — but I will have* no traps for applause. Of 
course there are little things I would wish to altar, 
and perhaps the two stanzas of a buffooning cast on 
London's Sunday are as well left out. I much wish 
to avoid identifying Childe Harold's character with 
mine, and that, in sooth, is my second objection to 
my name appearing in the title-page. When you 
have made arrangements as to time, size, type, &c, 
favor me with a reply. I am giving you a universe 
of trouble, which thanks cann,ot atone for. I made a 
kind of prose apology for my skepticism at the head 
of the MS., which, on recollection, is so much more 
like an attack than a defence, that, haply, it might 
better be omitted : — perpend, pronounce. After all, 
I fear Murray will be in a scrape with the orthodox ; 
but I cannot help it, though I wish him well 
through it. As for me, ' I have supped full of 
criticism,' and I don't think that the ' most dismal 
treatise' will stir and rouse my ' fell of hair' till 
' Birnam wood do come to Dunsinane.' 

" I shall continue to write at intervals, and hope 
you will pay me in kind. How does Pratt get on, 
or rather get off Joe Blackett's posthumous stock : 
You killed that poor man among you, in spite ol 
your Ionian friend and myself, who would have saved 
him from Pratt, poetry, present poverty, and post- 
humous oblivion. Cruel patronage ! to ruin a man 
at his calling ; but then he is a divine subject for 
subscription and biograp'hy ; and Pratt, who makes 
the most of his dedications, has inscribed the 
volume to no less than five families of distinction. 

" I am sorry you don't like Harry White ; with a 
great deal of cant, which in him was sincere, (in- 
deed, it killed him as you killed Joe Blackett,1 
certes, there is poesy and genius. I don't say this 
on account of my simile and rhymes ;* but surely 
he was beyond all the Bloamfields and Blacketts, 
and their collateral cobblers, whom Lofft and Pratt 
have or may kidnap from their calling into the service 
of the trade. You must excuse my flippancy, for I 
am writing I know not what, to escape from myself. 
Hobhouse is gone to Ireland. Mr. Davies has been 
here on his way to Harrowgate. 

J' You did not know Mr. Matthews ; he was a 
man of the most astonishing powers, as he suffi- 
ciently proved at Cambridge, by carrying off more 
prizes and fellowships, against the ablest candidates, 
than any other graduate on record ; but a most de- 
cided atheist, indeed noxiously so, for he pro- 
claimed his principles in all societies. I knew him 
well, and feel a loss not easily to be supplied to my- 
self — to Hobhouse never. Let me hear from you, 
and " Believe me, &c." 



LETTER LXXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Newstead Abbev, Notts, August 23, ISII. 

Sir, 

" A'domestic calamity in the death of a near rela- 
tion has hitherto prevented my addressing you on 
the subject of this letter. My friend Mr. Dallas 
has placed in your hands a manuscript poem writ- 
ten by me in Greece, which he tells me you do 
not object to publishing. But he also informed me 
in London that you wished to send the MS. to Mr. 
Gifford. Now, though no one would feel more grati- 
fied by the chance of obtaining his observation-* on 
a work than myself, there is in such a proceeding a 
kind of petition for praise, that neither my pride — ■ 
or whatever you please to call it — will admit. Mr. 
G. is not only the first satirist of the day, but editor 
of one of the principal Reviews. As such, he is 



See "Enzlish Bar 



LETTERS. 



769 



the last man whose censure (however eager to avoid 
it) I would deprecate by clandestine means. You 
will therefore retain the MS. in your own care, or, if 
it must needs be shown, send it to another. Though 
not very patient of censuie, I would fain obtain 
fairly any little praise my rhymes might deserve, at 
all events not by extortion and the humble solicita- 
tions of a bandied-about MS. I am sure a little 
consideration will convince you it would be wrong. 

" If you determine on publication, I have some 
smaller poems, (never published,) a few notes, and 
a short dissertation on the literature of the modern 
Greeks, (written at Athens, which will come in at 
the end of the volume. And if the present poem 
should succeed, it is my intention, at some subse- 
quent period, to publish some selections from my 
first work, — my Satire, — another nearly the same 
length, and a few other things, with the MS. now 
in your hands, in two volumes. But of these here- 
after. You will apprize me of your determination. 
I am, sir, " Your very obedient, &c." 



LETTER LXXX. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



" Newstead Abbey, August 25, 1811. 

"Being fortunately enabled to frank, I do not 
spare scribbling, having sent you packets within the 
last ten day's. I am passing solitary, and do not 
expect my agent to accompany me to Rochdale be- 
fore the second week in September, a day which 
perplexes me, as I wish the business over, and 
should at present welcome employment. I sent you 
exhordiuins, annotations, &c, for the forthcoming 
quarto, if quarto it is to be ; and I also have written 
to Mr. Murray my objection to sending the MS. to 
Juvenal, but allowing him to show it to any others 
of the calling. Hobhouse is among the types al- 
ready ; so, between his prose and my verse, the 
world will be decently drawn upon for its paper 
money and patience. Besides all this, my ' Imita- 
tion of Horace,' is gasping for the press at Caw- 
thorn's, but I am hesitating as to the hoio and the 
when, the single or the double, the present or the 
future. You must excuse all this, for I have noth- 
ing to say in this lone mansion but of myself, and 
yet I would willingly talk or think of aught else. 

" What are you about to do ? Do you think of 
perching in Cumberland, as you opined when I was 
in the metropolis ? If you mean to retire, why not 
occupy Miss * * *'s ' Cottage of Friendship,' late 
the seat of Cobbler Joe, for whose death you and 
others are answerable ? His ' Orphan Daughter' 
(pathetic Pratt !) will, certes, turn out a shoemak- 
ing Sappho. Have you no remorse ? I think that 
elegant address to Miss Dallas should be inscribed 
on the cenotaph which Miss * * * means to stitch 
to his memory. 

" The newspapers seem much disappointed at his 
majesty's not dying, or doing something better. I 
pesume it is almost over. If parliament meets in 
October, I shall be in town to attend. I am also 
invited to Cambridge for the beginning of that 
month, but am first to jaunt to Rochdale. Now 
Matthews is gone, and Hobhouse in Ireland, I have 
hardly one left there to bid me welcome, except my 
inviter. At-three-and-twenty I am left alone, and 
what more can we be at seventy ? It is true, I am 
young enough to begin again, but with whom can I 
retrace the laughing part of life ? It is odd how 
few of my friends have died a quiet death, — I mean, 
in their beds. But a quiet life is of more conse- 
quence. Yet one loves squabbling and jostling 
better than yawning. This last word admonishes 
me to relieve you from 

"Yours very truly, &c." 
97 



LETTER LXXXI. 



TO ME. DALLAS. 



" Newstead Abbey, August 27, 1811. 

" I was so sincere in my note on the late Charles 
Matthews, and do feel myself so totally unable to 
do justice to his talents, that the passage must 
stand for the very reason you bring against it. To 
him all the men I ever kifew were pigmies. He was 
an intellectual giant. It is true I loved W. better ; 
he was the earliest and the dearest, and one of the 
few one could never repent of having loved : but 
in ability — ah ! you did not know Matthews ! 

" ' Childe Harold' may wait and welcome — books 
are never the worse for delay in the publication. 
So you have got our heir, George Anson Byron, and 
his sister with you. 



" You may say what you please, but you are one 
of the murderers of Blackett, and yet you won't 
allow Harry White's genius. Setting aside his 
bigotry, he surely ranks next to Chatterton. It is 
astonishing how little he was known ; and at Cam- 
bridge no one thought or heard of such a man, till 
his death rendered all notice useless. For my own 
part, I should have been most proud of such an ac- 
quaintance; his very prejudices were respectable. 
There is a sucking epic poet at Granta, a Mr. Town- 
send, protege of the late Cumberland. Did you ever 
hear of him and his ' Armageddon ? I think his 
plan (the man I don't know) borders on the sub- 
lime ; though, perhaps, the anticipation of the ' Last 
Day,' (according to you Nazarenes,) is a little too 
daring : at least, it looks like telling the Lord what 
he is to do, and might remind an ill-natured person 
of the line — 

" ' And fools rush in where angels fear to tread.' 

" But I don't mean to cavil, only other folks will, 
and he may bring all the lambs of Jacob Behmen 
about his ears. However, I hope he will bring it to 
a conclusion, though Milton is in his way. 

" Write to me — I dote on gossip — and make a 
bow to Ju — * and shake George by the hand for 
me ; but, take care, for he has a sad sea-paw. 

" P. S. I would ask George here, but I don't know 
how to amuse him; all my horses were sold when I left 
England, and I have not had time to replace them. 
Nevertheless, if he will come down and shoot in 
September, he will be very welcome ; but he must 
bring a gun, for I gave away all mine to Ali Pacha, 
and other Turks. Dogs, a keeper, and plenty of 
game, with a very large manor, I have — a lake, a 
boat, house-room, and neat wines." 



LETTER LXXXII. 



TO E. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



'My Dear Sie, 



'Newstead Abbey, Sept. 4, 1811 



" I am at present anxious, as Cawthorn seems to 
wish, to have a small edition of the "Hints from 
Horace" published immediately ; but the Latin (the 
most difficult poem in the language) renders it ne- 
cessary to be very particular not only in correcting 
the proofs with Horace open, but in adapting the 
parallel passages of the imitation in such places to 
the original as may enable the reader not to lose 
sight of the allusion. I don't know whether I 
ought to ask you to do this, but I am too far off to 
do it for myself ; and if you can condescend to my 



Julia Heath, Lord Byron's sister. 



770 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



school-boy erudition, you will oblige me by setting 
this thing going, though you will smile at the im- 
portance I attach to it. 

" Believe me, ever yours, 

" Byhox." 



LETTER LXXXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Newstead Abbev, Notts, Sept. 5, 1811. 

"Sis, 

"The time seems to be past when (as Dr. John- 
son said) a man was certain to ' hear the truth from 
his bookseller,' for you have paid me so many com- 
pliments, that if I was not the veriest scribbler on 
earth, I should feel affronted. As I accept your 
compliments, it is but fair I should give equal or 
greater credit to your objections, the more so, as I 
believe them to be well founded. With regard to 
the political and metaphysical parts, I am afraid I 
can alter nothing ; but I have high authority for my 
errors in that point, for even the sEneid'was apoli- 
tical poem, and written for a political purpose ; and 
as to my unlucky opinions on subjects of more im- 
portance, I am too sincere in them for recantation. 
On Spanish affairs I have said what I saw, and 
every day confirms me in that notiott of the result 
formed on the spot ; and I rather think honest 
John Bull is beginning to come round again to that 
sobriety which Massena's retreat had begun to reel 
from its centre — the usual consequence of unusual 
success. So you perceive I cannot alter the senti- 
ments ; but if there are any alterations in the 
structure of the versification you would wish to be 
made, I will tag rhymes and turn stanzas as much 
as you please. As for the ' orthodox,' let us hope 
they will buy on purpose to abuse — you will forgive 
the one, if they will do the other. You are aware 
that any thing from my pen must expect no quar- 
ter, on many accounts ; and a* the present publica- 
tion is of a nature very different from the former, 
we must not be sanguine. 

" You have given me no answer to my question — 
tell me fairly, did you show the MS. to some of your 
corps ? — I sent an introductory stanza to Mr. Dallas, 
to be forwarded to you ; the poem else will open too 
abruptly.* The stanzas had better be numbered in 
Roman characters. There is a disquisition on the 
literature of the modern Greeks, and some smaller 
poems, to come in at the close. These are now at 
Newstead, but will be sent in time. If Mr. D. has 
lost the stanza and note annexed to it, write, and I 
will send it myself. — You tell me to add two Cantos, 
but I am about to visit my collieries in Lancashire 
on the 15th inst., which is so unpoetical an employ- 
ment that I need say no more. I am, sir, 

" Your most obedient, &c." 



LETTER LXXXIV. 

TO MK. DALLAS. 

" Newstead Abbey, September 7, 1811. 

"As Gifford has been ever my 'Magnus Apollo,' 
any approbation, such as you mention, would, of 
course, be more welcome than ' all Bokara's vaunted 
gold, than all the gems of Samarkand.' But I am 
sorry the MS. was shown to him in such a manner, 
and I had written to Murray to say as much, before 
I was aware that it was too late. 

" Your objection to the expression ' central line, 



The present second Stoma originally stood first. 



I can only meet by saying that, before Childe Harold 
left England, iff was his full intention to traverse 
Persia, and return by India, which he could not have 
done without passing the equinoctial. 

"The other errors you mention, I must correct in 
the progress through the press. I feel honored by 
the wish of such men that the poem should be con- 
tinued, but to do that, I must return to Greece and 
Asia; I must have a warm sun and a blue sky; I 
cannot describe scenes so dear to me by a sea-coal 
fire. I had projected an additional Canto when I 
was in the Troad and Constantinople, and if I saw 
them again, it would go on ; but under existing cir- 
cumstances and sensations, I have neither harp, 
'heart, nor voice' to proceed. I feel that you are 
all right as to the metaphysical part ; but I also feel 
that I am sincere, and that if I am only to write, 
' ad captandum vulgus,' I might as well edit a maga- 
zine at once, or spin canzonettas for Vauxhall. 
****** * * 

" My work must make its way as well as it can ; I 
know I have every thing against me — angry poets 
and prejudices ; but if the poem is a poem, it will 
surmount these obstacles, and if not, it deserves its 
fate. Your friend's Ode I have read — it is no great 
compliment to pronounce it far superior to S**'s on 
the same subject, or to the merits of the new chan- 
cellor. It is evidently the production of a man of 
taste, and a poet, though I should not be willing to 
say it was fully equal to what might be expected 
from the author of ' Horee lonicce.' I thank you for 
it, and that is more than I would do for any other 
Ode of the present day. 

" I am very sensible of your good wishes, and, 
indeed, I have need of them. My whole life has 
been at variance with propriety, not to say decency ; 
my circumstances are become involved ; my friends 
are dead or estranged, and my existence a dreary 
void. In Matthews I have lost my ' guide, philoso- 
pher, and friend;' in Wingfield a friend only, but 
one whom I could have wished to have preceded in 
his long journey. 

" Matthews was indeed an extraordinary man ; it 
has not entered into the heart of a stranger to con- 
ceive such a man ; there was the stamp of immor- 
tality in all he said or did ; and now what is he ? 
When we see such* men pass away and be no more 
— men, who seem created to display what the Crea- 
tor could make his creatures, gathered into corrup- 
tion, before the maturity of minds that might have 
been the pride of posterity, what are we to conclude ? 
For my own part I am bewildered. To me he was 
much, to Hobhouse every thing. — My poor Hob- 
house doted on Matthews. For me, I did not love 
quite so much as I honored him ; I was indeed so 
sensible of his infinite superiority, that though I did 
not envy, I stood in awe of it. He, Hobhouse, 
Davies, and myself, formed a coterie of our own at 
Cambridge and elsewhere. Davies is a wit and man 
of the world, and feels as much as such a character 
can do ; but not as Hobhouse has been affected. 
Davies, who is not a scribler, has always beaten us 
all in the war of words, and by his colloquial pow- 
ers at once delighted and kept us in order. II. and 
myself always had the worst of it with the other 
two ; and even M. yielded to the dashing vivacity of 
S. D. But I am talking to you of men, or boys, as 
if you cared about such beings. 

" I expect mine agent down on the 14th to proceed 
to Lancashire, where, I hear from all quarters, that 
I have a very valuable property in coals, &c. I then 
intend to accept an invitation to Cambridge in Oc- 
tober, and shall, perhaps, run up to town. I have 
four invitations — to Wales, Dorset, Cambridge, and 
Chester; but I must be a man of business. I am 
quite alone, as these long letters sadly testify. I 
perceive, by referring to your letter, that the Ode is 
from the author; make my thanks acceptable to 
him. His muse is worthy a nobler theme. You 
will write, as usual, I hope. I wish you a good 
evening, "And am, &c." 



LETTERS. 



LETTER LXXXV. 



771 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

Newstead Abbey, September 10, 1811. 

''Dear. Sir, 

"I rather think in one of the opening stanzas of 
Childe Harold there is this line — 

" ' 'Tis said at limes the sullen tear would start.' 

Now, a line or two after, T have a repetition of the 
epithet ' sullen reverie ; ' so (if it be so) let us have, 
' speechless reverie,' or 'silent reverie ; ' but, at all 
events, do away the recurrence. 

" Yours ever, " B 

" P. S. Perhaps, as ' reverie ' implies silence of it- 
self, wayward, downcast, gloomy, wrinkling, joyless, 
may be better epithets." 



LETTER LXXXVIII. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



LETTER LXXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



■Sir, 



"Newstead Abbey, Notts, September 14, 1S11. 



" Since your former letter, Mr. Dallas informs me 
that' the MS. has been submitted to the perusal of 
Mr. Giffbrd, most contrary to my wishes, as Mr. D. 
could have explained, and as my own letter to you 
did, in fact, explain, with my motives for objecting 
to such a proceeding. Some late domestic events, 
of which you are probably aware, prevented my let- 
ter from being sent before ; indeed, I hardly con 
ceived you would so hastily thrust my productions 
into the hands of a stranger, who could be as little 
pleased by receiving them, as their author is at their 
being offered in such a manner, and to such a man. 

" My address, when I leave Newstead, will be to 
' Rochdale, Lancashire ; ' but I have not yet fixed the 
day of departure, and I will apprize you when ready 
to set off. 

"You have placed me in a ridiculous situation, 
but it is past, and nothing more is to be said on the 
subject. You hinted to me that you wished some 
alterations to be made ; if they have nothing to do 
with politics or religion, I will make them with great 
readiness. "I am, sir, &c, &e. 



,jj <, "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811. 

" I send you a motto — * 

" ' L'univers est une espece de livre, &c.' 

If not too long, I think it will suit the book. The 
passage is from the French volume, a great favorite 
with me, which I picked up in the Archipelago. I 
don t think it is well known in England. Moubron 
is the author, but it is a work sixty years old. Good 
morning. I won't take up your time. 

" Yours, ever, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LXXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Newstead Atbey, Sept. IS, 1811. 

" I return the proof, which I should wish to be 
shown to Mr. Dallas, who understands typographical 
arrangements much better than I can pretend to do. 
The printer may place the notes in his oivn way, or 
any way, so that they are out of my way; I care 
nothing about types or margins. 

" If you have any communication to make, I shall 
be here at least a week or ten days longer. 

"I am, sir, &c, &c." 



LETTER LXXXVII. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 15, 18-11. 

" My Dear Sir, 

" My agent will not be here for at least a week, 
and even afterwards my letters will be forwarded to 
Rochdale. I am sorry that Murray should groan on 
my account, though that is better than the anticipa- 
tion of applause, of which men and books are gen- 
erally disappointed. 

" The notes I sent are merely matter to be divided, 
arranged, and published/or notes hereafter, in proper 
places ; at present I am too much occupied with 
earthly cares, to waste time or trouble upon»rhymc, 
or its modern indispensables, annotations. 

" Pray let me hear from you, when at leisure. I 
have written to abuse Murray for showing the MS. 
to Mr. Gifford; who must certainly think it was 
done by my wish, though you know the contrary. 
" Believe me, yours ever, 



LETTER XC. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811. 

" I can easily exuse your not writing, as you have, 
I hope, someting better to do, and you must pardon 
my frequent invasions on your attention, because I 
have at this moment nothing to interpose between 
you and my epistles. 

" I cannot settle to any thing, and my days pass, 
with the exception of bodily exercise to some extent, 
with uniform indolence, and idle insipidity. I have 
been expecting, and still expect, my agent, when I 
shall have enough to occupy my reflections in busi- 
ness of no very pleasant aspect. Before my journey 
to Rochdale, you shall have due notice where to ad- 
dress me — I believe at the post-office of that town- 
ship. From Murray I received a second proof of 
the same pages, which I requested him to show 
you, that any thing which may have escaped my ob- 
servation may be detected before the printer lays the 
corner-stone of an errata column. 

"I am now not quite alone, having an old ac- 
quaintance and schoolfellow with me, so old, indeed, 
that we have nothing new to say on any subject, and 
yawn at each other in a sort of quiet inquietude. I 
hear nothing from Cawthorn, or Captain Hobhouse, 
and their quarto — Lord have mercy on mankind! 
We come on like Cerberus with our triple publica- 
tions. As for myself, by myself, I must be satisfied 
with a comparison to Janus. 

" I am not at all pleased with Murray for showing 
the MS. ; and I am certain Gifford must see it in the 
same light that I do. His praise is nothing to the 
purpose : what could he say ? He could not spit in 
the face of one who had praised him in every possi- 
ble way. I must own that I wish to have the im- 
pression removed from his mind, that I had any con- 
cern in such a paltry transaction. The more I 



For •■ Cl.ilde Harold.' 



772 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



•hink, the more it disquiets me; so I will say no 
more about it. It is bad enough to be a scribbler, 
without having recourse to such shifts to extort 
praise, or deprecate censure. It is anticipating, it 
is begging, kneeling, adulating — the devil ! the 
devil ! the devil ! and all without my wish, and con- 
trary to my express desire. I wish Murray had been 
tied to Payne's neck when he jumped into the Pad- 
dlngton Canal, and so tell him, — that is the proper 
receptacle for publishers. You have thoughts of 
settling in the country, why not try Notts ? I think 
there are places which would suit you in all points, 
and then you are nearer the metropolis. But of 
this anon. " I am yours, &c." 



LETTER XCI. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



"Newslead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811. 

"Dear Sir, 

" I have just discovered some pages of observa- 
tions on the modern Greeks, written at Athens, by 
me, under the title of ' Noctes Atticse.' They will 
do to cut up into notes, and to be cut up afterwards, 
which is all that notes are generally good for. They 
were written at Athens, as you will see by the date. 
" Yours ever, 

"B." 



LETTER XCII. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

"New-stead Abbey, Sept. 21, 1811. 

" I have shown my respect for your suggestions by 
ar'ipting them; but I have made many alterations 
in the first proof, over and above ; as, for example : 

" ' Oh Thou, in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 

&c, &c.' 
" ' Since, shamed full o/l by later lyres on earth, 

Mine, &c.' 
•' ' Yet there Foe loander'd by the vaunted rill. 1 

and so on. So I have got rid of Dr. Lowth, and 
' drunk to boot,' and very glad I am to say so. I 
have also sullenizcd the line as heretofore, and in 
short I have been quite comfortable. 

"Pray, write; you shall hear when I remove to 
Lanes. I have brought you and my friend Juvenal 
Hodgson upon my back, on the score of revelation. 
You are fervent, but he is quite glowing ; and if he 
takes half the pains to save his own soul, which he 
volunteers to redeem mine, great will be his reward 
hereafter. I honor and thank you both, but am 
convinced by neither. Now for notes. Besides 
those I have sent, I shall send the observations on 
the Edinburgh Reviewer's remarks on the modern 
Greek, an Albanian song in the Albanian {not 
Greek) language, specimens of modern Greek from 
their New Testament, a comedy of Goldoni's trans- 
lated, one scene, a prospectus of a friend's book, 
and perhaps a song or two, all in Romaic, besides 
their Pater Noster ; so there will be enough, if not 
too much, with what I have already sent. Have 
you received the ' Noctes Attica? ? ' I sent also an 
annotation on Portugal. Hobhouse is also forth- 
coming." 



LETTER XCII1. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 23, 1811. 

" Lisboa is the Portuguese word, consequently 
tfce very best Ulissipont is pedantic ; and, as I 



have Hellas and Ems not long before, there would 
be something like an affectation of Greek terms, 
which I wish to avoid, since I shall have a perilous 
quantity of modern Greek in my notes, as speci- 
mens of the tongue ; therefore Lisboa may keep its 
place. You are right about the ' Hints ; ' they 
must not precede the ' Romaunt ; ' but Cawthorn 
will be savage if they don't; however, keep them 
back, and him in good humor, if we can, but do not 
let him publish. 

" I have adopted, I believe, most of your sugges- 
tions, but 'Lisboa' will be an exception, to prove 
the rule. I have sent a quantity of notes, and 
shall continue ; but pray let them be copied ; no 
devil can read my hand. By-the-by, I do not mean 
to exchange the ninth verse of the ' Good Night.' 
I have no reason to suppose my dog better than his 
brother brutes, mankind ; and Argus Ave know to 
be a fable.* The ' Cosmopolite' was an acquisition 
abroad. I do not believe it is to be found in Eng- 
land. It is an amusing little volume, and full of 
French flippancy. I read, though I do not speak, 
the language. 

I will be angry with Murray. It was a book- 
selling, backshop, Paternoster-row, paltry pro- 
ceeding, and if the experiment had turned out as it 
deserved, I would have raised all Fleet street, and 
borrowed the giant's staff from St. Dunstan's 
church, to immolate the betrayer of trust. I have 
written to him as he never was written to before by 
an author, I'll be sworn, and I hope you will am- 
plify my wrath, till it has an effect upon him. You 
tell me always you have much to write about. 
Write it, but let let us drop metaphysics ; — on that 
point we shall never agree. I am dull and drowsy, 
as usual. I do nothing, and even that nothing fa- 
tigues me. Adieu." 



LETTER XCIV. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

'• Newstead Abbey, Sept. 26, 1811. 

"My Dear Sir, 

" In a stanza towards the end of canto first there 
is, the concluding line, 

' Some bitter bubbles up, and e'en on roses stings.' 

I have altered it as follows : — 

' Full from the heart of joy's delicious springs 

Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.' 

" If you will point out the stanzas on Cintra 
which you wish recast, I will send you mine answer, 
Be good enough to address your letters here, and 
they will either be forwarded or saved till my return. 
My agent comes to-morrow, and we shall set out 
immediately. 

" The press must not proceed of course without 
my seeing the proofs, as I have much to do. Pray 
do you think any alterations should be made in the 
stanzas on Vathek ? I should be sorry to make 
any improper allusions, as I merely wish to adduce 
an example of wasted wealth, and the reflection 
which arose in surveying the most desolate mansion 
in the most beautiful spot I ever beheld. 

" Pray keep Cawthorn back ; he was not to begin 
-till November, and even that will be two months 
too soon. I am sorry my hand is unintelligible ; 
but I can neither deny your accusation, nor remove 
the cause of it. — It is a sad scrawl, certes. — A 
perilous quantity of annotation hath been sent ; I 
think almost enough, with the specimens of Romaic 
I mean to annex. 

" I will have nothing to say to your metaphysics. 
and allegories of rocks and Leaches ; we shall all 
go to the bottom together, so ' let us eat and drink 



See Letter ecliii. 



LETTKKS. 



m 



for to-morrow, &c.' I am as comfortable in my 
oreed as others, inasmuch as it is better to sleep 
than to be awake. 

" I have heard nothing of Murray ; I hope he is 
ashamed of himself. He sent me a vastly com 
plimentary epistle, with a request to alter the two, 
and finish another canto. I sent him as civil an 
answer as if I had been engaged to translate by the 
sheet, declined altering any thing in sentiment, 
but offered to tag rhymes, and mend them as long 
as he liked. 

" I will write from Rochdale when I arrive, if my 
affairs allow me ; but I shall be so busy and savage 
all the time, with the whole set, that my letters 
will be as pettish as myself. If so, lay the blame 
on coal and coal-heavers. Very probably I may 
proceed to town by way of Newstead on my return 
from Lanes. I mean to be at Cambridge in Novem- 
ber, so that at all events we shall be nearer. I will 
not apologize for the trouble I have given, and do 
give you, though I ought to do so ; but I have woiji 
out my politest periods, and can only say that I am 
very much obliged to you. 

" Believe me, yours always, 

" Byron." 



LETTER XCV. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

" NeWBtead Ahbey, Oct. 10, 1811. 

"Dear Sir, 

" Stanzas xxiv., xxvi., xxix., though crossed, 
must stand with their alterations. The other three 
are cut out to your wishes.* We must, however, 
have a repetition of the proof, which is the first. I 
will write soon. " Yours ever, 

"B." 

'•' P. S. Yesterday I returned from Lanes." 



* The following' are the s 


x stanzas as they originally stood. Those 


appearing below, as xxiv., xx 


v\. t xxix., appeared in the poem, in an altered 


tale, numbered there as xxiv 


, xxv., xxvi., ol" the first canto. The stanzas 


marked below xxv., xxvii., ai 


d xxviii., were those omitted : 



XXIV. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened 
Oh, doom displeasing unto British eye I 
With diadem bight Foolscap, lo I a fiend, 
A little fiend that scotfs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
"Where blazoned glares a name spelt Wellesley : 
And sundry siguatures adorn the roll, 
Whereat the urchin points and laughs with all his soul. 

XXV. 

In golden characters, right well designed, 
First on the list appeared) one " Junot ; " 
Then certain other glorious names we find ; 
(Which rhyme compelled! me lo place below :) 
Dull victors t bafned by a vanquished foe, 
Wheedled by conynge tongues of laurels due, 
Stand, worthy of each other, in a row, 
Sirs Arthur, Harry, and the dizzard Hew 
Dalrymple, seely wight, sore dupe of t 1 other tew. 

XXVI. 

Convention is the dwarfy demon styled 
That foiled the knights in Marialva's dome ; 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
For well 1 wot, when first the news did come, 
That Vimiera's field by Gaul was lost ; 
For paragraph ne paper scarce had room, 
Such paans teemed for our triumphant host, 
In Courier, Chronicle, and eke in Morning Post. 

XXVII. 

But when Convention sent his handy work, 

Fens, tongues, feet, hands, combined in wild uproar ; 

Mayor, alderman, laid down th* uplifted fork; 

The bench of Bishops half forgot to snore ; 

Stern Cobbett, who for one whole week forbore 



LETTER XCVI. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



" Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 181. 

" I have returned from Lanes, and ascertained 
that my property there may be made very valuable, 
but various circumstances very much circumscribe 
my exertions at present. I shall be in town on 
business in the beginning of November, and perhaps 
at Cambridge before the end of this month ; but of 
my movements you shall be regularly apprized. 
Your objections I have in part done away by altera- 
tions, which I hope will suffice ; and I have sent 
two or three additional stanzas for both ' Fyttes.' I 
have been again shocked with a death, and have 
lost one very dear to me in happier times ; but ' I 
have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and ' supped 
full of horrors ' till I have become callous, nor have 
I tear left for an event which five years ago would 
have bowed down my head to the "earth. It seems 
as though I were to experience in my youth the' 
greatest misery of age. My friends fall around me, 
and I shall be left a lonely tree before I am withered. 
Other men can always take refuge in their families ; 
I have no resource but my own reflections, and 
they present no prospect here or hereafter, except 
the selfish satisfaction of surviving my betters. I am 
indeed very wretched, and you will excuse my saying 
so, as you know I am not apt to cant of sensibility. 

"Instead of tiring yourself with my concerns, I 
should be glad to hear your plans of retirement. I 
suppose you would not like to be wholly shut out 
of society ? Now I know a large village or small 
town, about twelve miles off, where your family 
would have the advantage of very genteel society, 
without the hazard of being annoyed by mercantile 
affluence ; where you would meet with men of infor- 
mation and independence ; and where I have friends 
to whom I should be proud to introduce you. There 
are besides, a coffee-room, assemblies, <Sc, &c., 



To question aught, once more with transport leapt, 
And bit his d'ev'lish quill agen, and swore 
With foe such treaty never should be kept, 
Then burst the blatant* beast, and roared and raged, and — slept 1 ! I 



XXVlll. 



Thu 



nto heaven appealed the people ; heaven, 
Which loves the lieges or our gracious king, 
Decreed that ere our generals were forgiven, 
Inquiry should be held about the thing. 
But mercy cloaked the babes beneath her wing; 
And as they spared our foes so spared we them. 
(Where was the pity of our sires for Byng ?)t 
Yet knaves, not idiots, should the law condemn. 
Then live, ye gallant knights ! and bless your judges' phlegm. 

XXIX. 

But ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Ciutra ! at thy name ; 
And folks in office at the mention sweat, 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 
Will not our own and fellow nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their fame, 
By toes in fight o'erthrowu, yet victors here, 
Where scorn her finger points through many a coming year? 

ginally, the " little page " and " yeoman " of C'hilde Harold, Canlo I., 
introduced in the following stanzas, which were afterwards erased: 

And of his train there was a henchman page, 

A peasant boy, who served his master well ; 

And often would his pranksome prate engage 

Childe Burun's ear when his proud hfart did swell 

With sullen thoughts that he disdain 'd to tell. 

Then would he smile on him, and Alwyn } smiled, 



11 Blatant beast," a figure for the mob ; I think first used by Smollett in 
' Adventures of an Atom." Horace has the " Bella rnultorum capitum." 
In England, fortunate enough, the illustrious mobility have not even one. 

t By this query it is not meant that our foolish generals should have been 
shot, but that Byng might have been spared: though the one suffered and the 
>thers escaped, probably lor Candide's reason, "pour encourager let 
autres." 

X In the MS. the names " Robin " and " Rupert " had »een successively 
inserted here and scratched out again. 



774 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



which bring people together. My mother had a 
house there some years, and I am well acquainted 
with the economy of Southwell, the name of this 
little commonwealth. Lastly, you will not be very 
remote from me ; and though I am the very worst 
companion for young people in the world, this ob- 
jection would not apply to you, whom I could see 
frequently. Your expenses, too, would be such as 
best suit your inclinations, more or less, as you 
thought proper ; but very little would be requisite 
to enable you to enter into all the gayeties of a 
country life. You could be as quiet or bustling as 
you liked, and certainly as well situated as on the 
lakes of Cumberland, unless you have a particular 
wish to he picturesque. 

" Pray, is your Ionian friend in town ? You have 
promised me an introduction. — You mention having 
consulted some friends on the MSS. — Is not this 
contrary to our usual way ? Instruct Mr. Murray 
not to allow his shopman to call the work ' Child of 
Harrow's Pilgrimage !!!!!' as he has done to some 
of my astonished friends, who wrote to inquire after 
my sanity on the occasion, as well they might. I 
have heard nothing of Murray, whom I scolded 
heartily. — Must I write more notes ? — Are there 
not enough ? — Cawthorn must be kept back with 
the ' Hints.' — I hope he is getting on with Hob- 
house's quarto. Good evening. 

"Yours ever, &c." 



Whrns 
The glo 



<rht that from his young lips archly fell, 
ny film from Harold's eye beguiled. 



Him and one yeoman only did he take 

To travel eastward to a far counlrie ; 

And though the boy was grieved to leave the lake, 

On whose fair banks he grew from infancy, 

Eftsoous his little heart beat merrily, 

Willi hope of foreign nations to behold, 



Andl 



' thin 



ghl i 



Of Jhicli our va 
From Mandeville 

This gtanza was also on 



ellous to see, 
; travellers oft have told, 



jilted : 



Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Sights, saints, antiques, arts, anecdotes, and war, 
Go, hie ye hence to Paternoster-row, — 
Are they not written in the boke of Carr ? 
Green Erin's knight, and Europe's wandering star ! 
Then listen, readers, to the Man of Ink, 
Hear what he did, and sought, and wrote afar — 
All these are coop'd within one Q.uarto's brink, 
This borrow, steal, (don't buy) and tell us what you think. 

The second paragraph in the preface was originally thus: 
11 It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high 
Talue, that in the fictitious character of ' Childe Harold,' I may incur the sus- 
jibion of having drawn ' from myself.' This I beg leave, once for all, to dis- 
claim. I wanted a character to give some connections to the poem, and the 
one adopted suited my purpose as well as any other. In some very trivial 
particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for snch an idea ; 
out, in the main points, 1 should hope none wh.ite\er. My reader will ob- 
serve that when the author speaks in his own person, he assumes a very dif- 
trent tone from that of 

'The cheerless thing, the man without a friend,' 

at least till death had deprived him of his nearest connexions. 

" I crave pardon for this egotism, which proceeds from my wish to discard 
any probable imputation of it to the text." 

The note to Canto I., stanza xxi., was in the manuscript as follows : 
" It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809, the assassinations in the 
Iteets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their 
countrymen ; but that Englishmen were daily butchered : and so far from re- 
dress being obtained, we were requested not to interfere if we perceived any 
compatriot defending himself against his allies. I was once stopped in the 
way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were not 
more empty than they generally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, 
and in a carriage with a friend : had we not fortunately been armed, I have 
not the leasl doubt that we should have ' adorned a tale ' instead of tellin" 
one. We have heard wonders of the Portuguese lately, and their gallantry. 
Pray Heaven it continue I yet ' would it were bed-time, Hal, and all were 
well I ' They must fight a great many hours ' by Shrewsbury clock,' before 
the number of their slain equals that of our countrymen butchered by these 
kind creatures, now metamorphosed into ' cacadores,' and what not. 1 
merely stale a fact, not confined to Portugal ; for in Sicily and Malta we are 
knocked on tl.e head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or 



LETTER XCVII. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



"Newstead Abbey, Oct. 13, 1811. 

" You will begin to deem me a most liberal cor- 
respondent ; but as my letters are free, you will 
overlook, their frequency. I have sent you answers 
in prose and verse to all your late communications, 
and though I am invading your ease again, I don't 
know why, or what to put down that you are not 
acquainted with already. I am growing nervous 
(how you will laugh !) — but it is true, — really, 
wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically nervonp. — 
Your climate kills me ; I can neither read, write, 
nor amuse myself, or any one else. My days are 
listless, and my nights restless ; I have very seldom 
any society, and when I have, I run out of it. At 
* this present writing,' there are in the next room 
three ladies, and I have stolen away to write this 
gambling letter. I don't know that I shan't end 
with insanity, for I find a want of method in arrang- 
ing my thoughts that perplexes me strangely ; but 
this looks more like silliness than madness, as 
Scope Davies would facetiously remark in his con- 
soling manner. I must try the hartshorn of your 
company ; and a session of Parliament would suit 
me well, — any thing to cure me of conjugating the 
accursed verb ' ennuyerS 



Maltese is ever punished ! The neglect of protection is disgraceful to our 
government and governors ; for the murders are as notorious as the moon 
that shines upon them, and the apathy that overlooks them. The Portuguese, 
it is to be hoped, are complimented with the * Forlorn Hope,' — if the cowards 
are become brave, (like the rest of their kind, in a corner,) pray let th<?m dis- 
play it. But there is a subscription for these ' Spavv-Seo^otS (they need 
not be ashamed of the epithet once applied to the Spartans ;) and all the 
charitable patronymics, from ostentatious A. to diffident Z., and 1/. Is. Od. 
from an ( Admirer of Valor,' are in requisition for the lists at Lloyd's, and 
the honor of British benevolence. Well 1 we have fought, and subscribed, 
and bestowed peerages, and buried the killed by their friends and foes ; and, 
lo ! all this is to be done over again ! Like Lien Chi, (in Goldsmith's Citizen 
of the World,) as we ( grow older, we grow never the better.' It would be 
pleasant to learn who wilt subscribe for us, in or about the year 1815, and 
what nation will send fifty thousand men, first to be decimated in the capital, 
:ind then decimated again (in the Irish fashion, nine out of ten) in the ' bed 
of honor; ' which, as Sergeant Kite says, is considerably larger and more 
commodious than the ' bed of Ware.' Then they must have a poet to write 
the * Vision of Don Perceval,' and generously bestow the profit* of the well 
and widely printed quarto, to rebuild the ' Backwynd ' and the ( Canougate/ 
or furnish new kilts for the half-roasted Highlanders. Lord Wellington, 
however, has enacted marvels ; and so did his oriental brother, whom I saw 
chari'-'^ering over the French flag, and heard clipping bad Spanish, after list- 
ening to the speech of a patriotic cobbler of Cadiz, on the event of his own 
entry into that city, and the exit of some five thousand bold Britons out ol 
this ' best of all possible worlds.' Sorely were we puzzled how to dispose of 
that same victory of Talavera ; and a victory it surely was somewhere, for 
every body claimed it. The Spanish despatch and mob called it Cuesta's, 
and made no great mention of the Viscount ; the French called it theirs, (to 
my great discomfiture, — for a French consul stopped my mouth in Greece 
with a Paris Gazette, just as I had killed Sebastina ( in buckram, 1 and King £ 
Joseph 'in Kendall green ') — and we have not yet determined what to call 
it, or whose ; for, certes, it was none of our own. Howbeit, Massena's re- 
treat is a great comfort ; and as we have not been in the habit of pursuing 
for some years past, no wonder we are a little awkward at first. No doubt 
we shall improve ; or, if not, we have only to take to our old way of retro- 
grading, and there we are at home." 

The following note to Canto II., stanza viii., was in the original manu- 
script, but omitted in the publication : 

" In this age of bigotry* when the puritan and priest have changed places, 
and the wretched catholic is visited with the 'sins of bis fathers,' even unto 
generations far beyond the pale of the commandments, the cast of opinion iu 
these stanzas will doubtless meet with many a contemptuous anathema, 
let it be remembered, that the spirit they breathe is desponding, not £ 
skepticism ; that he who has seen the Greek and Moslem superstitions con- 
tending for mastery over the former shrines of Polytheism, — who has 1 U in 
his own country ' Pharisees thanking God that they were not publicans and 
sinners,' and Spaniards in theirs, abhorring the heretics, who have holpcn 
them in theb: need ; — will be not a little bewildered, and begin to think that 
as only one of them can be right, they may most of them be wrong. With 
regard to morals, and the effect of religion on mankind, it appears, from all 
historical testimony, to have had less effect in making them love their neigh- 
bors, than inducing that cordial Christian abhorrence between sectaries and 
schismatics. The Turks and (Quakers are the most tolerant. U an infide\ 
pays his heratik to the former, he may pray how, when, and where ha 
pleases ; and the mild tenets and devout demeanor of the latter, make theii 
lives the truest commentary on the Sermon on the Mount. 



But 



LETTERS. 



775 



" When shall you be at Cambridge ? You have 
ninted, I think, that your friend Bland is returned 
from Holland. I have always had a great respect 
for his talents, and for all that I have heard of his 
character ; but of me, I believe, he knows nothing, 
except that he heard my sixth-form repetitions 'ten 
months together, at the average of two lines a 
morning, and those never perfect. I remembered 
him and his ' Slaves ' as I passed between Capes 
Matapan, St. Angelo, and his Isle of Ceriga, and I 
always bewailed the absence of the Anthology. I 
suppose he will now translate Vondel, the Dutch 
Shakspeare, and ' Gysbert van Amstel ' will easily 
be accommodated to our stage in its present state ; 
and I presume he saw the Dutch poem, where the 
love of Pyramus and Thisbe is compared to the 
passion of Christ ; also the love of Lucifer for Eve, 
and other varieties of Low Country literature. No 
doubt you will think me crazed to talk of such 
things, but they are all in black and white and good 
repute on the banks of every canal from Amsterdam 
to Alkmaar. "Yours ever, 

"B. 

" P. S. My Poesy is in the hands of its various 
publishers ; but the ' Hints from Horace,' (to which 
I have subjoined some savage lines on Methodism, 
and ferocious notes on the vanity of the triple Edi- 
tory of the Edin. Annual Register,) my ' Hints,' I 
say, stand still ; and why ? — I have not a friend in 
the world (but you and Drury) who can construe 
Horace's Latin, or my English, well enough to 
adjust them for the press, or to correct the proofs 
in a grammatical way. So that, unless you have 
bowels when you return to town, (I am too far off 
to do it for myself,) this ineffable work will be lost 
to the world for — I don't know how many weeks. 

" ' Childe Harold's Pilgrimage' must wait till 
Murray's is finished. He is making a tour in Mid- 
dlesex, and is to return soon, when high matter 
may be expected. He wants to have it in quarto, 
which is a cursed unsaleable size ; but it is pestilent 
long, and one must obey one's bookseller. I trust 
Murray will pass the Paddington Canal without 
being seduced by Payne and Mackinlay's example, 
— I say Payne and Mackinlay, supposing that the 
partnership held good. Drury, the villain, has not 
written to me; 'I am never (as Mrs. Lumpkin says 
to Tony) to be gratified with the monster's dear 
wild notes.' 

"So you are going (going indeed!) into orders. 
You must make your peace with the Eclectic Re- 
viewers — they accuse you of impiety, I fear, with 
injustice. Demetrius, the ' Sieger of Cities,' is 
here, with ' Gilpin Horner.' The painter is not 
necessary, as the portraits he already painted are 
(by anticipation) very like the new animals. — 
Write, and send me your ' Love Song ' — but I want 
' paulo majora ' from you. Make a dash before you 
are a deacon, and try a dry publisher. 
" Yours always, 

"B." 



LETTER XCVIII. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

" October 14, 1811. 

"Dear Sir, 

" Stanza ix., for Canto II. somewhat altered, to 
avoid a recurrence in a former stanza. 

IX. 

11 ' There thou ! — whose love and life together fled, 
Have left me here to love and live in vain : — 
Twined with my heart, atid can 1 deem thee dead, 
When busy memory flashes o'er my brain ? 
Well — 1 will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 



If aught of young remembrance then remain 
Be as it may, 
Whate'er beside Futurity's behest ; 
or, — Howe'er may be 

For me 'twere bliss enough to see thy spirit blest 1 ' 

"I think it proper to state to you, that this 
stanza alludes to an event which has taken place 
since my arrival here, and not to the death of any 
male friend. " Yours, 

"B." 



LETTER XCIX. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

" Newstead Abbey, Oct. 16, 1811. 

" I am on the wing for Cambridge. Thence, after 
a short stay, to London. Will you be good enough 
to keep an account of all the MSS. you receive, for 
fear of omission ? Have you adopted the three 
altered stanzas of the latest proof ? I can do noth- 
ing more with them. — I am glad you like the new 
ones. — Of the last, and of the trio, I sent you a 
new edition — to-day afresh note. The lines of the 
second sheet I fear must stand ; I will give you 
reasons when we meet. 

" Believe me, yogjs ever, 

"Byron." 



LETTER C. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



Cambridge, Oct. 25, 1SU. 

"Dear Sir, 

"I send you a conclusion to the ichole. In a 
stanza towards the end of* Canto I., in the line, 

1 Oh, known the earliest and beloved the most,' 

I shall alter the epithet to ' esteemed the most.' 
The present stanzas are for the end of Canto II. 
In the beginning of the week I shall be at No. 8, 
my old lodgings, in St. James's street, where I 
hope to have the pleasure of seeing you. 
"Yours ever, 

"B." 



LETTER CI. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



" 8, St. James street, Oct. 31, 181i 

"Dear Sir, 

"I have already taken up so much of your time 
that there needs no excuse on your part, but a great 
many on mine, for the present interruption. I have 
altered the passages according to your wish. AVith 
this note I send a few stanzas on a subject which 
has lately occupied much of my thoughts. They 
refer to the death of one to whose name you are a 
stranger, and, consequently, cannot be interested. 
I mean them to complete the present volume. They 
relate to the same person whom I have mentioned 
in Canto II., and at the conclusion of the poem.* 

"I by no means intend to identify myself with 
Harold, but to deny all connexion with him. If in 
parts I may be thought to have drawn from myself, 
believe me it is but in parts, and I shall not own 
even to that. As to the ' Monastic dome,' &c, I 
thought those circumstances would suit him as well 
as any other, and I could describe what I had seen 
better than I could invent. I would not be such a 
fellow as I have made my hero for the world. 
" Yours ever, 

"B." 



Mr. Edleston. See the Letter fuilo 



776 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CII. 



TO MISS TIGOT. 



"Cambridge, Oct. 28, 1811. 

"Dear Madam, 

"I am about to write to you on a silly subject, 
and yet I cannot well do otherwise. You may re- 
member a cornelian * which some years ago I con- 
signed to Miss * * * *, indeed gave to her, and now 
I am going to make the most selfish and rude of 
requests. The person who gave it to me, when I 
was very young, is dead, and though a long time 
has elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial 
I possessed of that person, (in whom I was very 
much interested,) it has acquired a value by this 
event I could have wished it never to have borne in 
my eyes. If, therefore, Miss * * * * should have 
preserved it, I must, under these circumstances, 
beg her to excuse my requesting it to be transmitted 
to me at No. 8, St. James's street, London, and I 
will replace it by something she may remember me 
by equally well. As she was always so kind as to 
feel interested in the fate of him that formed the 
subject of our conversation, you may tell her that 
the giver of that cornelian died in May last of a 
consumption, at the age of twenty-one, making the 
sixth, within four months, of friends and relatives 
that I have lost — between May and the end of 
August. "Believe me, dear Madam, 

" Yours very sincerely, 
" Byron 

" P. S. I go to London to-morrow." 



knowing whether you avow the insult contained in 
the passages alluded to. 

"It is needless to suggest to your lordship th« 
propriety of keeping our correspondence secret. 
" I have the honor to be, 
" Your lordship's very humble servant, 
" Thomas Moore. 
"22, Molesworth street." 



LETTER CIILt 

MR. MOORE TO LORD BYRON. 

" Dublin, January 1, 1810. 

"My Lord, 

"Having just seen the name of 'Lord Byron' 
prefixed to a work, entitled ' English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers, 1 in which, as it appears to me, 
the lie is given to a public statement of mine, re- 
specting an affair with Mr. Jeffery some years since, 
I beg you will have- the goodness to inform me 
whether I may consider your lordship as tne author 
of this publication. 

" I shall not, I fear, be able to return to London 
for a week or two ; but, in the mean time, I trust 
your lordship will not deny me the satisfaction of 



* Sec Letter xvii. 

t The above letter was transmitted by Mr. Moore to a friend of his in 
London, with a request that he would deliver it in person ; but as it did not 
reach London until a few days after Lord Byron's departure for the Conti- 
nent, Mr. Moore's friend placed it in the hands of Mr. Hodgson, who under- 
took to forward it, but, as appears by the correspondence to which it gave 
rise, neglected to do so. On Lord Byron's return to England, Mr. Moore 
again wrote to him referring to his forinei letter, expressing doubts of its 
having reached him, and restating in nearly the same words the nature of the 
insult which, as it appeared to him, the passage in question was calculated to 
convey. "It is now useless," he continued, "to speak of the steps with 
which it was my intention to follow up that letter. The time which has 
elapsed since then, though it has done away neither the injury nor the leeling 
of it, has, in many respects, materially altered my situation ; and the only 
object which 1 have now in writing to your lordship, is, to preserve some con- 
sistency with that former letter, and to prove to you that the injured feeling 
still exists, however circumstances may compel me to be deaf to its dictates at 
present. When I say 'injured feeling,' let me assure your lordship that 
there is not a single vindictive sentiment in my mind towards you. I mean 
but to express that uneasiness, under (what I consider to be) a charge of 
falsehood, which must haunt a man of any feeling to his grave unless the 
insult be retracted or atoned for; and which, if 1 did not feel, 1 should, indeed, 
deserve far worse than your lordship's Satire could inflict upon me." In 
conclusion he added, " that so far from being influenced by any angry or re- 
sentful feeling towards him, it would give him sincere pleasure, if, by any 
satisfactory explanation, he would enable him to seek the honor of being 
henceforwar 1 ranked among his acquaintance." To this letter, Lord Byron 
returned the above answer. 



LETTER CIY. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Cambridge, Oct. 27, 1311. 

"Sir, 

" Your letter followed me from Notts, to this 
place, which will account for the delay of my reply. 
Your former letter I never had the honor to receive ; 
— be assured, in whatever part of the world it had 
found me, I should have deemed it my duty to re- 
turn and answer it in person. 

" The advertisement you mention, I know noth- 
ing of. At the time of your meeting with Mr. 
Jeffrey, I had recently entered College, and remem- 
ber to have heard and read a number of squibs on 
the occasion, and from the recollection of these I 
derived all my knowledge on the subject, without 
the slightest idea of 'giving the lie' to an address 
which I never beheld. When I put my name to 
the production which has occasioned this corre- 
spondence, I became responsible to all whom it 
might concern, — to explain where it requires ex- 
planation, and where insufficiently or too suffi- 
ciently explicit, at all events to satisfy. My situa- 
tion leaves me no choice ; it rests with the injured 
and the angry to obtain reparation in their own 
way. 

" With regard to the passage in question, yoti 
were certainly not the person towards whom I felt 
personally hostile. On the contrary, my whole 
thoughts were engrossed by one whom I had reason 
to consider as my worst literary enemy, nor could I 
foresee that his former antagonist was about to be- 
come his champion. You do not specify what you 
would wish to have done : I can neither retract nor 
apologize for a charge of falsehood which I never 
advanced. 

" In the beginning of the week, I shall be at No. 
8, St. James's street. Neither the letter nor the 
friend to whom you stated your intention ever made 
their appearance. 

"Your friend Mr. Rogers, or any other gentle- 
man delegated by you, will find me most ready to 
adopt any conciliatory proposition which shall not 
compromise my own honor — or, failing in that, to 
make the atonement you deem it necessary to re- 
quire. " I have the honor to be, sir, 

" Your most obedient, humble servant, 
" Byron." 



LETTER CY. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"8, St. James's street, Oct. 29, 1811. 

"Sir, 

"Soon after my return to England, my friend, 
Mr. Hodgson, apprized me that a letter for me was 
in his possession ; but a domestic event hurrying 
me from London immediately after, the letter 
(which may most probably be your own) is still 
unopened in his keeping. If, on examination of the 
address, the similarity of the handwriting should 
lead to such a conclusion, it shall be opened in your 
presence, for the satisfaction of all parties. Mr. H. 



LETTERS 



777 



is at present out of town ; — on Friday I shall see 
him, and request him to forward it to my address. 

" With regard to the latter part of both your let- 
ters, until the principal point was discussed between 
us, I felt myself at a loss in what manner to re- 
ply. Was I to anticipate friendship from one who 
conceived me to have charged him with falsehood ? 
Were not advances under such circumstances, to be 
misconstrued, — not, perhaps, by the person to whom 
they were addressed, but by others ? In my case, 
such a step was impracticable. If you, who con- 
ceived yourself to be the offended person, are satis- 
fied that you had no cause for offence, it will not be 
difficult to convince me of it. My situation, as I 
have before stated, leaves me no choice. I should 
have felt proud of your acquaintance, had it com- 
menced under other circumstances ; but it must 
rest with you to determine how far it may proceed 
after so auspicious a beginning. 

" I have the honor to be, &c." 



LETTER CVIIL 



TO MR. HARNESS. 



LETTER CVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



'8, St. Jar 



i street, Oct. 30, 18H. 



"Sir, 

"You must excuse my troubling you once more 
upon this very unpleasant subject. It would be a 
satisfaction to me, and I should think, to yourself, 
that the unopened letter in Mr. Hodgson's posses- 
sion, (supposing it to prove your own,) should be 
returned ' in statu quo' to the writer, particularly 
as you expressed yourself ' not quite easy under the 
manner in which Ldwelt on its miscarriage.' 

" A few words more, and I shall not trouble 
you further. I felt, and still feel very much flat- 
tered by those parts of your correspondence which 
held out the prospect of our becoming acquainted. 
If I did not meet them in the first instance as per- 
haps I ought, lei the situation in which I was 
placed be my defence. You have now declared 
yourself satisfied, and on that point we are no 
longer at issue. If, therefore, you still retain any 
wish to do me the honor you hinted at, I shall be 
most happy to meet you, when, where, and how you 
please, and I presume you will not attribute 'my 
saying thus much to any unworthy motive. 

" I have the honor to remain, &c." 



LETTER CVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



8, St. James's street, Nov. 1, 1811. 

"Sir, 

" As I should be very sorry to interrupt your Sun- 
days's engagement, if Monday, or any other day 
of the ensuing week, would be equally convenient 
to yourself and friend, I will then have the honor 
of accepting his invitation. Of the professions of 
esteem with which Mr. Rogers has honored me, I 
cannot but feel proud, though undeserving. I 
should be wanting to myself if insensible to the 
praise of such a man : and should my approaching 
interview with him and his friend lead to any degree 
of intimacy with both or either, I shall regard our 
past correspondence as one of the happiest events 
of my life. ■ " I have the honor to be, 

" Your very sincere and obedient servant, 

" Byron." 
98 



' _ 8, St. James's street, Dec. 6, 1811 . 

" My Dear Harness, 

" I will write again, but don't suppose I mean to 
lay such a tax on your pen and patience as to ex- 
pect regular replies. When you are inclined, 
write ; when silent, I shall have the consolation oi 
knowing that you are better employed. Yesterday, 
Bland and I called on Mr. Miller, who, being then 
out, will call on Bland to-day or to-morrow. I shall 
certainly endeavor to bring them together. You are 
censorious, child; when you are a little older, you 
will learn to dislike every body, but abuse nobody. 

" With regard to the person of whom you speak, 
your own good sense must direct you. I never pre- 
tend to advise, being an implicit believer in the old 
proverb. This present frost is detestable. It is the 
first I have felt these three years, though I longed 
for one in the oriental summer, when no such 
thing is to be had, unless I had gone to the top of 
Hymettus for it. 

" I thank you most truly for the concluding part 
of your letter. I have been of late not much ac- 
customed to kindness from any quarter, and I am 
not the less pleased to meet with it again from one 
where I had known it earliest. I have not changed 
in all my ramblings, — Harrow and, of course, your- 
self never left me and the 



attended me to the very spot to which that sentence 
alludes in the mind of the fallen Argive. Our inti- 
macy began before we began to date at all, and it 
rests with you to continue it till the hour which 
must number it and me with the things that were. 

" Do read mathematics. — I should think X plus 
Y at least as amusing as the Curse of Kehama, and 
much more intelligible. Master S.'s poems are, in 
fact, what parallel lines might be — viz., prolonged 
ad infinitum without meeting any thing half so ab- 
surd as themselves. 

' What news, what news ? Queen Oreaca, 
What news of scribblers five ? 

S , W— , C e, L— d, and L—« ?— 

All damn'd, though yet alive.' 

' Coleridge is lecturing. ' Many an old fool,' 
said Hannibal to some such lecturer, • but such as 
this, never.' " Ever yours, &c." 



LETTER CIX. 



TO MR. HARNESS. 



8, St. James's street, Dec. 8, 1811. 

' Behold a most formidable sheet, without gilt or 
black edging, and consequently very vulgar and in- 
decorous, particularly to one of your precision ; 
but this being Sunday, I can procure no better, and 
will atone for its length by not filling it. Bland 1 
have not seen since my last letter ; but on Tuesday 
he dines with me and will meet M * * e, the epi- 
tome of all that is exquisite in poetical or persona] 
accomplishments. How Bland has settled with 
Miller, I know not. I have very little interest with 
either, and they must arrange their concerns ac- 
cording to their own gusto. I have done my en 
deavors, at your request, to bring them together, 
and hope they may agree to their mutual advan- 
tage. 

" Coleridge has been lecturing against Campbell. 
Rogers was present, and from him I derive the in- 
formation. We are going to meke a party to hear 
this Manichean of poesy. Pole is to marry Miss 
Long, and will be a very miserable dog for all that 



778 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The present ministers are to continue, and his 
majesty does continue in the same state. So there's 
folly and madness for you both in a breath. 

" I never heard of but one man truly fortunate, 
and he was Beaumarchais, the author of Figaro, 
who buried two wives and gained three lawsuits be- 
fore he was thirty. 

" And now, child, what art thou doing ? Reading, 
I trust. I want to see you take a degree. Remem 
ber, this is the most important period of your life ; 
and don't disappoint your papa and your aunt, and 
all your kin — besides myself. Don't you know that 
all male children are begotten for the express purpose 
of being graduates? and that even I am an A. M., 
though how 1 became so the Public Orator only can 
resolve. Besides, you are to be a priest ; and to con 
fute Sir William Drummond's late book about the 
Bible, (printed, but not published,) and all other 
infidels whatever. Now leave master II. 's gig, and 
master S.'s Sapphics, and becomes as immortal as 
Cambridge can make you. 

"You see, Mio Carissimo, what a pestilent cor- 
respondent I am likely to become; but then you 
shall be as quiet at Newstead as you please, and I 
won't disturb your studies, as I do now. When do 
you fix the day, that I may take you up according 
to contract ? Hodgson talks of making a third in 
our journey: but we can't stow him, inside at 
least. Positively you shall go with me as was 
agreed, and don't let me have any of your politessc 
to H. on the occasion. I shall manage to arrange 
for both with a little contrivance. I wish H. was 
not quite so fat, and we should pack better. Has 
he left off vinous liquors ? He is an excellent soul ; 
but I don't think water would improve him, at 
least mternally. You will want to know what I am 
doing — chewing tobacco. 

" You see nothing of my allies, Scrope Davies 
and Matthews: — they don't suit you ; and how does 
it happen that I — who am a pipkin of the same 
pottery — continue in your good graces ? Good 
night, — I will go in the morning. 

" Dec. 9. — In a morning I'm always sullen, and 
to-day is as sombre as myself. Rain and mist are 
worse than a sirocco, particularly in a beef-eating 
and beer-drinking country. My bookseller, Caw- 
thorne, has just left me, and tells me, with a most 
important face, that he is in treaty for a novel of 
Madame D'Arblay's, for which one thousand gui- 
neas are asked ? He wants me to read the MS. (if 
he obtains it,) which I shall do with pleasure; but 
I should be very cautious in venturing an opinion 
on her whose Cecilia Dr. Johnson superintended. 
If he lends it to me, I shall put it into the hands of 
Rogers and Moore, who are truly men of taste. I 
have filled the sheet, and beg your pardon ; I will not 
do it again. I shall, perhaps, write again, but if 
not, believe, silent or scribbling, that I am, 

" My dearest William, ever, &c." 



LETTER CX. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



London, Dec. 8, 1811. 

" I sent you a sad Tale of Three Friars the other 
day and now take a dose in another style. I wrote 
it a day or two ago, on hearing a song of former 
days. 

' Away, away, ye notes of wo,* Sic, &c.' 

"I have gotten a book by Sir W. Drummond, 
(printed, but not published,) entitled QSpipus Ju- 
daicus, in which he attempts to prove the greater 
part of the Old Testament an allegory, particulary 
Genesis and- Joshua. He professes himself a 



* See Poems, p. 541. 



theist in the preface, and handles the literal intei< 
pretation very roughly. I wish you could see it. 
Mr. W * * has lent it me, and I confess, to me it 
is worth fifty Watsons. 

" You and Harness must fix on the time for 
your visit to Newstead ; I can command mine at 
your wish, unless any thing particular occurs in the 
interim * * Bland dines with me on Tuesday to 
meet Moore. Coleridge has attacked the « Pleasures 
of Hope,' and all other pleasures whatsoever. Mr. 
Rogers was present, and heard himself, indirectly 
rowed by the lecturer. We are going in a party to 
hear the new Art of Poetry by this reformed schis- 
matic ; and were I one of these poetical luminaries, 
or of sufficient consequence to be noticed by the 
man of lectures, I should not hear him without an 
answer. For, you know, ' an' a man will be beaten 
with brains, he shall never keep a clean doublet.' 
Campbell will be desperately annoyed. I never saw 
a man (and of him I have seen very little) so sensi- 
tive ; — what a happy temperament ! I am sorry for 
it ; what can he fear from criticism ? I don't know 
if Bland has seen Miller, who was to call on him 
yesterday. 

" To-day is the Sabbath, — a day I never pass pleas- 
antly, but at Cambridge ; and, even there, the or- 
gan is a sad remembrancer. Things are stagnant 
enough in town, — as long as they don't retrograde, 
'tis all very well. Hobhouse writes, and writes, and 
writes, and is an author. I do nothing but eschew 
tobacco. I wish parliament were assembled, that I 
may hear, and perhaps some day be heard ; but on 
this point I am not very sanguine. I have many 
plans ; sometimes I think of the East again, and 
dearly beloved Greece. I am well, but weakly. 
Yesterday Kinnaird told me I looked very ill, and 
sent me home happy. 

" You will never give up wine ; — see what it is to 
be thirty ; if you were six years younger you might 
leave off any thing. You drink and repent, you re- 
pent and drink. Is Scrope still ^interesting and in- 
valid ? And how does Hinde with his cursed chem- 
istry ? To Harness I have written, and he has writ- 
ten, and we have all written, and have nothing now 
to do but write again, till death splits up the pen 
and the scribbler. 

" The Alfred has three hundred*and fifty-four can- 
didates for six vacancies. The cook has run away 
and left us liable, which makes our committee very 
plaintive. Master Brook, our head serving man, has 
the gout, and our new cook is none of the best. I 
speak from report, — for what is cookery to a legumi- 
nous-eating ascetic ? So now you know as much of 
the matter as I do. Books and quiet are still there, 
and they may dress their dishes in their own way foi 
me. Let me know your determination as to New- 
stead, and believe me, " Yours ever, 

" Nuiaipojv.' 



LETTER CXI. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



" 8, St. James's street, Dec. 12, 1811. 

" Why, Hodgson ! I fear you have left off wine 
and me at the same time, — I have written, and writ- 
ten, and written, and no answer ! My dear Sir Edgar, 
water disagrees with you, — drink sack and write. 
Bland did not come to his appointment, being un- 
well, but Moore supplied all other vacancies most 
delectably. I have hopes of his joining us at New- 
stead. I am sure you would like him more and more 
as he developes, — at least I do. 

' How Miller and Bland go on, I don't know. Caw- 
thorne talks of being in treaty for a novel of Me 
D'Arblay's, and if he obtains it (at one thousand 
guineas ! !) wishes me to see the MS. This I should 
read with pleasure, — not that I should ever dare to 
venture a criticism on her whose writings Dr. John- 



LETTERS. 



779 



son once revised, but for the pleasure of the tiling. 
If my worthy publisher wanted a second opinion, I 
should send the MS. to Rogers and Moore, as men 
most alive to true taste. I have had frequent letters 
from ffm. Harness, and you are silent; certes, you 
are not a schoolboy. However, I have the consola- 
tion of knowing you are better employed, viz. review- 
ing. You don't deserve that I should add another 
syllable, and I won't. "Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I only wait for your answer to fix our 
meeting." 



LETTER CXII. 



TO Mil. HARNESS. 



" 8, St. James's street, Dec. 13, 1811. 

" I wrote you an answer to your last, which on re- 
flection, pleases me as little as it probably has 
pleased yourself. I will not wait for your rejoinder ; 
but proceed to tell you, that I had just then been 
greeted with an epistle of **'s, full of his petty 
grievances, and this at the moment when (from cir- 
cumstances it is not necessary to enter upon) I was 
bearing up against recollections to which his imagi- 
nary sufferings are as a scratch to a cancer. These 
things combined, put me out of humor with him and 
all mankind. The latter part of my life has been a 
perpetual struggle against affections which embit- 
tered the earliest portion ; and though I flatter my- 
self I have in a great measure conquered them, yet 
there are moments (and this was one) when I am 
as foolish as formerly. I never said so much before, 
nor had I said this now, if I did not suspect myself 
of having been rather savage in my letter, and wish 
to inform you thus much of the cause. You know 
I am not one of your dolorous gentlemen : so now 
let us laugh again. 

" Yesterday I went with Moore to Sydenham to 
visit Campbell. He was not visible, so we jogged 
homeward, merrily enough. To-morrow I dine with 
Rogers, and am to hear Coleridge, who is a kind of 
rage at present. Last night I saw Kemble in Corio- 
lanus ; — he was glorious, and exerted himself won- 
derfully. By good hick, I got an excellent place in 
the best part of the house, which was more than 
overflowing. Clare and Delaware, who were there 
on the same speculation, were less fortunate. I saw 
them by accident, — we were not together. I wished 
for you, to gratify your love of Shakspeare and of 
tine acting to its fullest extent. Last week I saw 
an exhibition of a different kind in a Mr. Coates, at 
the Haymarket, who performed Lothario in a damned 
and damnable manner. 

"I told you of the fate of B. and H. in my last. 
So much for these sentimentalists, who console 
themselves in their stews for the loss — the never to 
be recovered loss — the despair of the refined attach- 
ment of a couple of drabs ! You censure my life, 
Harness : when I con pare myself with these men, 
my elders and my betters, I really begin to conceive 
myself a monument of prudence — a walking statue 
— without feeling or failing ; and yet the world in 
general hath given me a proud preeminence over 
them in profligacy. Yet I like the men, and, God 
knows, ought not to condemn their aberations. But 
I own I feel provoked when they dignify all this by 
the name of love — romantic attachments for things 
marketable for a dollar ! 

"Dec. 16. — I have just received your letter. I 
feel your kindness very deeply. The foregoing part 
of my letter, written jesterday, will, I hope, account 
for the tone of the foimer, though it cannot excuse 
it. I do like to hear from you — more than like. 
Next to seeing you, I have no greater satisfaction. 
But you have other duties and greater pleasures, 
and I should regret to take a moment from either. 
H * * was to call tc-day, but I have not seen him. 
Che circumstances you mention at the close of your 



letter is another proof in favor of my opinion o, 
mankind. Such you will always find them — selfish 
and distrustful. I except none. The cause of this 
is the state of society. In the world, every one is 
to stir for himself— it is useless, perhaps selfish, to 
expect any thing from his neighbor. But I do not 
think we are born of this disposition ; for you find 
friendship as a schoolboy, and love enough before 
tvventy. 

" I went to see * * ; he keeps me in town, where 
I don't wish to be at present. He is a good man, 
but totally without conduct. And now, my dearest 
William, 1 must wish you good morrow, and remain 
ever most sincerely and affectionately yours, &c." 



LETTER CXIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

December 11, 1811. 

" My Dear Moore, 

" If you please, we will drop our formal monosyl- 
lables, and adhere to the appellations sanctioned by 
our godfathers and godmothers. If you make it a 
point, I will withdraw your name ; at "the same time 
there is no occasion, as I have this day postponed 
your election ' sine die,' till it shall suit your wishes 
to be among us. I do not say this from any awk- 
wardness the erasure of your proposal wouhl occa- 
sion to me, but simply such is the state of the case ; 
and, indeed, the longer your name is up, the stronger 
will become the probability of success, and your 
voters more numerous. Of course you will decide 
— your wish shall be my law. If my zeal has already 
outrun discretion, pardon me, and attribute my offi- 
ciousness to an excusable motive. 

" I wish you would go down with me to Newstead. 
Hodgson will be there, and a young friend, named 
Harness, the earliest and dearest I ever had, from 
the third form at Harrow to this hour. I can promise 
you good wine, and, if you like shooting, a manor 
of four thousand acres, fires, books, your own free 
will, and my own very indifferent company. ' Bal- 
nea, vina * * ' * * * 

" Hodgson will plague you, I fear, with verse ;— 
for my own part, I will conclude, with Martial, 'nil 
recitabo tibi ; ' and surely the last inducement is not 
the least. Poifder on my proposition, and believe 
me, my dear Moore, " Yours ever, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CXIV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



January, 29, 1812. 

" My Dear Moore, 

"I wish very much I could have seen you; I am 
in a state of ludicrous tribulation. 

******** 

"Why do you say that I dislike your poesy? I 
have expressed no such opinion, either in print or 
elsewhere. In scribbling, myself, it was necessary 
for me to find fault, and I fixed upon the trite charge 
of immorality, because I could discover no other, 
and was so perfectly qualified, in the innocence ot 
my heart, to ' pluck that mote from my neighbor's 
eye.' 

" I feel very, very much obliged by your approba- 
tion ; but, at this moment, praise, even your praise, 
passes by me like ' the idle wind.' I meant and mean 
to send you a copy the moment of publication ; but 
now, I can think of nothing but damned, deceitful, 
— delightful woman, as Mr. Liston says in the Knight 
of Snowdon. 

" Believe me, my dear Moore, 

"Ever yours, most affectionately, 

"Byron.'' 



780 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CXV. 



TO ROBERT RUSHTON. 



" 8, St. James's street, Jan. 21, 1S12. 

" Though I have no objection to your refusal to 
carry letters to Mealey's, you will take care that the 
letters are taken by Spero at the proper time. I 
have also to observe, that Susan [a servant in the 
family] is to be treated with civility, and not insulted 
by any person over whom I have the smallest con- 
trol, or, indeed, by any one whatever, while I have 
the power to protect her. I am truly sorry to have 
any subject of complaint against you ; I have too 
good an opinion of you to think I shall have occa- 
sion to repeat it, after the care I have taken of you, 
and my favorable intentions in your behalf. I see 
no occasion for any communication whatever, be- 
tween you and the women, and wish you to occupy 
yourself in preparing for the situation in which you 
will be placed. If a common sense of decency can- 
not prevent you from conducting yourself towards 
them with rudeness, I should at least hope that your 
own interest, and regard for a master who has never 
treated you with unkindness, will have some weight. 
"Yours, &c, 

"Byron. 

"P. S. — I wish you to attend to your arithmetic, 
to occupy yourself in surveying, measuring, and 
making yourself acquainted with every particular 
relative to the land of Newstead, and you will write 
to me one letter every week, that I may know how 
you go on." 



LETTER CXYI. 



TO ROBERT RUSHTOX. 



" 8, St. James's street, Jan. 25, 1812. 

"Your refusal to carry the letter was not a sub- 
ject of remonstrance ; it was not a part of your 
business ; but the language you used to the girl was 
(as she stated it) highly improper. 

" You say that you also have something to com- 
plain of; then state it to me immediately; it would 
be very unfair, and very contrary to my disposition, 
not to hear both sides of the question. 

" If any thing has passed between you before or 
since my last visit to Newstead, do not be afraid to 
mention it. I am sure you would rfct deceive me, 
though she would. Whatever it is, you shall be for- 
given. I have not been without some suspicions on 
the subject, and am certain that, at your time of 
life, the blame could not attach to you. You will 
not consult any one, as to your answer, but write to 
me immediately. I shall be more ready to hear 
what you have to advance, as I do not remember 
ever to have heard a word from you before against 
any human being, which convinces me you would 
not maliciously assert an untruth. There is not any 
one who can do the least injury to you while you 
conduct yourself properly. I shall expect your 
answer immediately. "Yours, &c, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CXVII. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

"8, St. James's street, Feb. 16, 1812. 

"Dear Hodgson, 

" I send you a proof. Last week I was very ill 
and confined to bed with stone in the kidney, but I 
am now quite recovered. If the stone had got into 



my heart instead of my kidneys, it would have been 
all the better. The women are gone to their rela- 
tives, after many attempts to explain what was 
already too clear. However, I have quite recovered 
that also, and only wonder at my folly in excepting 
my own strumpets from the general corruption, — 
albeit, a two months' weakness is better than ten 
years. I have one request to make, which is, never 
mention a woman again in any letter to me, or even 
allude to the existence of the sex. I won't even 
read a word of the feminine gender ; it must all be 
1 propria quae maribus.' 

" In the spring of 1813 I shall leave England for 
ever. Every thing in my affairs tends to this, and 
my inclinations and health do not discourage it. 
Neither my habits nor constitution are improved by 
your customs or your climate. I shall find employ- 
ment in making myself a good oriental scholar. I 
shall retain a mansion in one of the fairest islands, 
and retrace, at intervals, the most interesting por- 
tions of the East. In the mean time, I am adjust- 
ing my concerns, which will (when arranged) leave 
me with wealth — sufficient even for home, but 
enough for a principality in Turkey. At present 
they are involved, but I hope, by taking some neces- 
sary but unpleasant steps, to clear every thing. 
Hobhouse is expected daily in London ; we shall 
be very glad to see him ; and, perhaps, you will 
come up and 'drink deep ere he depart,' if not, 
' Mahomet must go to the mountain ; ' but Cam- 
bridge will bring sad recollections to him, and worse 
to me, though for very different reasons. I believe 
the only human being that ever loved me in truth 
and entirely was of, or belonging to, Cambridge, and, 
in that, no change can now take place. There is 
one consolation in death — where he sets his seal, 
the impression can neither be melted or broken, but 
endureth for ever. " Yours always, 

"B." 



LETTER CXVIII. 



TO MASTER JOHN CO"WELL. 

8, St. James's street, Feb. 12, 1812. 

"My Dear John, 

" You have probably long ago forgotten the writei 
of these lines, who would, perhaps, be unable to recog- 
nize yourself, from the difference which must natural- 
ly have taken place in your stature and appearance 
since he saw you last. I have been rambling through 
Portugal, Spain, Greece, &c, &c, for some years, 
and have found so many changes on my return, that 
it would be very unfair not to expect that you should 
have had your share of alteration and improvement 
with the rest. I write to request a favor of you : a 
little boy of eleven years, the son of Mr.* *, my 
particular friend, is about to become an Etonian, 
and I should esteem any act of protection or kind- 
ness to him as an obligation to myself; let me beg 
of you then to take some little notice of him at 
first, till he is able to shift for himself. 

" I was happy to hear a very favorable account of 
you from a schoolfellow a few weeks ago, and should 
be glad to learn that your family are as well as I 
wish them to be. I presume you are in the upper 
school ; as an Etonian, you will look down upon a 
Harrow man ; but I never, even in my boyish days, 
disputed your superiority, which I once experienced 
in a cricket match, where I had the honor of making 
one of eleven, who were beaten to their hearts' con- 
tent by your college in one innings. 

"Believe me to be, with great truth, &c, 8c." 



LETTERS. 



781 



LETTER CXIX. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 

"February 4, 1812. 

" My Dear Sir, 

" With my best acknowledgments to Lord Holland 
I have to offer my perfect concurrence in the pro- 
priety of the question previously to be put to minis- 
ters. If their answer is in the negative, I shall, with 
his lordship's approbation, give notice of a motion 
for a Committee of Inquiry. I would also gladly 
avail myself of his most able advice, and any infor 
mation or documents with which he might be 
pleased to intrust me, to bear me out in the state- 
ment of facts it may be necessary to submit to the 
House. 

" From all that fell under my own observation 
during my Christmas visit to Newstead, I feel con- 
vinced that, if conciliatory measure are not very soon 
adopted, the most unhappy consequences may be 
apprehended. Nightly outrage and daily depreda- 
tion are already at their height, and not only the 
masters of frames, who are obnoxious on account 
of their occupation, but persons in no degree con- 
nected with the malcontents or their oppressors, 
are liable to insult and pillage. 

" I am very much obliged to you for the trouble 
you have taken on my account, and beg you to 
believe me ever your obliged and sincere, &c." 



LETTER CXX. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



1 My Lord, 



" 8 St. James's street, Fab. 25, 1312. 



" With my best thanks, I have the honor to return 
the Notts, letter to your kwlship. I have read it 
with attention, but do not think I shall venture 
to avail myself of its contents, as my view of the 
question differs in some measure from Mr. Cold- 
ham's. I hope I do not wrong him, but his objec- 
tions to the bill appear to me to be founded on 
certain apprehensions that he and his coadjutors 
might be mistaken for the ' original advisers ' (to 
quote him) of the measure. For my own part, I 
consider the manufacturers as a much injured body 
of men, sacrificed to the views of certain individuals 
who have enriched themselves by those practices 
which have deprived the frame-workers of employ- 
ment. For instance ; — by the adoption of a certain 
kind of frame, one man perforins the work of seven 
— six are thus thrown out of business. But it is to 
be observed that the work thus done is far inferior 
in quality, hardly marketable at home, and hurried 
over with a view to exportation. Surely, my lord, 
however we may rejoice in any improvement in the 
arts which may be beneficial to mankind, we must 
not allow mankind to be sacrificed to improvements 
in mechanism. The maintenance and well-doing 
of the industrious poor is an object of greater con- 
sequence to the community than the enrichment of 
a few monopolists by any improvement in the 
implements of trade, which deprives the workman 
of his bread, and rendeis the laborer ' unworthy of 
his hire.' My own motive for opposing the bill is 
founded on its palpable injustice, and its certain 
inefficacy. I have seen the state of these miserable 
men, and it is a disgrace to a civilized country. 
Their excesses may be condemned, but cannot be 
subject of wonder. The effect of the present bill 
would be to drive them into actual rebellion. The 
few words I shall venture to offer on Thursday will 
be founded upon these opinions formed from my 
own observations on the spot.* By previous 



See his first speech. 



inquiry, I am convinced these men would have 
been restored to employment, and the county to 
tranquility. It is, perhaps, not yet too late, and is 
surely worth the trial. It can never be too late to 
employ force in such circumstances. I believe your 
lordship does not coincide with me entirely on this 
subject, and most cheerfully and sincerelv shall I 
submit to your superior judgment and experience, 
and take some other line of argument against the 
bill, or be silent altogether, should you deem i* 
more advisable. Condemning, as every one must 
condemn, the conduct of these wretches, I believe 
in the existence of grievances which call rather for 
pity than punishment. I have the honor to be, 
with great respect, my lord, 
" Your lordship's 

" Most obedient and obliged servant, 

" Byron. 
" P. S. — I am a little apprehensive that your 
lordship will think me too lenient towards these 
men, and half a frame-breaker myself." 



LETTER CXXI. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

" 8, St. James's street, March 5, 1812. 

"My Dear Hodgson, 

" We are not answerable for reports of speeches 
in the papers, — they are always given incorrectly, 
and on this occasion more so than usual, from the 
debate in the Commons on the same night. The 
Morning Post should have said eighteen yean. 
However, you will find the speech, as spoken, in 
the Parliamentary Register, when it comes out. 
Lords Holland and Grenville, particularly the lat- 
ter, paid me some high compliments in the course 
of their speeches, as you may have seen in the 
papers, and Lords Eldon and Harrowby answered 
me. I have had many marvellous eulogies repeated 
to me since, in person and by proxy, from divers 
persons ministerial — yea ministerial.' — as well as 
oppositionists ; of them I shall only mention Sir 
F. Burdett. He says, it is the best speech by a 
lord since the ' Lord knows when,' probably from a 
fellow-feeling in the sentiments. Lord H. tells me 
I shall beat them all if I persevere, and Lord G. 
remarked that the construction of some of my 
periods are very like Burke's ! ! And so much for 
vanity. I spoke very violent sentences with a sort 
of modest impudence, abused every thing and every 
body, and put the Lord Chancellor very much out 
of humor ; and if I may believe what I hear, have 
not lost any character by the experiment. As to 
my delivery, loud and fluent enough, perhaps a 
little theatriacal. I could not reconize myself or 
any one else in the newspapers. * * * 

" My poesy comes out on Saturday. Hobhouse 
is here ; I shall tell him to write. My stone is gone 
for the present, but I fear is part of my habit. We 
all talk of a visit to Cambridge. " Yours ever, 

"B." 



LETTER CXXII. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



s street, March 5, 1812. 



' My Lord, 

" May I request your Lordship to accept a copy* 
of the thing which accompanies this note ? Yon 



Childe Harold. To his sister, Mrs. Leig h, one of the first presentation 
copies was also sent, v ith the following inscription in it:— 

"To Augusta, my dearest sister, and my best friend, who has ever lovet. 
me much better than 1 deserved, this volume is presented by her father' 
, and most affectionate brother, " JP. " 



782 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



have already so fully proved the truth of the first 
line of Pope's couplet, 

i to the injured doth belong,* 



that I long for an opportunity to give the lie to the 
verse that follows. If I were not perfectly con- 
vinced that any thing I may have formerly uttered 
in the boyish rashness of my misplaced resentment 
had made as little impression as ■ it deserved to 
make, I should hardly have the confidence — per- 
haps your lordship may give it a stronger and 
more appropriate appellation — to send you a quarto 
of the same scribbler. But your lordship, I am 
sorry to observe to-day, is troubled with the gout : 
if my book can produce a laugh against itself or 
the author, it will be of some service. If it can set 
you to sleep, the benefit will be yet greater; and as 
some facetious persort/age observed half a century 
ago, that ' poetry is a mere drug," I offer you mine 
as an humble assistant to the ' eau medicinale.' I 
trust you will forgive this and all my other buifoon- 
eries,-and believe me to be, with great respect, 
" Your lordship's obliged and sincere servant, 

" Byron." 



In relation to the following note of Lord Byron, 
Mr. Moore says : — 

" Not long after the publication of Childe Harold, 
the noble author paid me a visit, one morning, and, 
putting a letter into my hands, which he had just 
received, requested that I would undertake to 
manage for him whatever proceedings it might 
render necessary. This letter, I found, had been 
delivered to him by Mr. Leckie, (a gentleman well 
known by a work on Sicilian affairs,) and came 
from a once active and popular member of the 
fashionable world, Colonel Greville, — its purport 
being to require of his lordship, as author of ' Eng- 
lish Bards, &c.,' such reparation as it w : as in his 
power to make for the injury which, as Colonel 
Greville conceived, certain passages in that Satire, 
reflecting upon his conduct, as manager of the 
Argyle Institution, were calculated to inflict upon 
his character. In the appeal of the gallant colqnel, 
there were some expressions of rather an angry 
cast, which Lord Byron, though fully conscious of 
the length to which he himself had gone, was but 
little inclined to brook, and on my returning the 
letter into his hands, he said, ' To such a letter as 
that there can be but one sort of answer.' He 
agreed, however, to trust the matter entirely to my 
discretion, and I had, shortly after, an interview 
with the friend of Colonel Greville. By this gen- 
tleman, who was then an utter stranger to me, I 
was received with much courtesy, and with every 
disposition to bring the affair intrusted to us to an 
amicable issue. On my premising that the tone of 
his friend's letter stood in the way of negotiation, 
and that some obnoxious expressions which it con- 
tained must be removed before I could proceed a 
single step towards explanation, he most readily 
consented to remove this obstacle. At his request 
I drew a pen across the parts I considered objec- 
tionable, and he undertook to send me the letter, 
re-written, next morning. In the mean time, I 
received from Lord Byron the following paper for 
my guidance." 



" With regard to the passage on Mr. Way's loss, 
no unfair play was hinted at, as may be seen by 
referring to the book ; and it is expressly added 
that the managers were ignorant of that transaction. 
" As to the prevalence of play at the Argyle, it can 
not be denied that there were billiards and dice ; — 
Lord B. has been a witness to the use of both at 
the Argyle Rooms. These, it is presumed, come 
under the denomination of play. If play be allowed, 



the President of the Institution can hardly com 
plain of being termed the 'Arbiter of Play,' — or 
what becomes of his authority ? 

" Lord B has no personal animosity to Colonel 
Greville. A public institution, to which he, him 
self, was a subscriber, he considered himself to 
have a right to notice publicly. Of that institution 
Colonel Greville was the avowed director ; — it is too 
late to enter into the discussion of its merits or 
demerits. 

"Lord B. must leave the discussion of the 
reparation, for the real or supposed injury, to Col- 
onel G.'s friend, and Mr. Moore, the friend of Lord 
B. — begging them to recollect that, while they 
consider Colonel G.'s honor, Lord B. must also 
maintain his own. If the business can be settled 
amicably, Lord B. will do as much as can and 
ought to be done by a man of honor towards con- 
ciliation ; — if not, he must satisfy Colonel G. in 
the manner most conducive to his further wishes." 



" In the morning I received the letter, in its new 
form, from Mr. Leckie, with the annexed note. 

" 'My Dear Sin, 

"'I found my friend very ill in bed; he has, 
however, managed to copy the enclosed, with the 
alterations proposed. Perhaps you may wish to 
see me in the morning ; I shall therefore be glad 
to see you any time till twelve o'clock. If you 
rather wish me to call on you, tell me, and I shall 
obey your summons. " ' Yours, very truly, 

" ' G. T. Leckie.' " 

"With such facilities towards pacification, it is 
almost needless to add, that there was but little 
delay in settling the matter amicably." 



LETTER CXXIII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 

" April QO, 1312. 

" My Dear Bank.es, 

"I feel rather hurt (not savagely) at the speech 
you made to me last night, and my hope is that it 
was only one of your profane jests. I should be very 
sorry that any part of my behavior should give you 
cause to suppose that I think higher of myself, or 
otherwise of you, than I have always done. I can 
assure you that I am as much the humblest of your 
servants as at Trin. Coll. ; and if I have not been at 
home when you favored me with a call, the loss was 
more mine than yours. In the bustle of buzzing 
parties, there is, there can be, no rational conversa- 
tion ; but when I can enjoy it, there is nobody's I 
can prefer to your own. 

'• Believe me ever faithfully 

"And most affectionately yours, 

" Byron " 



LETTER CXXIV. 

to mr. william bankes. 

"My Dear Bankes, 

"My eagerness to come to an explanation has, I 
trust, convinced you that whatever my unlucky 
manner might inadvertently be, the change was as 
unintentional as (if intended) it would have been 
ungrateful. I really was not aware that, while we 
were together, I had evinced such caprices ; that we 
were not so much in each other's company as I could 



LETTERS. 



783 



lave wished, I well know, but I think so acute an 
observer as yourself must have perceived enough to 
explain this, without supposing any slight to one in 
whose society I have pride and pleasure. Recollect 
that I do not allude here to ' extended ' or ' extend- 
ing ' acquaintances, but to circumstances, you will 
understand, I think, on a little reflection. 

" And now, my dear Bankes, do not distress me 
by supposing that I can think of you, or you of me, 
otherwise than I trust we have long thought. You 
told me not long ago that my temper was improved, 
and I should be sorry that opinion should be re- 
voked. Believe me, your friendship is of more ac- 
count to me than all those absurd vanities in which, 
I fear, you conceive me to take too much interest. 
I have never disputed your superiority, or doubted 
(seriously) your good will, and no one shall ever 
' make mischief between us ' without the sincere 
regret on the part of your ever affectionate, &c. 

" P. S. I shall see you, I hope, at Lady Jersey's. 
Hobhouse goes also." 



NOTES TO MR. MOORE. 

" Marcli 25, 1812. 

" Know all men by these present, that you, 
Thomas Moore, stand indicted — no — invited, by- 
special and particular solicitation, to Lady Caro- 
line Lamb's, to-morrow even, at half-past nine 
o'clock, where you will meet with a civil reception 
and decent entertainment. Pray, come — I was so 
examined after you this morning, that I entreat you 
to answer in person. Believe me, &c." 

" Friday noon. 

" I should have answered your note yesterday, 
but I hoped to have seen you this morning. I 
must consult with you about the day we dine with 
Sir Francis. I suppose we shall meet at Lady Spen- 
cer's to-night. I did not know that you were at 
Miss Berry's the other night, or I should have 
certainly gone there. 

"As usual, I am in all sorts of scrapes, though 
none, at present, of a martial description. Believe 
me, &c." 

" May 8, 1812. 

"I am too proud of being your friend to care 
with whom I am linked in your estimation, and, 
God knows, I want friends more at this time than 
at any other. I am ' taking care of myself ' to no 
great purpose. If you knew my situation in every 
point of view, you would excuse apparent and unin- 
tentional neglect. * * * * I shall leave town, 
I think ; but do not you leave it without seeing me. 
I wish you, from my soul, every happiness you can 
wish yourself; and I think you have taken the road 
to secure it. Peace be with you ! I fear she has 
abandoned me. Ever, &c." 

" May 20, 1812. 

" On Monday, after sitting up all night, I saw 
Bellingham launched into eternity, and at three the 
same day I saw * * launched into the country. * * 

" I believe in the beginning of June, I shall be 
down for a few days in Notts. If so, I shall beat 
you up ' en passant ' with Hobhouse, who is en- 
deavoring like you and every body else, to keep me 
out of scrapes. 

" I meant to have written you a long letter, but I 
find I cannot. If any thing remarkable occurs, you 
will hear it from me — if good ; if bad, there are 

Elenty to tell it. In the mean time do you be 
appy. Ever yours, &c. 

"P. S. My best wishes and respects to Mrs. 
Moore, — she is beautiful. I may say so even to 
you, for I never was more struck with a counte- 
nance." 



LETTER CXXV. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



* June 25, 1812. 

" My Dear Lord, 

" I must appear very ungrateful, and have, indeed, 
been very negligent, but till last night I was not 
apprized of Lady Holland's restoration, and I shall 
call to-morrow to have the satisfaction, I trust, ot 
hearing that she is well. — I hope that neither poli- 
tics nor gout have assailed your lordship since I 
last saw you, and that you also are ' as well as 
could be expected.' 

" The other night, at a ball, I was presented by 
order, to our gracious Regent, who honored me with 
some conversation, and professed a predilection for 
poetry. I confess it was a most unexpected honor, 
and I thought of poor Brummell's adventure, with 
some apprehensions of a similar blunder. I have 
now great hope, in the event of Mr. Pye's decease, 
of ' warbling truth at court,' like Mr. Mallett, of 
indifferent memory. — Consider one hundred marks 
a year ! besides the wine and the disgrace ; but then 
remorse would make me drown myself in my own 
butt before the year's end, 'or the finishing of my 
first dithyrambic. So that, after all, I shall not 
meditate our laureate's death by pen or poison. 

" Will you present my best respects to Lady Hol- 
land, and believe me hers and yours very sincerely." 



LETTER CXXVI. 



TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

"St. James's street, July 6, 1812. 

"Sir, 

" I have just been honored with your letter. — I 
feel sorry that you should have thought it worth 
while to notice the ' evil works of my non-age,' as 
the thing is suppressed voluntarily, and your ex- 
planation is too kind not to give me pain. The 
Satire was written when I was very young and very 
angry, and fully bent on displaying my wrath and 
my wit, and now I am haunted by the ghosts of my 
wholesale assertions. I cannot sufficiently thank 
you for your praise ; and now, waiving myself, let 
me talk to you of the Prince Regent. He ordered 
me to be presented to him at a ball ; and after some 
sayings peculiarly pleasing from royal lips, as to my 
own attempts, he talked to me of you and your im- 
mortalities : he preferred you to every bard past and 
present, and asked which of your works pleased me 
most. It was a difficult question. I answered, I 
thought the 'Lay.' He said his own opinion was 
nearly similar. In speaking of the others, I told 
him that I thought you more particularly the 
poet of Princes, as they never appeared more fasci- 
nating than in 'Marmion,' and the 'Lady of the 
Lake.' He was pleased to coincide, and to dwell 
on the description of your Jameses as no less royal 
than poetical. He spoke alternately of Homer and 
yourself, and seemed well acquainted with both ; so 
that (with the exception of the Turks and your 
humble servant) you were in very good company. 
I defy Murray to have exaggerated his royal high- 
ness's opinion of your powers, nor can I pretend to 
enumerate all he said on the subject; but it may 
give you pleasure to hear that it was conveyed in 
language which would only suffer by my attempting 
to transcribe it, and with a tone and taste which 
gave me a very high idea of his abilities and accom- 
plishments, which I had hitherto considered as con- 
fined to manners, certainly superior to those of any 
living gentleman. 

" This interview was accidental. I never went to 
the levee ; for having seen the courts of Mussulman 



784 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



and Catholic sovereigns, my curiosity was sufficient- 
ly allayed, and my politics being as perverse as my 
rhymes, I had, in fact, 'no business there.' To be 
thus praised by your Sovereign must be gratifying 
to you: and if that gratification is not alloyed by 
the communication being made through me, the 
bearer of it will consider himself very fortunately 
and sincerely 

" Your obliged and obedient servant, 

" Byron. 

" P. S. Excuse this scrawl, scratched in a great 
hurry, and just after a journey." 



LETTER CXXVII. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



" Cheltenham, September 10, 1812. 

'My Dear Lord, 

"The lines* which I sketched off on your hint 
are still, or rather were, in an unfinished state, for 
I have just committed them to a flame more decisive 
than that of Drury. Under all the circumstances, 
I should hardly wish a contest with Philo-drama — 
Philo-Drury — Asbestos, H * *, and all the anony- 
mes and synonymes of the Committee candidates. 
Seriously, I think you have a chance of something 
much better ; for prologuizing is not my forte, and, 
at all events, either my pride or my modesty won't 
let me incur the hazard of having my rhymes buried 
in next month's Magazine, under ' Essays on the 
Murder of Mr. Perceval,' and ' Cures for the Bite 
of a Mad Dog,' as poor Goldsmith complained of 
the fate of far superior performances. 

" I am still sufficiently interested to wish to know 
the successful candidate ; and, among so many, I 
have no doubt some will be excellent, particularly 
in an age when writing verse is the easiest of all 
attainments. 

" I cannot answer your intelligence with the ' like 
comfort,' unless, as you are deeply theatrical, you 
may wish to hear of Mr. * *, whose acting is, I 
fear, utterly inadequate to the London engagement 
into which the managers of Covent Garden have 
lately entered. His figure is fat, his features flat, 
his voice unmanageable, his action ungraceful, and, 

as DiggorA' says, ' I defy him to extort that d d 

muffin "face of his into madness.' I was very sorry 
to see him in the character of the ' Elephant on the 
slack rope ; ' for, when I last saw him, I was in 
raptures with his performance. But then I was 
sixteen, — an age to which all London then conde 
scended to subside. After all, much better judges 
have admired, and may again ; but I venture to 
' prognosticate a prophecy ' (see the Courier) that 
he will not succeed. 

"So, poor dear Rogers has stuck fast on 'the 
brow of the mighty Helvellyn ' — I hope not for 
ever. My best respects to Lady H. — her departure, 
with that of my other friends, was a sad event for 
me, now reduced to a state of the most cynical 
solitude. ' By the waters of Cheltenham I sat down 
and drank; when I remembered thee, oh, Georgiana 
Cottage ! As for our harps, we hanged them upon 
the willows that grew thereby. Then they said, 
Sing us a song of Drury Lane,' &c. — but I am dumb 
and dreary as the Israelites. The waters have 
disordered me to my heart's content, — you were 
right, as you always are. 

" Believe me ever your obliged 

" And affectionate servant, 

"Byron." 



Address at the opening of Drury-Lane Theatre. 



LETTER CXXVTII. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



" September 22, 1812. 

"My Dear Lord, 

" In a day or two I will send you something which 
you will still have the liberty to reject if you dislike 
it. I should like to have had more time, but will 
do my best, — but too happy if I can oblige you, 
though I may offend one hundred scribblers and 
discerning public. " Ever yours. 

" Keep my name a secret; or I shall be beset by 
all the rejected, and perhaps damned by a party." 



LETTER CXXIX. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



" Cheltenham, September 23, 1S12. 

" Ecco ! — I have marked some passages with 
double readings — choose between them — cut — add 
— reject — or destroy — do with them as you will — 
I leave it to you, and the Committee — you cannot 
say so called a ' non committendo.' What will they 
do — (and I do) with the hundred and one rejected 
Troubadours ? ' With trumpets, yea, and with 
shawms,' will you be assailed in the most diabolical 
doggerel. I wish my name not to transpire till the 
day is decided. I shall not be in town, so it won't 
much matter ; but let us have a good deliverer. I 
think Elliston should be the man, or Pope ; not 
Raymond, I implore you by the love of Rhythmus ! 

" The passages marked thus = =, above and be- 
low, .are for you to choose between epithets, and 
such like poetical furniture. Pray write me a line, 
and believe me ever, &c. 

"My best remembrances to Lady H. Will you 
be good enough to decide between the various read- 
ings marked, and erase the other ; or our deliverer 
may be as puzzled as a commentator, and belike 
repeat both. If these versicles won't do I will ham- 
mer out some more endecasyllables. 

,: P. S. Tell Lady H. I have had sad work to 
keep out the Phoenix — I mean the Fire-Office of 
that name. It has insured the theatre, and why 
not the Address ? 



LETTER CXXX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" September 24. 

" I send a recast of the first four lines of the 
concluding paragraph. 

" This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
The drama's homage by her Herald paid, 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts and fain would win your own. 
The curtain rises, &c, &c. 

And do forgive all this trouble. See what it is to 
have to do even with the genteelest of us. 

"Ever, &c." 



LETTER CXXXI. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" Cheltenham, Sept. 25, 1812. 

" Still ' more matter for a May morning.' Hav- 
ing patched the middle and end of the Address, I 
send one more couplet for a part of the beginning, 
which, if not too turgid, you will have the goodness 



LETTERS. 



785 



to add. After that flagrant image of the Thames, 
(I hope no unlucky wag will say I have set it on 
fire, though Dryden, in his ' Annus Mirabilis,' and 
Churchill, in his ' Times,' did it before me,) I mean 
to insert this : 

■ As flashing far the new Volcano shone 
meteors 
And sweep the skies with lightnings not their own, 
While thousands throng'd around the burning dome, &c, &C. 

I think ' thousands ' less flat than ' crowds collect- 
ed ' — but don't let me plunge into the bathos, or 
rise into Nat. Lee's Bedlam metaphors. By-the-by, 
the best view of the said fire (which I myself saw 
from a house-top in Covent Garden) was at West- 
minster Bridge, from the reflection on the Thames. 

" Perhaps the present couplet had better come in 
after ' trembled for their homes,' the two lines after ; 
as otherwise the image certainly sinks, and it will 
run just as well. 

" The lines themselves, perhaps, may be better 
thus — ('choose,' or 'refuse' — but please yourself', 
and don't mind ' Sir Fretful ') — 

sadly 
" As flash'd the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies with lightnings awful as their own. 

The last rims smoothest, and, I think, best; but 
you know better than best. ' Lurid ' is also a less 
indistinct epithet than ' livid wave,' and, if you think 
so, a dash of the pen will do. 

"I expected one line this morning; in the mean 
time, I shall remodel and condense, and if I do not 
hear from you, shall send another copy. 

" I am ever, &c." 



LETTER CXXXII. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" September 26, 1812. 

"You will think there is no end to my villanous 
amendations. The fifth and sixth lines I think to 
alter thus : 

" Ye who beheld — oh sight admir'd and mourn \1 ! 
Whose radiance niock'd the ruin it adora'd ; 

because 'night' is repeated the next line but one; 
and, as it n'uv stands, the conclusion of the para- 
graph, ' worthy him (Shakspeare) and you,'' appears 
to apply the ' you ' to those only who were out of bed 
and in Covent-Garden Market on the night of con- 
flagration, instead of the audience or the discerning 
public at large, all of whom are intended to be com- 
prised in that comprehensive and, I hope compre- 
hensible pronoun. 

" By-the-by, one of my corrections in the fair copy 
sent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty 
fathom — 

" When Garrick died, and Erinsley ceased to write. 

Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and 
ought not to be first ; therefore I will let the old 
couplet stand, with its half rhymes 'sought' and 
' wrote.'* Second thoughts in every thing are best, 
but, in rhyme, third and fourth don't come amiss. 
I am very anxious on this business, and I do hope 
that the very trouble I occasion you will plead its 
own excuse, and that it will tend to show my endea- 
vor to make the most of the time allotted. I wish 
I had known it months ago, for in that case I had 
not left one line standing on another. I always 
scrawl in this way, and smooth as much as I can, 



• " Such are the names that here your plaudits sought, 
Wheu Garrick acted, and when Brinsley wrote." 
At present the couplet stands thus : 

" Dear are the days that made our annals bright, 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write." 

99 



but never sufficiently ; and, latterly, I can weave a 
nine-line stanza faster than a couplet, for which 
measure I have not the cunning. When I began 
' Childe Harold,' I had never tried Spenser's mea- 
sure, and now I cannot scribble in any other. 

" After all, my dear lord, if you can get a decent 
Address elsewhere, don't hesitate to put this aside. 
Why did you not trust your own Muse ? I am very 
sure she would have been triumphant, and saved 
the Committee their trouble — ' 'tis a joyful one' to 
me, but I fear I shall not satisfy even myself. After 
the account you sent me, it is no compliment to say, 
you would have beaten your candidates ; but I mean 
that, in that case, there would have been no occa- 
sion for their being beaten at all. 

" There are but two decent prologues in our 
tongue — Pope's to Cato — Johnson's to Drury-Lane. 
These, with the epilogue to the ' Distressed Mother,' 
and, I think one of Goldsmith's, and a prologue of 
old Colman's to Beaumont and Fletcher's Philaster, 
are the best things of the kind we have. 

" P. S. I am diluted to the throat with medicine 
for the stone ; and Boisragon wants me to try a 
warm climate for the winter — but I won't." 



LETTER CXXXIII. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



" September 27, 1812. 

" I have just received your very kind letter, ana 
hope you have mot with a second copy corrected and 
addressed to Holland House, with some omissions 
and this new couplet, 



" As glared each rising flash,' am 
The skies with lightnings awful i 



ghastly shone 
; their own. 



As to remarks, I can only say I will alter and acqui- 
esce in any thing. With regard to the part which 
Whitbread wishes to omit, I believe the Address 
will go off quicker without it, though like the agility 
of the Hottentot, at the expense of its vigor. I 
leave to your choice entirely the different specimens 
of stucco-work ; and a brick of your own will also 
much improve my Babylonish turret. I should like 
Elliston to have it, with your leave. ' Adorn ' and 
' mourn ' are lawful rhymes in Pope's death of the 
unfortunate Lady — Gray has ' forlorn ' and ' mourn' 
— and ' torn ' and ' mourn ' are in Smollet's famous 
Tears of Scotland. 

" As there will probably be an outcry among the 
rejected, I hope the Committee will testify (if it be 
needful) that I sent in nothing to the congress what- 
ever, with or without a name, as your lordship well 
knows. All I have to do with it is with and through 
you; and though I, of course, wish to satisfy the 
audience, I do assure you my first object is to com- 
ply with your request, and in so doing to show the 
sense I have of the many obligations you have con- 
ferred upon me. " Yours ever, 

"B." 



LETTER CXXXIV. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" September 27, 1812. 

" I believe this is the third scrawl since yesterday 
— all about epithets. I think the epithet ' intellec- 
tual ' won't convey the meaning I intend ; and 
though I hate compounds, for the present I will try 
(col' permesso) the word 'genius-gifted patriarchs 



• At pretent, " As glared the rolumed blaw.' 1 



786 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



of our line '* instead. Johnson has ' many-colored 
life,' a compound — but they are always best avoided. 
However, it is the only one in ninety lines, but will 
be happy to give way to a better. I am ashamed to 
intrude any more remembrances on Lady H. or let- 
ters upon you ; but you are, fortunately for me, 
gifted with patience already too often tried by 

" Yours, &c, &c." 



LETTER CXXXV. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" September 28, 1812. 

" Will this do better ? the metaphor is more com- 
plete. 

lava of the 
" Till slowly eDb'd the spent volcanic wave, 
And blackening ashes mark'd the Muse'6 grave. 

If not, we will say ' burning ' wave, and instead of 
'burning clime,' in the line some couplets back, 
have ' glowing.' 

" Is Whitbread determined to castrate all my 
cavalry lines ?f I don't see why t'other house should 
be spared; besides, it is the public, who ought to 
know better ; and you recollect Johnson's was 
against similar buffooneries of Rich's — but, certes, I 
am not Johnson. 

" Instead of ' effects,' say ' labors ' — ' degenerate ' 
will do, will it ? Mr. Betty is no longer a babe, 
therefore the line cannot be personal. 

" Will this do ? 

the burning 
" Till ebb'd the lava of that molten wave, J 

with ' glowing dome,' in case you prefer 'burning ' 
added to this ' wave ' metaphorical. The word 
'fiery pillar' was suggested by the 'pillar of fire 
in the book of Exodus, which went before the Israel 
ites through the Red Sea. I once thought of saying 
' like Israel's pillar,' and making it a simile, but I 
did not know, — the great temptation was leaving 
the epithet ' fiery ' for the supplementary wave. I 
want to work up that passage, as it is the only new- 
ground us prologuizers can go upon — 



u This is the place, where, ii 
Sbioed in description, he i 



i poet 

glit show it. 



If I part with the possibility of a future conflagra- 
tion, we lessen the compliment to Shakspeare. 
However, we will e'en mend it thus : 

" Yes, it shall be— the magic of that name, 
That scorns the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame, 
On the same spot, &c, &c. 



* This, as finally altered, is 

" Immortal ixtmes, emblazoned on our line." 

t The lines he here alludes to, finally were omitted by the Committee 
they wtre these : 

" Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores 
Tltat late she deign'd to crawl upon all-fours. 
When Richard roars in Bosworlh for a horse, 
If you command, the steed must come in course. 
If you decree, the Stage must condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend. 
Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce, 
And gratify you more by showing less. 
Oh, since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 
That public praise be ne'er again disgraced, 

brutes to man recall 
From babes and brutes redeem a nation's taste. 
Then pride shall doubly nerve the actors' powers. 
When Reason's voice is echoed back by ours." 
The last couplet but one was again altered in a subsequent copy thus :— 
" The past reproach let present scenes refute, 
Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute." 
t The form of this couplet, as printed, is as follows :— 
u Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Vsurp'd the Muse's realm, aud, mark'd her fall." 



There — the deuce is in it, if that is not an improve- 
ment to Whitbread's content. Recollect, it is the 
' name,' and not the ' magic,' that has a noble con- 
tempt for those same weapons. If it were the 
' magic,' my metaphor would be somewhat of the 
maddest — so the ' name ' is the antecedent. But, 
my dear lord, your patience is not quite so immortal 
— therefore, with many and sincere thanks, I am 
" Yours ever, most affectionately. 
" P. S. I foresee there will be charges of par- 
tiality in the papers ; but you know I sent in no 
Address ; and glad both you and I must be that 1 
did not, for, in that case, their plea had been plau- 
sible. I doubt the pit will be testy ; but conscious 
innocence (a novel and pleasing sensation) makes 
me bold." 



LETTER CXXXVI. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



" September 28. 

" I have altered the middle couplet, so as I hope 
partly to do away with W.'s objection. I do think, 
in the present state of the stage, it has been unpar- 
donable to pass over the horses and Miss Mudie, 
&c. As Betty is no longer a boy, how can this be 
applied to him ? He is now to be judged as a man. 
If he acts still like a boy, the public will be more 
ashamed of their blunder. I have, you see, now 
taken it for granted that these thiiigs'are reformed. 
I confess, I \yish that part of the Address to stand ; 
but if W. is inexorable, e'en let it go. I have also 
new cast the lines, and softened the hint of future 
combustion,* and sent them off this morning. Will 
you have the goodness to add, or insert, the approved 
alterations as they arrive ? They ' come like shad- 
ows, so depart ; ' occupy me, and, I fear, disturb 
you. 

" Do not let Mr. W. put his Address into Ellis- 
ton's hands till you have settled on these altera- 
tions. E. will think it too long : — much depends 
on the speaking. . I fear it will not bear much cur- 
tailing, without chasms in the sense. 

" It is certainly too long in the reading; but if 
Elliston exerts himself, such a favorite with the 
public will not be thought tedious. / should think 
it so, if he were not to speak it. 

"Yours ever, &c. 

" P. S. On looking again, I doubt my idea of 
having obviated W.'s objection. To the other 
house, allusion is a ' non sequitur ' — but I wish to 
plead for this part, because the thing really is not 
to be passed over. Many after-pieces at the Lyceum 
by the same company, have already attacked this 
' Augean Stable ' — and Johnson, in his prologue 
against 'Lunn,'(the harlequin-manager, Rich,) — 
' Hunt,' — ' Mahomet,' &c, is surely a fair prece 
dent." 



LETTER CXXXVII. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" Sept. 29, 1812. 

' Shakspeare certainly ceased to reign in one of 
his kingdoms, as George III. did in America, and 
George IV. may in Ireland. f Now, we have noth- 
ing to do out of our own realms, and when the 
monarchy was gone, his majesty had but a barren 
sceptre. I have cut away, you will see, and altered, 



• It bad been, originally, 

" Though other piles may sink in future fame, 
On the same spot," &c., &c. 
f Some objection, it appears from this, had been made to the passage "and 
Shakspeare ceased lo r*gn.'* 



LETTERS. 



787 



but make it what you please ; only I do implore, for 
my own gratification, one lash on those accursed 
quadrupeds — ' a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love 
me.' I have altered ' wave,' &c, and the ' fire,' and 
so forth, for the timid. 

" Let me hear from you when convenient, and 
believe me, &c. 

" P. S. — Do let that stand, and cut out elsewhere. 
I shall choke, if we must overlook their d — d me- 
nagerie." 



LETTER CXXXVIII. 

• 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" Sept. 30, 1812. 

" I send you the most I can make of it ; for I am 
not so well as I was, and find I ' pall in resolution.' 

"I wish much to see you, and will be at Tetbury 
by twelve on Saturday ; and from thence I go on to 
Lord Jersey's. It is impossible not to allude to the 
degraded state of the stage, but I have lightened it, 
and endeavored to obviate your other objections. 
There is a new couplet for Sheridan, allusive to his 
Monody. All the alterations I have marked thus | 
— as you will see by comparison with the other copy 
I have cudgelled my brains with the greatest wil 
lingness, and only wish I had more time to have 
done better. 

" You will find a sort of clap-trap laudatory 
couplet inserted for the quiet of the Committee, 
and I have added, towards the end, the couplet you 
were pleased to like. The whole Address is seventy- 
three lines, still perhaps too long, and, if shortened, 
you will save time, but, I fear, a little of what I 
meant for sense also. 

" With myriads of thanks, I am ever, &c. 

" My sixteenth edition of respects to Lady H. 
How she must laugh at all this ! 

" I wish Murray, my publisher, to print off some 
copies as soon as your lordship returns to town — it 
will ensure correctness in the papers afterward." 



had they, in that case, been preferred, it would have 
been asserted that / was known, and owed the pre- 
ference to private friendship. This is what we shall 
probably have to encounter, but, if once spoken and 
approved, we shan't be much embarrassed by their 
brilliant conjectures, and, as to criticism, an old au- 
thor, like an old bull, grows cooler (or ought) at 
every baiting. 

" The only thing would be to avoid a party on the 
night of delivery— afterward, the more the better, 
and the whole transaction inevitably tends to a 
good deal of discussion. Murray tells me there are 
myriads of ironical Addresses ready— some, in imi- 
tation of what is call'd my style. If they are as good 
as the Probationary Odes, or Hawkins' Pipe of To- 
bacco, it will not be bad fun for the imitated. 

"Ever, &c." 



LETTER CXXXIX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" Far be from him that hour which asks in vain 
Tears such as flow for Garriek in his strain ; 

or, 
Far be that hour that vainly asks in turn 

croutn'd his 
Such verse for him as wept o'er Garrick's urn " 

" Srpt. 30, 1812. 

" Will you choose between these added to the 
lines on Sheridan ? * I think they will wind up the 
panegyric, and agree with the train of thought pre- 
ceding them. 

" Now one word as to the Committee — how could 
they resolve on a rough copy of an Address never 
sent in, unless you had been good enough to retain 
in memory, or on paper, the thing they have been 
good enough to adopt ? By-the-by, the circum- 
stances of the case should make the committee less 
' avidus gloria?,' for all praise of them would look 
plaguy suspicious. If necessary to be stated at all, 
the simple facts bear them out. They surely had a 
right to act as they pleased. My sole object is one 
which, I trust, my whole conduct has shown ; viz. 
that I did nothing insidious — sent in no Address 
whatever — but, when applied to, did my best for them 
and myself; but above all, that there was no undue 
partiality, which will be what the rejected will endea- 
vor to make out. Fortunately — most fortunately — 
I sent in no lines on the occasion. For I am sure that 



* These added lines, as may be seen by reference to the printed Addri 
arere not retained. 



LETTER CXL. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"October 2, 1812. 

" A copy of this still altered is sent by the post, 
but this will arrive first. It must be ' humbler ' — 
' yet aspiring ' does away the modesty, and, after 
all, truth is truth. Besides, there is a puff direct 
altered, to please your plaguy renters. 

" 1 shall be at Tetbury by twelve or one — but send 
this for you to ponder over. There are several little 
things marked thus\altered for your perusal. I 
have dismounted the cavalry, and, I hope, arranged 
to your general satisfaction. " Ever, &c. 

"At Tetbury by noon. I hope, "after it is sent, 
there will be no more elisions. It is not now so 
long — seventy-three lines — two less than allotted. 
I will alter all committee objections, but I hope you 
won't permit Elliston to have any voice whatever, — 
except in speaking it." 



LETTER CXLI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" High street, Cheltenham, Sept. 5, 1812. 

" Pray have the goodness to send those despatch- 

, and a No. of the Edinburgh Review with the 
rest. I hope you have written to Mr. Thompson, 
thanked him in my name for his present, and told 
him that I shall be truly happy to comply with his 
request. How do you go on ? and when is the 
graven image, ' with bays and wicked rhyme vpon't,' 
to grace, or disgrace, some of our tardy editions ? 

" Send me ' Rokeby.' Who the devil is he ? — no 
matter, he has good connexions, and will be well 
introduced. I thank you for your inquiries : I am 
so so, but my thermometer is sadly below the poeti- 
cal point. What will you give me or mine for a po- 
em of six cantos, (when complete — no rhyme, no re- 
compense,) as like the last two as I can make them ? 
I have some ideas that one day may be embodied, 
and till winter I shall have much leisure. 

" P. S. My last question is in the true style ot 
Grub street ; but, like Jeremy Diddler, I only ' ask 
for information.' Send me Adair on Diet and Regi- 
men, just republished by Ridgway." 



LETTER CXLII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Cheltenham, Sept. 14, 1812. 

"The parcels contained some letters and versas. 
all (but one) anonymous and complimentary, and 



788 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



very anxious for my conversion from certain infidel- 
ities into which my good-natured correspondents 
conceive me to have fallen. The books were pres- 
ents of a convertible kind. Also, ' Christian know- 
ledge ' and the ' Bioscope,' a religious Dial of Life 
explained ; and to the author of the former, (Cadell 
publisher,) I beg you will forward my best thanks 
for his letter, his present, and, above all, his good 
intentions. The ' Bioscope ' contained a MS. copy 
of very excellent verses, from whom I know not, 
but evidently the composition of some one in the 
habit of writing, and of writing well. I do not know 
if he be the author of the ' Bioscope ' which accom- 
panied them ; but whoever he is, if you can discover 
him, thank him for me most heartily. The other 
letters were from ladies, who are welcome to convert 
me when they please ; and if I can discover them, 
and they be young, as they say they are, I could 
convince them perbaps of my devotion. I had also 
a letter from Mr. Walpole on matters of this world, 
which I have answered. 

" So you are Lucien's publisher ? I am promised 
an interview with him, and think I shall ask you for 
a letter of introduction, as ' the gods have made 
him poetical.' From whom could it come with a 
better grace than from his publisher and mine ? Is 
it not somewhat treasonable in you to have to do 
with a relative of the ' direful foe,' as the Morning- 
Post calls his brother ? 

" But my book on ' Diet and Regimen,' where is 
it ? I thirst for Scott's ' Rokeby ; ' let me have 
your first-begotten copy. The Antijacobin Review 
is all very well, and not a bit worse than the Quar- 
terly, and at least less harmless. By the by, have 
you secured my ^jooks ? I want all the Reviews, at 
least the critiques, quarterly, monthly, &c, Portu- 
guese and English, extracted, and bound up in one 
volume for my old arte ; and pray, sort my Romaic 
books, and get the volumes lent to Mr. Hobhouse — 
he has had them now a long time. If any thing oc- 
curs, you will favor me with a line, and in winter 
we shall be nearer neighbors. 

" P. S. I was applied to, to write the Address for 
Drury Lane; but the moment I heard of the con- 
test, I gave up the idea of contending against all 
Grub street, and threw a few thoughts on the sub- 
ject into the fire. I did this out of respect to you, 
being sure you would have turned off any of your 
authors who had entered the lists with such scurvy 
competitors. To triumph would have been no glory ; 
and to have been defeated — 'sdeath ! — I would have 
choked myself, like Otway, with a quartern loaf; 
so, remember I had, and have, nothing to do with 
it, upon my honor ! " 



LETTER CXLII1. 

TO Mil. WILLIAM BANKES. 

" Cheltenham, Sept. 28, 1812. 

"My Deak Bankes, 

" When you point out to one how people can be 
intimate at the distance of some seventy leagues, I 
will plead guilty to your charge, and accept your fare- 
well, but not wittingly, till you give me some better 
reason than my silence, which merely proceeded 
from a notion founded on your own declaration of 
old, that you hated writing and receiving letters. 
Besides, how was I to find out a man of many resi- 
dences ? If I had addressed you now, it had been 
to your borough, where I must have conjectured you 
were among your constituents. So now, in despite 
of Mr. N. and Lady W., you shall be as 'much 
better ' as the Hexam post-office will allow me to 
make you. I do assure you I am much indebted to 
you for thinking of me at all, and can't spare you 



even from among the superabundance of friends 
with whom you suppose me surrounded. 

"You have heard that Newstead * is sold — the 
sum 140,000/. ; sixty to remain in mortgage on the 
estate for three years, paying interest, of course. 
Rochdale is also likely to do well — so my worldly 
matters are mending. I have been here some time, 
drinking the waters simply because there are waters 
to drink, — and they are very medicinal, and suffi- 
ciently disgusting. In a few days I set out for Lord 
Jersey's, but return here, where I am quite alone, 
go out very little, and enjoy in its fullest extent the 
' dolce far niente.' What you are about, I cannot 
guess, even from your date; not^dancing to the 
sound of the gitourney in the Halls of the Lowthers ? 
one of whom is here, ill, poor thing ! with a phthisic. 
I heard that you passed through here (at the sordid 
inn where I first alighted) the very day before I ar- 
rived in these parts. We had a very pleasant set 
here ; at first the Jerseys, Melbournes, Gowpers, 
and Hollands — but all gone ; and the only persons 
I know are the Rawdons and Oxfords, with some 
later acquaintances of less brilliant descent. 

"But I do not trouble them much; and as for 
your rooms and' your assemblies, 'they are not 
dreamed of in our philosophy ! ! ' Did you read of 
a sad accident in the Wye t' other day ? — a dozen 
drowned, and Mr. Rossoe, a corpulent gentleman, 
preserved by a boat-hook or an eel-spear, begged, 
when he heard his wife was saved — no — lost — to be 
thrown in again ! ! — as if he could not have thrown 
himself in, had he wished it ; but this passes for a 
trait of sensibility. What strange beings men are, 
in and out of Wye ! 

" I have to ask you a thousand pardons for not 
fulfilling some orders before I left town ; but if you 
knew ail the cursed entanglements I had to wade 
through, it would be unnecessary to beg your forgive- 
ness. When will Parliament (the new one) meet ? 
— in sixty days, on account of Ireland, I presume ; 
the Irish election will demand a longer period for 
completion than the constitutional allotment. Yours, 
of course, is safe, and all your side of the question. 
Salamanca is the ministerial watchword, and all will 
go well with you. I hope you will speak more fre- 
quently — I am sure at least you ought, and it will 
be expected. I see Portman means to stand again. 
Good night. 

" Ever yours most affectionately, 

" Ncoa<p6ji<."t 



LETTER CXLIV. 



TO MR. MUKKAY. 



" Cheltenham, Sept. 27, 1312. 

" I sent in no address whatever to the committee ; 
but out of nearly one hundred, (this is confidential, J 
none have been deemed worth acceptance ; and in 
consequence of their subsequent application to me, I 
have written a prologue, which has been received, 
and will be spoken. The MS. is now in the hands 
of Lord Holland. 

" I write this merely to say that (however it is re- 
ceived by the audience) you will publish it in the 
next edition of Childe Harold ; and I only beg you 
at present to keep my name secret till you hear 
farther from me, and as soon as possible I wish you 
to have a correct copy to do with as you think 
proper. 

" P. S. I should wish a few copies printed off 
before, that the newspaper copies may be correct 
after the delivery." 



* The sale was afterwards cancelled. 

t A mode of signature he frequently adopted. 



LETTERS. 



789 



LETTER CXLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Cheltenham, Oct. 12, 1812. 

" I have a very strong objection to the engravin 
of the portrait, and request that it may, on no ac- 
count, be prefixed ; but let all the proofs be burned, 
and the plate broken. I will be at the expense 
which has been incurred ; it is but fair that / should, 
since I cannot permit the publication. I beg, as a, 
particular favor, that you will lose no time in having 
this done, for which I have reasons that I will state 
when I see you. Forgive all the trouble I have 
occasioned you. 

" I have received no account of the reception of 
the Address, but see it is vituperated in the papers, 
which does not much embarrass an old author. I 
leave it to your own judgment to add it, or not, to 
your next edition when required. Pray comply 
strictly with my wishes as to the engraving, and be- 
lieve me, &c. 

" P. S. Favor me with an answer, as I shall not be 
easy till I hear that the proofs, &c, are destroyed. 
I hear that the Satirist has reviewed Childe Harold, 
in what manner I need not ask ; but I wish to know 
if the old personalities are revived ? I have a better 
reason for asking this than any that merely con- 
cerns myself; but in publications of that kind, 
others, particularly female names are sometimes 
introduced." 



LETTER CXLYI. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



" Cheltenham, Oct. 11, 1812. 

" My Pear Lord, 

" I perceive that the papers, yea, even Perry's, 
are somewhat ruffled at the injudicious preference 
of the Committee. My friend Perry has, indeed, 
' et tu Bute'-d me rather scurvily, for which 1 will 
send him, for the M. C* the next epigram I scrib- 
ble, as a token of my full forgiveness. 

" Do the Committe mean to enter into no expla- 
nation of their proceedings ? You must see there 
is a leaning towards a charge of partiality. You 
will, at least, acquit me of any great anxiety to 
push myself before so many elder and better anon- 
ymous, to whom the twenty guineas (which I take 
to be about two thousand pounds Bank currency) 
and the honor would have been equally welcome. 
' Honor,' I see, ' hath no skill in paragraph- 
writing.' 

" I wish to know how it went off at the second 
reading, and whether any one has had the grace to 
give it a glance of approbation. I have seen no pa- 
per but Perry's, and two Sunday ones. Perry is 
severe, and the others silent. If, however, you and 
your Committee are not now dissatisfied with your 
own judgments, I shall not much embarrass myself 
about the brilliant remarks of the journals. My 
own opinion upon it is what it always was, per- 
haps pretty near that of the public. 

" Believe me, my dear lord, &c. &c. 

" P. S. My best respects to Lady H. whose smiles 
will be very consolatory, even at this distance." 



LETTER CXLVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Cheltclham, Oct. 18, 1812. 

" Will you have the goodness to get this Parody 
of a peculiar kindf (for all the first lines are 



* The Morninr Chronicle, of wfcich Mr. Perry was the proprietor. 

\ A:non£ the Addresses sent in to the Drury-Lane Committee was one by 



Busby's entire) inserted in several of the papers, 
(correctly, and copied correctly; my hand is diffi- 
cult,) — particularly the Morning Chronicle? Tell 
Mr. Perry 1 forgive him all he has said, and may 
say against my address, but he will allow me to deal 
with the doctor — (audi alteram partem) and not 
betray me. I cannot think what has befallen Mr. 
Perry, for of yore we were very good friends ; — but 
no matter, only, get this inserted. 

"I have a poem on Waltzing for you, of which 1 
make you a present ; but it must be anonymous. It 
is in the old style of English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers. 

" P. S. With the next edition of Childe Harold 
you may print the first fifty or a hundred opening 
iines of the ' Curse of Minerva,' down to the couplet 
beginning 

" Mortal ('twas thus she spake) &c. 

Of course, the moment the Satire begins there you 
will stop, and the opening is the best part." 



LETTER CXLVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



1 Oct. 19, 1812. 



" Many thanks, but I must pay the damage, and 
will thank you to tell me the amount for the en- 
graving. I think the ' Rejected Addresses' by far 
the best thing of the kind since the Rolliad, and 
wish you had published them. Tell the author ' I 
forgive him, were he twenty times over a satirist;' 
and think his imitations not at all inferior to the 
famous ones of Hawkins Browne. He must be a 
man of very lively wit, and less scurrilous than 
wits often are : altogether, I very much admire the 
performance, and wish it all success. The Satirist 
has taken a new tone, as you will see : we have now, 
I think, finished with Childe Harold's critics. I 
have in hand a Satire on Waltzing,* which you must 
publish anonymously ; it is not long, not quite two 
hundred lines, but will make a very small boarded 
pamphlet. In a few days you shall have it. 

" P. S. The editor of the Satirist ought to be 
thanked for his revocation ; it is done handsomely, 
after five years' warfare." 



LETTER CXLIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



'Thanks, as usual. You go on boldly; but 
have a care of glutting the public, who have by this 
time had enough of Childe Harold. ' Waltzing' 
shall be prepared. It is rather above two hundred 
lines, with an introductory Letter to the Publisher. 
I think of publishing, with Childe Harold, the 
opening lines of the ' Curse of Minerva, 'f as far as 
the first speech of Pallas, — because some of the 
readers like that part better than any I have ever 
written, and as it contains nothing to affect the sub- 



Dr. Busby, entitled a Monologue, of which the Parody was enclosed in th» 
letter. The first four lines of the Doctor's Address are as follows : 
,( When energizing objects men pursue, 
What are the prudigics they cannot do? 
A ma^ edifice you here survey, 
Shot from the ruins of the other day 1 " 
Which verses are thus ridiculed in the Parody j — 

*' ' When energiiing objects men pursue,' 
The Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who I 
' A modest monologue you here survey,' 
Hiss'd from the theatre the ' other day.' " 
• See Poems, p. 480. 
t See Poems, p. 483. 



790 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



ject of the subsequent portion, it will find a place 
as a Descriptive Fragment. 

" The plate is broken ! — between ourselves, it was 
unlike the picture, and besides, upon the whole, the 
frontispiece of an author's visage is but a paltry 
exhibition. At all events, this would have been no 
recommendation to the book. I am sure Sanders 
would not have survived the engraving. By-the- 
by, the picture may remain with you or him (which 
you please) till my return. The one of two re- 
maining copies is at your service, till I can give you 
a better ; the other must be burned peremptorily. 
Again, do not forget that I have an account with 
you, and that this is included. I give you too much 
trouble to allow you to incur expense also. 

" You best know how far this ' Address riot' will 
affect the future sale of Childe Harold. I like the 
volume of ' Rejected Addresses' better and better. 
The other parody which Perry has received is mine 
also, (I believe.) It is Dr. Busby's speech versified. 
You are removing to Albemarle street, I find, and I 
rejoice that we shall be nearer neighbors. I am 
going to Lord Oxford's, but letters here will be for- 
warded. When at leisure, all communications from 
you will be willingly received by the humblest of 
your scribes. Did Mr. Ward write the review of 
Home Tooke's Life in the Quarterly ? it is ex- 
cellent." 



LETTER CL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Cheltenham, Not. 22, 1812. 

"On my return here from Lord Oxford's I found 
your obliging note, and will thank you to retain the 
letters, and other subsequent ones to the same ad- 
dress, till I arrive in town to claim them, which will 
probably be in a few days. I have in charge a cu- 
rious and very long MS. poem written by Lord 
Brooke, (the friend of Sir Philip Sidney,) which I 
wish to submit to the inspection of Mr. Gifford, 
with the following queries : — first, whether it has 
ever been published, and, secondly (if not,) whether 
it is worth publication. It is from Lord Oxford's 
library, and must have escaped or been overlooked 
among the MSS. of the Harleian Miscellany. The 
writing is Lord Brooke's, except a different hand to- 
wards the close. It is very long, and in the six-line 
stanza. It is not for me to hazard an opinion upon 
its merits ; but I would take the liberty, if not too 
troublesome, to submit it to Mr. Gifford's judgment, 
which, from his excellent edition of Massinger, I 
should conceive to be as decisive on the writings of 
that age as on those of our own. 

"Now for a less agreeable and important topic. 
How came Mr. Mac-Somebody , without consulting 
you or me, to prefix the Address to his volume* of 
' Dejected Addresses ?' Is not this somewhat lar- 
cenous ? 1 think the ceremony of leave might have 
been asked, though I have no objection to the thing 
itself; and leave the 'hundred and leeven' to tire 
themselves with 'base comparisons.' I should 
think the ingenuous public tolerably sick of the 
subject, and, except the Parodies, I have not inter- 
fered, nor shall ; indeed I did not know that Dr. 
Busby had published his Apologetical Letter and 
Postscript, or I should have recalled them. But I 
confess I looked upon his conduct in a different light 
before its appearance. I see some mountebank has 
taken Alderman Birch's name to •vituperate Dr. 
Busby ; he had much better have pilfered his pastry, 
which I should imagine the more valuable ingredi- 
ent — at least for a puff. Pray secure me a copy of 
Woodfall's new Junius, and believe me, &c." 



* "The genuine Rejected Addresses, presented to the Committee of Man- 
agement for Drury-Lane Theatre : preceded by that written by Lord Byron, 
and adopted by the Committee : "—published by B. McMillan. 



LETTER CLI. 



TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 

" December 26. 

" The multitude of your recommendations has al- 
ready superseded my humble endeavors to be of use 
to you, and, indeed, most of my principal friends 
are returned. Leake from Joanina, Canning and 
Adair from the city of the faithful, and at Smyrna 
no letter is necessary, as the consuls are always 
willing to do every thing for personages of respecta- 
bility. I have sent you three, one to Gibralter, 
which, though of no great necessity, will, perhaps, 
put you on a more intimate footing with a very 
pleasant family there. You will very soon find out 
that a man of any consequence has very little oc- 
casion for any letters but to ministers and bankers, 
and of them you have already plenty, I will be 
sworn. 

" It is by no means improbable, that I shall go in 
the spring, and if yo^will fix any place of rendez- 
vous about August, I will write or join you. When 
in Albania, I wish you would inquire after Dervise 
Tahiri and Vascilke, (or Basil,) and make my re- 
spects to the viziers, both there and in the Morea. 
If you mention my name to Suleyman of Thebes, I 
think it will not hurt you ; if I had my dragoman, 
or wrote Turkish, I could have given you letters of 
real service ; but to the English they are hardly re- 
quisite, and the Greeks themselves can be of little 
advantage. Liston you know already, and I do not, 
as he was not then minister. Mind you visit Ephe- 
sus and the Troad, and let me hear from you when 
you please. I believe G. Forresti is now at Yanina, 
but if not, whoever is there will be too happy to as- 
sist you. Be particular about Jirmaum ; never al- 
low yourself to be bullied, for you are better 
protected in Turkey than any where ; trust not the 
Greeks ; and take some knicknakeries for presents 
— watches, pistols, &c, &c, to the Beys and Pa- 
chas. If you find one Demetrius, at Athens or else- 
where, I can recommend him as a good dragoman. I 
hope to join you, however; but you will find swarms 
of English now in the Levant. 

"Believe me, &c." 



LETTER CLII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" February 20, 1813. 

"In 'Horace in London,' I perceive some stan- 
zas on Lord Elgin, in which (waiving the kind 
compliment to myself), I heartily concur. I wish 
I had the pleasure of Mr. Smith's acquaintance, as 
I could communicate the curious anecdote you 
read in Mr. T.'s letter. If he would like it, he can 
have the substance for his second edition ; if not, I 
shall add it to our next, though I think we already 
have enough of Lord Elgin. 

"WhatI have read of this work seems admi- 
rably done. My praise, however, is not much 
worth the author's having ; but you may thank him 
in my name for his. The idea is new — we have ex- 
cellent imitations of the Satires, &c, by Pope ; but I 
remember but one imitative Ode in his works, and 
none any where else. I can hardly suppose that 
theyhaxe lost any fame by the fate of the farce ; 
but even should this be the case, the present 
publication will again place them on their pinnacle 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CLIII. 

\ 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" March 25, 1813. 

" I enclose you a draft for the usurious interest 
due to Lord* *'sprotegi ;— I also could wish you 



LETTERS. 



791 



would state thus much for me to his lordship. 
Though the transaction speaks plainly in itself for 
the borrower's folly and the lender's usury, it never 
was my intention to quash the demand, as I legally 
might, nor to withhold payment of principal, or, 
perhaps, even unlawful interest. You know what 
my situation has been, and what it is. I have parted 
with an estate, (which has been in my family for 
nearly three hundred years, and was never disgraced 
by being in possession of a lawyer, a churchman, or 
a woman, during that period,) to liquidate this and 
similar demands ; and the payment of the purchase 
is still withheld, and may be, perhaps, for years. If, 
therefore, I am under the necessity of making those 
persons wait for their money, (which, considering 
the terms, they can afford to suffer,) it is my mis- 
fortune. 

"When I arrived at majority in 1809, I offered 
my own security on legal interest, and it was refused. 
Note, I will not accede to this. This man I may 
have seen, but I have no recollection of the names 
of any parties but the agents and the securities. 
The moment I can, it is assuredly my intention to 
pay my debts. This person's case may be a hard 
one ; but, under all circumstances, what is mine ? 
I could not foresee that the purchaser of my estate 
was to demur in paying for it. 

" I am glad it happens to be in my power so far 
to accommodate my Israelite, and only wish I could 
do as much for the rest of the Twelve Tribes. 
" Ever yours, dear R. 

"Bn." 



LETTER CLIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" "Westall has, I believe, agreed to illustrate 
your book,* and I fancy one of the engravings will 
be from the pretty little girl you saw the other day,t 
though without her name, and merely as a model 
for some sketch connected with the subject. I 
would also have the portrait (which you saw to-day) 
of the friend who is mentioned in the text at the 
close of Canto ,first, and in the notes,— which are 
subjects sufficient to authorize that addition." 



bells. Mr. Hobhouse's quarto will be out immedi- 
ately ; pray send to the author for an early copy, 
which I wish to take abroad with me. 

' P. S. I see the Examiner threatens some ob- 
servations upon you next week. What can you 
have done to share the wrath which has heretofore 
been principally expended upon the Prince ? I 
presume all your Scribleri will be drawn up in bat- 
tle array in defence of the modern Tonson— Mr. 
Bucke, for instance. 

" Send in my account to Bennet street, as I wish 
to settle it before sailing." 



LETTER CLVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



Early in the spring he brought out, anonymously, 
his poem on Waltzing, which, though full of very 
lively satire, fell so far short of what was now ex- 
pected from him by the public, that the disavowal 
of it, which, as we see by the following letter, he 
thought right to put forth, found ready credence. 



, LETTER CLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 21, 1813. 

" I shall be in town by Sunday next, and will call 
and have some conversation on the subject of West- 
all's designs. I am to sit to him for a picture at 
the request of a friend of mine, and as Sanders's is 
not a good one, you will probably prefer the other. 
I wish you to have Sanders's taken down and sent 
to my lodgings immediately — before my arrival. I 
hear that a certain malicious publication on Waltz- 
ing is attributed to me. This report, I suppose, 
you will take care to contradict, as the author, I am 
sure, will not like that I should wear his cap and 



" Maidenhead, June 13, 1813. 

<i * * * j have read the ' Strictures,'* which 
are just enough, and not grossly abusive, in very 
fair couplets. There is a note against Massingcr 
near the end, and one cannot quarrel with one's 
company, at any rate. The author detects some 
incongruous figures in a passage of English Bards, 
page 23, but winch edition I do not know. In thfl 
sole copy in your possession — I mean the fifth 
edition — you may make these alterations, that I 
may profit (though a little too late) by his remarks : 
For ' hellish instinct,' substitute ' brutal instinct ; ' 
' harpies ' alter to 'felons ; ' and for ' blood-hounds ' 
write ' hell-hounds.'t These be ' very bitter words, 
by my troth,' and the alterations not much sweeter; 
but as I shall not publish the thing, they can do no 
harm, but are a satisfaction to me in the way of 
amendment. The passage is only twelve lines. 

" You do not answer me about H.'s book ; I want 
to write to him, and not to say any thing unpleas- 
ing. If you direct to post-office, Portsmouth, till 
called for, I will send and receive your letter. You 
never told me of the forthcoming critique on Co- 
lumbus, which is not too fair; and I do not think 
justice quite done to the ' Pleasures,'! which surely 
entitle the author to a higher rank than that assigned 
him in the Quarterly. But I must not cavil at the 
decisions of the invisible infallibles ; and the article 
is very well written. The general horror of 'frag- 
ments ' makes me tremulous for the ' Giaour ; ' but 
you would publish it — I presume, by this time, to 
your repentance. But as I consented, whatever be 
its fate, I won't now quarrel with you, even though 
I detect it in my pastry ; but I shall not open a pie 
without apprehension for some weeks. 

"The books which may be marked G. 0., I will 
carry out. Do you know Clarke's Naufragia ? I 
am told that he asserts the first volume of Robinson 
Crusoe was written by the first Lord Oxford, when 
in the Tower, and given by him to Defoe ; if true, 
it is a curious anecdote. Have you got back Lord 
Brooke's MS. ? and what does Heber say of it ? 
Write to me at Portsmouth. 

" Ever yours, &c. 

"N.* 



* A new edition of Cliilde Harold. 

| Lady Charlotte Harley, to whom, under the name of lanthe, the intro- 
ductory lines to Cuilde Harold were afterward addressed. 



LETTER CLVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"June 18, 1813. 

" Dear Sir, « 

" Will you forward the enclosed answer to the 
kindest letter I ever received in my life, my sense 
of which I can neither express to Mr. Gifford him- 
self nor to any one else. 

"Ever yours, 

"N." 



On Hie Salire, by Mr. Crowe. 

I Poems, by Mr. Rog 



t See English Bards. 



792 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CLVIII. 



TO W. GII'FORD, ESQ. 

"June 18, 1813. 

" My Dear Sir, 

" I feel greatly at a loss how to write to you at all 
— still more to thank you as I ought. If you knew 
the veneration with which I have ever regarded you, 
long before I had the most distant prospect of be- 
coming your acquaintance, literary or personal, my 
embarrassment would not surprise you. 

" Any suggestion of yours, even were it conveyed 
in the less tender shape of the text of the Baviad, 
or a Monk Mason note in Massinger, would have 
been obeyed; I should have endeavored to improve 
myself by your censure: judge then if I should be 
less willing to profit by your kindness. It is not 
for me to bandy compliments with my elders and 
my betters : I receive your approbation with grati- 
tude, and will not return my brass for your gold, by 
expressing more fully those sentiments of admira- 
tion, which, however sincere, would, I know, be 
unwelcome. 

"To your advice on religious topics, I shall equal- 
ly attend. Perhaps the best way will be by avoiding 
them altogether. The already published objection- 
able passages have been much commented upon, 
but certainly have been rather strongly interpreted. 
I am no bigot to infidelity, and did not expect that, 
because I doubted the immortality of man, I should 
be charged with denying the existence of a God. 
It was the comparative insignificance of ourselves 
and our world, when placed in comparison with the 
mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led 
me to imagine that our pretensions to eternity 
might be overrated. 

" This, and being early disgusted with a Calvan- 
istic Scotch school, when I was cudgelled to church, 
for the first ten years of my life, afflicted me with 
this malady; for, after all, it is, I believe, a disease 
of the mind as much as other kinds of hypochon- 
dria." 



LETTER CLX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



LETTER CLIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



'June 22, 1813. 



"Yesterday I dined in company with ' * *, the 
Epicene,' whose politics are sadly changed. She is 
for the Lord of Israel and the Lord of Liverpool — a 
vile antithesis of a Methodist and a Tory— talks of 
nothing but devotion and the ministry, and, I pre- 
sume, expects that God and the government will 
help her to a pension. 

******** 

" Murray, the ava( of publishers, the Anae of 
stationers, has a design upon you in the paper line. 
He wants you to become the staple and stipendiary 
editor of a periodical work. What say you ? Will 
you be bound, like 'Kit Smart, to write for ninety- 
nine years in the Universal Visiter ?' Seriously, he 
talks of hundreds a year, and— though I hate prat- 
ing of the beggeily elements— his proposal may be 
to your honor and profit, and, I am very sure, will 
be to our pleasure. 

" I don't know what to say about ' friendship.' I 
never was in friendship but once, in my nineteenth 
year, and then it gave me as much trouble as love. 
I am afraid, as Whitbread's sire said to the king, 
when he wanted to knight him, that I am ' too old. : ' 
but, nevertheless, no one wishes you more friends, 
fame, and felicity, than "Yours, &c." 



" 4, Benedictine street, St. James's July 8, 1813. 

" I presume by your silence that I have blundered 
into something noxious in my reply to your letter ; 
for the which I beg leave to send, beforehand, a 
sweeping apology, which you may apply to any, or 
all, parts of that unfortunate epistle. If I err in 
my conjecture, I expect the like from you, in put- 
ting our correspondence so long in quarantine. 
God, he knows what I have said ; but he also knows, 
(if he is not as indifferent to mortals as the non- 
chalant deities of Lucretius,) that you are the last 
person I want to offend. So, if I have, — why the 
devil don't you say it at once, and expectorate your 
spleen ? 

"Rogers is out of town with Madame de Statu, 
who hath published an Essay against Suicide, 
which, I presume, will make somebody shoot him- 
self; as a sermon by Blinkensop, in jiroof of Chris- 
tianity, sent a hitherto most orthodox acquaintance 
of mine out of a chapel of ease a perfect atheist. 
Have you found or founded a residence yet ? and 
have you begun or finished a Poem ? If you 
won't tell me what i" have done, pray say what 
you have done, or left undone, yourself. I am 
still in equipment for voyaging, and anxious to 
hear from, or of, you before I go, which anxiety 
you should remove more readily, as you think I 
shan't cogitate about you afterward. I shall give 
the lie to that calumny by fifty foreign letters, par- 
ticularly from any place where the plague is rife, — 
without a drop of vinegar or a whiff of sulphur to 
save you from infection. Pray write : I am sorry to 
say that * * * 

"The Oxfords have sailed almost a fortnight, 
and my sister is in town, which is a great comfort — 
for, never having been much together, we are nat- 
urally more attached to each other. I presume the 
illuminations have conflagrated to Derby (or wher- 
ever you are) by this time. We are just recovering 
from tumult, and train oil, and transparent frip- 
peries, and all the noise and nonsense of victory. 
Drury Lane had a large M. IF. which some thought 
was Marshal Wellington ; others that it might be 
translated into Manager Whitbread ; while the 
ladies of the vicinity and the saloon conceived the 
last letter to be complimentary to themselves. I 
leave this to the commentators to illuminate. If 
you don't answer this, I shan't say what you de- 
serve, but I think / deserve a reply. Do you con- 
ceive there is no Post-Bag but the Twopenny ? 
Sunburn me, if you are not too bad." 



LETTER CLXI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



' July 13, 1813. 



" Your letter set me at ease ; for I really thought 
(as I hear of your susceptibility) that I had said — I 
know not what — but something I should have been 
very sorry for, had it, or I, offended you ; though I 
don't see how a man with a beautiful wife, his oion 
children, quiet, fame, competency, and friends, (I 
will vouch for a thousand, which is more than I will 
for a unit in my own behalf,) can be offended with 
any thing. 

" Do you know, Moore, I am amazingly inclined 
— remember I say but inclined — to be seriously 
enamored with Lady A. F. — but this * * has ruined 
all my prospects. However, you know her ; is she 
clever, or sensible, or good-tempered ? either would 
do — I scratch out the will. I don't ask as to her 
beauty, that I see ; but my circumstances are mend- 
ing, and were not my other prospects blackening, I 



LETTERS. 



793 



would take a wife, and that should be the woman, 
had I a chance. I do not yet know her much, but 
better than I did. 

" I want to get away, but find difficulty in com- 
passing a passage in a ship of war. They Lad bet- 
ter let me go ; if I cannot, patriotism is the word — 
'nay, an' they'll mouth, I'll rant as well as they.' 
Now, what are you doing ? writing, we all hope, for 
our own sakes. Remember you must edit my 
posthumous works, with a Life of the Author, for 
which I will send you Confessions, dated ' Lazaret- 
to, Smyrna, Malta, or Palermo — one can die any 
where. 

"There is to be a thing on Tuesday ycleped a 
national fete. The Regent and * * * are to be 
there, and every body else, who has shillings enough 
for what was once a guinea. Vauxhall is the scene 
— there are six tickets issued for the modest women, 
and it is supposed there will be three to spare. The 
passports for the lax are beyond my arithmetic. 

" P. S. The Sta^l last night attacked me most 
furiously — said that I had ' no right to make love — 
that I had used * * barbarously — that I had no 
feeling, and was totally tMsensible to la belle pas- 
sion, and had been all my life.' I am very glad to 
hear it, but did not know it before. Let me hear 
from you anon." 



LETTER CLXII. 

TO ME. MOORE. 

" July 25, 1813. 

" I am not well versed enough in the ways of sin- 
gle women to make much matrimonial progress. * * 

" I have been dining like the dragon of Wantley 
for this last week. My head aches with the vintage 
of various cellars, and my brains are muddled as 
their dregs. I met your friends, the D * *s : she 
sung one of your best songs so well, that, but for 
the appearance of affectation, I could have cried ; 
he reminds me of Hunt, but handsomer, and more 
musical in soul, perhaps. I wish to God he may 
conquer his horrible anomalous complaint. The 
upper part of her face is beautiful, and she seems 
much attached to her husband. He is right, nev- 
ertheless, in leaving this nauseous town. The first 
winter would infallibly destroy her complexion, and 
the second, very probably every thing else. 

" I must tell you a story. M * * (of indifferent 
memory) was dining out the other day, and com- 
plaining of the Prince's coldness to his old wassail- 
ers. D' * * (a learned Jew) bored him with ques- 
tions — why thus ? and why that ? ' Why did the 
Prince act thus ? ' ' Why, sir, on account of Lord 
* *, who ought to be ashamed of himself! ' 'And 
why ought Lord * * to be ashamed of himself?' 
' Because the Prince, sir, * **#****.' 
' And why, sir, did the Prince cut you ? ' ' Because, 
G — d d — name, sir, I stuck to my principles.' 'And 
why did you stick to your principles ? ' 

" Is not this last question the best that ever was 
put, when you consider to whom ? It nearly killed 
M * *. Perhaps you may think it stupid, but, as 
Goldsmith said about the peas, ft was a very good 
joke when I heard it — as I did from an ear- witness 
— and is only spoiled in my narration. 

" The season has closed with a Dandy Ball ; — but 
I have dinners with the Harrowbys, Rogers, and 
Frere and Mackintosh, where I shall drink your 
health in a silent bumper, and regret your absence 
till ' too much canaries ' wash away my memory, 
or render it superfluous by a vision of you at the 
opposite side of the table. Canning has disbanded 
his party by a speech from his * * * * — 
the true throne of a Tory. Conceive his turning 
them off in a formal harangue, and bidding them 
think for themselves. ' I have led my ragamuffins 
where they are well peppered. There are but three of 
100 



the one hundred and fifty left alive, and they are 
for the Town's-end (query, might not Falstaff mean 
the Bow-street officer ? I dare say Malone's post- 
humous edition will have it so) for life. 

" Since I wrote last, I have been into the country. 
I journeyed by night — no incident or accident, but 
an alarm on the part of my valet on the outside, 
who, in crossing Epping Forest, actually, I believe, 
flung down his purse before a mile-stone, with a 
glowworm in the second figure of number XIX. — 
mistaking it for a footpad and dark lantern. I can 
only attribute his fears to a pair of new pistols, 
wherewith I had armed him ; and he thought it 
necessary to display his vigilance by calling out to 
me whenever we passed any thing — no matter 
whether moving or stationary. Conceive ten miles, 
with a tremor every furlong. I have scribbled you 
a fearfully long letter. This sheet must be blank, 
and is merely a wrapper, to preclude the tabella- 
rians of the post from peeping. You once com- 
plained of my not writing ; — I will heap ' coals of 
fire upon your head ' by not complaining of your not 
reading. Ever, my dear Moore, your'n, (isn't that 
the Staffordshire termination ?) 

" Byron." 



LETTER CLXIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"July 27, 1813. 

" When you next imitate the style of ' Tacitus,' 
pray add, ' de moribus Germanorum ; ' — this last 
was a piece of barbarous silence, and could only be 
taken from the Woods, and, as such, I attribute it 
entirely to your sylvan sequestration at Mayfield 
Cottage. You will find, on casting up accounts, 
that you are my debtor by several sheets and one 
epistle. I shall bring my action ; — if you don't dis- 
charge, expect to hear from my attorney. I have 
forwarded your letter to Ruggiero ; but don't make 
postman of me again, for fear I should be tempted 
to violate your sanctity of wax or wafer. 

" Believe me ever yours, indignantly, 

"Bn." 



LETTER CLXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"July, 06, 1315. 

" Can't you be satisfied with the pangs of my 
jealousy of Rogers, without actually making me 
the pander of your epistolary intrigue ? This is 
the second letter you have enclosed to my address, 
notwithstanding a miraculous long answer, and a 
subsequent one or two of your own. If you do so 
again, I can't tell to what pitch my fury may soar. 
I shall send you verse or arsenic, as likely as any 
thing, — four thousand couplets on sheets beyond 
the privilege of franking ; that privilege, sir, of 
which you take an undue advantage over a too 
susceptible senator, by forwarding your lucubrations 
to every one but himself. I wont frank from you, 
or for you, or to you, may I be cursed if I do, unless 
you mend your manners. I disown you — I disclaim 
you — and by all the powers of Eulogy, I will write 
a panegyric upon you — or dedicate a quarto — if you 
don't make me ample amends. 

" P. S. I am in training to dine with Sheridan 
and Rogers this evening. I have a little spite 
against R., and will shed his ' Clary wines pottle- 
deep.' This is nearly my ultimate or penultimate 
letter ; for I am quite equipped, and only wait a 
passage. Perhaps I may wait a few weeks lor 
Sligo ; but not if I 3an help it." 



794 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CLXV. 



TO MR. CROCKER. 



" Bt. Str. August 2, 1813. 

"Dear Sir, 

" I was honored with your unexpected and very 
obliging letter when on the point of leaving Lon- 
don, which prevented me from acknowledging my 
obligation as quickly as I felt it sincerely. I am 
endeavoring all in my power to be ready before 
Saturday ; and even if I should not succeed, I can 
only blame my own tardiness, which will not the 
less enhance the benefit I have lost. I have only 
to add my hope of forgiveness for all my trespasses 
on your time and patience, and with my best wishes 
for your public and private welfare, I have the 
honor to be, most truly, 

" Your obliged and most obedient servant, 

" Byron." 



The following notes to Mr. Murray, have reference 
to a fifth edition of the " Giaour," then in press. 
The poem first appeared in the May preceding, and 
contained originally but about four hundred lines, 
and was gradually increased through successive 
editions to its present number, nearly fourteen 
hundred. In a note which accompanied the man- 
uscript of the paragraph commencing 

11 Fair clime, where every season smiles," 

he says, " I have not yet fixed the place of insertion 
for the following lines, but will when I see you." 
The whole portion from the line 



down to 



1 For there the rose o'er crag and vale," 
" And turn to groans his roundelay," 



Was inserted during the revision of the proofs. 
The passage stood originally thus : — 

" Fair clime 1 where ceaseless summer smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad die heart that hails the sight, 
And give to loneliness delight. 
There shine Ute bright abodes ye seek, 
Like dimples upon Ocean's cheek,— 
So smiling round the waters lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave. 
Or if, at times, the transient breeze 
Break the smooth crystal of the seas, 
Or brush one blossom from the trees, 
How grateful is the gentle air 
That wakes and wafts die fragrance there." 

The several passages beginning — 

" He who hath bent him o'er the dead : " 
" The cygnet proudly walks the water : " 

and 

" My memory now is but the tomb: " 

were added to the fourth edition, between which 
and the first, only six weeks intervened. 
The verses commencing — 

" The browsing camels' bells are tinkling : " 

and the passage 

'* Yes, love indeed is light from heaven," 

were inserted in the fifth edition, and subsequently 
the following — 

" She was a form of life and light, 
That, seen, became a part of sight, 
And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, 
The Morning-star of memory 1 " 

" If you send more proofs, I shall never finish 
this infernal story — ' Ecce signum ' — thirty-three 
lines more enclosed ! to the utter discomfiture of 
;he printer, and, I fear, not to your advantage. 

«B.' 



' Half past two in the morning, Aug 10, 1813. 



" Dear Sir, 

" Pray suspend the proofs, for I am bitten again 
and have quantities for other parts of the bravura. 
" Yours ever, 

"B." 
' P. S. You shall have them in the course of the 
day." 



LETTER CLXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"August 26, 1813. 

' I have looked over and corrected one proof, but 
not so carefully (God knows if you can read it 
through, but I can't) as to preclude your eye from 
discovering some omission of mine or commission 
of your printer. If you have patience, look it 
over. Do you know any body who can stop — I 
mean point — commas, and so forth ? for I am, I 
hear, a sad hand at your punctuation. I have, but 
with some difficulty, not added any more to this 
snake of a Poem, which has been lengthening its 
rattles everjfc month. It is now fearfully long, 
being more than a canto and a half of Childc 
Harold, which contains but eight hundred and 
eighty-two lines per book, with all late additions 
inclusive. 

" The last lines Hodgson likes. It is not often 
he does, and when he don't, he tells me with great 
energy, and I fret and alter. I have thrown them 
in to soften the ferocity of our Infidel, and, for a 
dying man, have given him a good deal to say for 
himself. * * * * 

" I was quite sorry to hear you say you stayed in 
town on my account, and I hope sincerely you do 
not mean so superfluous a piece of politeness. 

" Our six critiques ! — they would have made half 
a Quarterly by themselves ; but this is the age of 
criticism." 



The following refer apparently to a still later 
edition. 

LETTER CLXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Stilton, Oct. 3, 1813. 

"I have just recollected an alteration you may 
make in the proof to be sent to Aston. — Among 
the lines on Hassan's Serai, not far from the begin- 
ning, is this — 

*' Unmeet for Solitude to share. 

Now to share, implies more than one, and Solitude 
is a single gentleman ; it must be thus — 

" For many a giided chamber's there, 
Which Solitude might well forbear ; 

and so on. — My address is Ashton Hall, Rotherham. 
" Will you adopt this correction ? and pray accept 
a Stilton cheese from me for your trouble. 

" Ever yours, 

' "B." 

"If* the old line stands, let the other run thus — 

" Nor there will weary traveller halt, 
To bless the sacred bread and salt. 

"Note. — To partake of food — to break bread and 
taste salt with your host, ensures the safety of the 
guest ; even though an enemy, his person from that 
moment becomes sacred. 

"There is another additional note sent yesterday 
— on the Priest in the Confessional. 



This i6 written on a separate slip piece of paper enclosed. 



LETTERS. 



795 



" P. S. I leave this to your discretion ; if any 
body thinks the old line a good one, or the cheese a 
bad one, don't accept either. But, in that case, 
the word share is repeated soon after in the line — 

" To share the master's bread and salt ; 

and must be altered to — 

" To break the master's bread and salt. 

This is not so well, though — confound it ! " 



LETTER CLXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



1 Oct. 12, 1813. 



"You must look the ' Giaour' again over carefully ; 
there are a few lapses, particularly in the last page. 
— ' I know 'twas false ; she could not die; ' it was, 
and ought to be — ' I knew.' Pray observe this and 
similar mistakes. 

" I have received and read the British Review. I 
really think the writer in most points very right 
The only mortifying thing is the accusation of 
imitation. Crabbe's passage I never saw, and Scott 
I no further meant to follow than in his lyric 
measure, which is Gray's, Milton's, and any one's 
who likes it. The ' Giaour ' is certainly a bad 
character, but not dangerous ; and I think his fate 
and his feelings will meet with few proselytes. I 
shall be very giad to hear from or of you, when you 
please ; but don't put yourself out of your way on 
my account." 



LETTER CLXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Bennet street, Auj. 22, 1813. 
****** 

" As our late — I might say, deceased — correspon- 
dence had too much of the town-life leaven in it, 
we will now ' paulo majora,' prattle a little of 
literature in all its branches ; and first of the first — 
criticism. The Prince is at Brighton, and Jackson, 
the boxer, gone to Margate, having, I believe, 
decoyed Yarmouth to see a milling in that polite 
neighborhood. Mad e . de StaOl Holstein has lost 
one of her young barons, who has been carbona- 
doed by a vile Teutonic adjutant, — kilt and killed 
in a coffee-house at Scrawsenhawsen. Corinne is, 
of course, what all mothers must be, — but will, I 
venture to prophesy, do what few mothers could — 
write an Essay upon it. She can not exist without 
a grievance — and somebody to see, or read, how 
much grief becomes her. I have not seen her since 
the event ; but merely judge (not very charitably) 
from prior observation. 

"In a 'mail-coach copy' of the Edinburgh, I 
perceive the 'Giaour' is second article. The numbers 
are still in the Leith smack — pray, ivhich way is the 
wind? The said article is so very mild and senti- 
mental, that it must be written by Jeffrey in love; 
— you know he is gone to America to marry some 
fair one, of whom he has been for several quarters, 
eperdument amoureux. Seriously — as Winifred Jen- 
kins says of Lismahago — Mr. Jeffrey (or his deputy) 
'has done the handsome thing by me,' and I say 
nothing.* But this I will say, — if you and I had 
knocked one another on the head in this quarrel, 
how he would have laughed, and what a mighty 
bad figure we should have cut in our posthumous 
works. By-the-by, I was called in the other day to 
mediate between two gentlemen bent upon car- 



• See Don Juan, Canto i., stanza xvi. 



nage, and, — after a long struggle between the 
natural desire of destroying one's fellow-creatures, 
and the dislike of seeing men play the fool for 
nothing, — I got one to make an apology, and the 
other to take it, and left them to live happy ever 
after. One was a peer, the other a friend untitled, 
and both fond of high play ; — and one, I can swear 
for, though very mild, 'not fearful,' and so dead a 
shot, that, though the ojJMr is the thinnest of men, 
he would have split hir^pke a cane. They both 
conducted themselves very well, and I put them out 
of pain as soon as I could. '***-* 

" There is an American Life of G. F. Cooke, 
Scurra deceased, lately published. Such a book ! — I 
believe, since Drunken Barnaby's Journal, nothing 
like it has drenched the press. All green-room and 
tap-room — drams and the drama — brandy, whiskey- 
punch, and, latterly, toddy, overflow every page. 
Two things are rather marvellous — first, that a man 
should live so long drunk, and, next, that he should 
have found a sober biographer. There are some 
very laughable things in it, nevertheless : — but the 
pints he swallowed, and the parts he performed, are 
too regularly registered. 

*' All this time you wonder that I am not gone; 
so do I ; but the accounts of the plague are very 
perplexing — not so much for the thing itself as the 
quarantine established in all ports, and from all 
places, even from England. It is true the forty or 
sixty days would, in all probability, be as foolishly 
spent on shore as in the ship ; but one likes to have 
one's choice, nevertheless. Town is awfully empty ; 
but not the worse for that. I am really puzzled with 
my perfect ignorance of what I mean to do ; — not 
stay, if I can help it, but where to go ? Sligo is for 
the North, — a pleasant place, Petersburgh, in 
September, with one's ears and nose in a muff or 
else tumbling into one's neckcloth or pocket hand- 
kerchief ! If the winter treated Bonaparte with so 
little ceremony, what would it inflict upon your 
solitary traveller ? give me a sun, I care not how 
hot, and sherbet, I care not how cool, and my 
Heaven is as easily made as your Persian's.* The 
Giaour is now one thousand and odd lines. ' Lord 
Fanny spins a thousand such a day,' eh, Moore ?— 
thou wilt needs be a wag, but I forgive it. 

" Yours ever, " Bn." 

"P. S. I perceive I have written a flippant ana 
rather cold-hearted letter : let it go, however. I 
have said nothing, either, of the brilliant sex ; but 
the fact is, I am at this moment, in a far more seri- 
ous, and entirely new scrape than any of the last 
twelvemonth, — and that is saying a good deal. * * 
It is unlucky we can neither live with or without 
these women. 

" I am now thinking and regretting that just as I 
have left Newstead, you reside near it. Did you 
ever see it ? do — but don't tell me that you like it. 
If I had known of such intellectual neighborhood, I 
don't think I should have quitted it. You could 
have come over so often, as a bachelor, — for it was 
a thorough bAhelor's mansion — plenty of wine and 
such sordid sensualities — with books enough, room 
enough, and an air of antiquity about all (except 
the lasses) that would have suited you, when pen- 
sive, and served you to laugh at when in glee. I 
had built myself a bath and a vault — and now I 
shan't even be buried in it. It is odd that we can't 
even be certain of a grave, at least a particular one. 
I remember, when about fifteen, reading your poems 
there, — which I can repeat almost now, — And ask- 
ing all kinds of questions about the author, when I 
heard he was not dead according to the preface ; 
wondering if I should ever see him — and though, 
at that time, without the smallest poetical propen- 
sity myself, very much taken, as you may imagine, 
with that volume. Adieu — I commit you to the 



1 A Persian's heav'n is easily made — 
'Tib but black eyes and lemonade." — Moore. 



796 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



care of the gods — Hindoo, Scandinavian, and 
Hellenic ! 

"P. S. 2d. There is an exellent review of Grimm's 
Correspondence and Made, de Stael in this N°. of 
the Edinburgh Review. * * , * * * 
Jeffrey, himself, was my critic last year ; but this 
is, I believe, by another hand. I hope you are going 
sn with your grand coup — pray do— ror that damned 
Lucien Bonaparte will h^t us all. I have seen 
much of his poem in Ml^ftmd he really surpasses 
every thing beneath Tass^ Hodgson is translating 
him against another bard. You and (I believe, 
Rogers) Scott, Gifford, and myself, are to be re- 
ferred to as judges between the twain ; that is, if you 
accept the office. Conceive our different opinions ! 
I think we, most of us (I am talking very impu- 
dently, you will think — us, indeed !) have a way of 
our own, — at least, you and Scott certainly have." 



" I have been thinking of a story, grafted on the 
amours of a Peri and a mortal — something like, 
only more philanthropical, than Cazotte's Diabk 
Amoreaux.* It would require a good deal of poesy ; 
and tenderness is not my forte. For that, and other 
reasons, I have given up the idea, and merely 
suggest it to you because, in intervals of your 
greater work, I think it a subject you might make 
much of. If you want any more books, there is 
'Castellan's Mceurs des Ottomans,' the best com- 
pendium of the kind I ever met with, in six small 
tomes. I am really taking a liberty by talking in 
this style to my ' elders and my betters ; ' — pardon 
it, and don't Rochefoucault my motives. 



LETTER CLXX. 

TO ME. MOORE. 

" Aug. 28, 1813. 

" Ay, my dear Moore, ' there teas a time '—I have 
heard of your tricks when ' you was campaigning 
at the king of Bohemy.' I am much mistaken if, 
some fine London spring, about the year 1815, that 
time does not come again. After all we must end 
in marriage ; and I can conceive nothing more de- 
lightful than such a state in the country, reading 
the county newspaper, &c, and kissing one's wife's 
maid. Seriously, I would incorporate with any 
woman of decent demeanor to-morrow — that is, I 
would a month ago, but, at present, * * * *. 

" Why don't you , parody that Ode ? '* — Do you 
think I should be tetchy? or have you done it, and 
won't tell me ? — You are quite right, about Giam- 
schid, and I have reduced it to a dissyllable within 
this half-hour. f I am glad to hear you talk of 
Richardson, because it tells me what you won't — 
that you are going to beat Lucien. At least, tell 
me how far you have proceeded. Do you think me 
less interested about your works, or less sincere 
than our friend Ruggiero ? I am not — and never 
was. In that thing of mine, the 'English Bards,' 
at the time when I was angry with all the world, I 
never ' disparaged your parts,' although I did not 
know you personally ; and have always regretted that 
you don't give us an entire work, and not sprinkle 
yourself in detatched pieces — beautiful, I allow, and 
quite alone in our language, but still giving us a 
right to expect a Shah Nameh (is that the name ?) 
as well as Gazels. Stick to the East ; the oracle, 
Stael, told me it was the only poetical policy. The 
North, South, and West, have all been exhausted ; 
but from the East, we have nothing but Southey's 
unsaleables, — and these he has contrived to spoil, 
by adopting only their most outrageous fictions. 
His personages don't interest us, and yours will. 
You will have no competitor ; and ifArou had, you 
ought to be glad of it. The little I have done in 
that way is merely a ' voice in the wilderness ' for 
you ; and, if it has had any success, that also will 
prove that the public are orientalizing, and pave the 
path for you. 



LETTER CLXXL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



* The Ode of Horace, 

" Natis in usum lcetitise," &c, 
some passages of which Mr. Moore told him might be parodied, in allusion 
to some of his late adventures : 

" Q_uanta laboras in Charybdi ! 
Digne puer meliore flamma ! " 

+ In his first edition of the Giaour he had used this word as a trisyllable, 

" Eright as the gem of Giamschid,"— but on Mr. Moore's remarking to him, 
upon the authority of Richardson's Persian Dictionary, ihat this was incorrect, 
he altered it to " Bright as the ruby of Giamschid." On seeing this, how- 
ever, Mr. M. wrote to him, " that, as the comparison of his heroine's eye to 
a ' ruby ' might unlnckily call up the idea of its being bloodshot, he had 
better change the line to ' Bright as the jewel of Giamschid ; ' " — which he 
accordingly did in the following edition. 



" August— September, I mean — 1, 1813. 

"I send you, begging your acceptance, Castellan, 
three vols, on Turkish Literature, not yet lo§ked 
into. The last I will thank you to read, extract 
what you want, and return in a week, as they are 
lent to me by the brightest of northern constella- 
tions, Mackintosh, — among many other kind things 
into which India has warmed him, for I am sure 
your home Scotsman is of a less genial description. 

" Your Peri, my dear M., is sacred and inviolable ; 
I have no idea of touching the hem of her petticoat. 
Your affectation of a dislike to encounter me is so 
flattering, that I begin to think myself a very fine 
fellow. But you are laughing at me — ' stap my 
vitals, Tarn ! thou art a very impudent person ; ' 
and, if you are not laughing at me, you deserve to 
be laughed at. Seriously, what on earth can you, or 
have you, to dread from any poetical flesh breath- 
ing ? It really puts me out of humor to hear you 
talk thus. ***** 

" The ' Giaour ' I have added to a good deal ; but 
still in foolish fragments. It contains about twelve 
hundred lines, or rather more — now printing. You 
will allow me to send you a copy. You delight me 
much by telling me that I am in your good graces, 
and more particularly as to temper ; for, unluckily, 
I have the reputation of a very bad one. But 
they say the devil is amusing when pleased, and I 
must have been more venomous than the old ser- 
pent, to have hissed or stung in your company. It 
may be, and would appear to a third person, an in- 
credible thing, but I know yoit will believe me when 
I say that I am as anxious for your success as one 
human being can be for another's, — as much as if 
I had never scribbled a line. Surely the field of fame 
is wide enough for all ; and if it were not, I would 
not willingly rob my neighbor of a rood of it. Now 
you have a pretty property of some thousand acres 
there, and when you have passed your present En- 
closure Bill, your income will be doubled (there's a 
metaphor, worthy of a Templar, namely, pert and 
low,) while my wild common is too remote to incom- 
mode you, and quite incapable of such fertility. I 
send you (which return per post, as the printer 
would say) a curious letter from a friend of mine,* 



• See Heaven and Earth, page 248. 

t The following lelter of Lord Sligo.— 

" Albany, Monday, Aug. 31, 1813. 

My Dear Byron, 

" You have requested me to tell you all that I heard at Athens about tba 

air of that girl who was so near being put an end to while you were there ; 
you have asked me to mention every circumstance, in the remotest degree re- 
lating to it, which 1 heard. In compliance with your wishes, 1 write to you 
all I heard, and 1 cannot imagine it to be very far from the fact, as the cir- 

mstance happened only a day or two before 1 arrived at Athens, and con- 
sequently was a matter of common conversation at the time. 

" The new governor, unaccustomed to have the same intercourse with the 
Christians as his predecessor, had, of course, the barbarous Turkish ideas with 
regard to women. In consequence, and in compliance with the strict lettei 



LETTERS. 



797 



which will let you into the origin of the ' Giaour.' 
Write soon. 

" Ever, dear Moore, yours most entirely, &c. 

" P. S. This letter was written to me on account 
of a different story circulated by some gentle women 
of our acquaintance, a little too close to the text. 
The part erased contained merely some Turkish 
names, and circumstantial evidence of the girl's 
detection, not very important or decorous." 



LETTER CLXXII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Sept. 5, 1S13. 

" You need not tie yourself down to a day with 
Toderini, but send him at your leisure, having 
anatomized him into such annotations as you want ; 
I do not believe he has ever undergone that process 
before, which is the best reason for not sparing him 
now. 

" Rogers has returned to town, but not yet recov- 
ered^ the Quarterly. What fellows these review- 
ers are ! 'these bugs do fear us all.' They made 
you fight, and me (the milkiest of men) a satirist, 
and will end by making Rogers madder than Ajax. 
I have been reading 'Memory' again, the other day, 
and 'Hope' together, and retain all my preference of 
the former. His elegance is really wonderful — 
There is no such thing as a vulgar line in his book. 
******** 

" What say you to Bonaparte ? Remember, I 
back him against the field, barring Catalepsy and 
the elements. Nay,*I almost wish him success 
against all countries but this, — were it only to choke 
the Morning Post, and his undutiful father-in-law, 
with that rebellious bastard of Scandinavian adop- 
tion, Bernadotte. Rogers wants me to go with him 
on a crusade to the Lakes, and to beseige you on our 
way. This last is a great temptation, but I fear it 
will not be in my power, unless you would go on 
with one of us somewhere — no matter where. It is 
too late for Matlock, but we might hit upon some 
scheme, high life or low, — the last would be much 
the best for amusement. I am so sick of the other, 
that I quite sigh for a cider-cellar, or a cruise in a 
smuggler's sloop. 

" You cannot wish more than I do that the Fates 
were a little more accommodating to our parallel 
lines, which prolong ad infinitum without coming 
a jot the nearer. I almost wish I w'ere married too, 
which is saying much. All nry friends, seniors and 
juniors, are in for it, and ask me to be godfather, — 
the only species of parentage which, I believe, will 
ever come to my share in a lawful way ; and, in an 
unlawful one, by the blessing of Lucina, we can 
never be certain, — though the parish may. I sup- 



pose I shall hear from you to-morrow. If not, this 
goes as it is ; but I leave room for a P. S., in case 
any thing requires an answer. Ever, &c. 

" No letter— n'imparte. Rogers thinks the Quar- 
terly will be at me this time : if so, it shall be a war 
of extermination— no quarter. From the youngest 
devil down to the oldest woman of that Review, all 
shall perish by one fatal lampoon. The ties of na- 
ture shall be torn asunder, for I will not even spare 
my bookseller ; nay, if one were to include readers 
also, all the better." 



of the Mahommertan law, he ordered the girl to be sewed up in a sack, and 
thrown into the' sea, — as is, indeed, quite customary at Constantinople. As 
you were returning from bathing in the Pira>us, you met the procession going 
down to execute the sentence of the Waywods on this unfortunate girl. Re- 
port continues to say, that on finding what the object of their journey was, 
and who was the miserable sufferer, you immediately interfered ; and on 
some delay in obeying your orders, you were obliged to inform the leader of 
the escort that force should make him comply ; — that, on farther hesitation, 
you drew a pistol, and told him, that if he did not immediately obey your 
orders, and come back with you to the Aga's house, you would shoot him 
dead. (In this, the man turned about and went with you to the governor's 
house ; here you succeeded, partly by personal threats, and partly by bribery 
and entreaty, to procure her pardon on condition of her leaving Athens. 1 
was told that you then conveyed her in safety to the convent, and despatched 
her oft" at night to Thebes, where she found a sate asylum. Such is the story 
I heard, as nearly as 1 can recollect it at present. Should you wish to ask me 
any further questions abouTit, 1 shall be very ready and willing to answer 
them. " I remain, my dear Byron, 

" Yours, very sincerely, 

"SLIGO. 
" I am afraid you will hardly be able to read this scrawl ; but 1 am so hur- 
ried with the preparations for my journey, that you must excuse it." 



LETTER CLXXIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Sept. 8, 1S13. 

" I am sorry to see Tod again, so soon, for fear 
your scrupulous conscience should have prevented 
you from fully availing yourself of his spoils. By 
this coach I send you a copy of that awful pamphlet, 
' the Giaour,' which has never procured me half so 
high a compliment as your modest alarm. You will 
(if inclined in an evening), perceive that I have 
added much in quantity, — a circumstance which 
may truly diminish your modesty upon the subject. 

"You stand certainly in great need of a 'lift' 
with Mackintosh. My dear Moore, you strangely 
underrate yourself. I should conceive it an affecta- 
tion in any other ; but I think I know you well 
enough to believe that you don't know your own 
value. However, 'tis a fault that generally mends ; 
and, in your case, it really ought. I have heard 
him speak of you as highly as your wife could wish ; 
and enough to give all your friends the jaundice. 

"Yesterday I had a letter from All Pacha! 
brought by Dr. Holland, who is just returned from 
Albania. It is in Latin, and begins ' Excellentis- 
sime, nee non Carissimc,' and ends about a gun he 
wants made for him; — it is signed ' Ali Vizir.' 
What do you think he has been about ? H. tells 
me that, last spring, he took a hostile town, where, 
forty-two years ago, his mother and sisters were 
treated as Miss Cunigunde was by the Bulgarian 
cavalry. He takes the town, selects all the surviv 
ors of this exploit — children, grandchildren, &c., to 
the tune of six hundred, and has them shot before 
his face. Recollect, he spared the rest of the city, 
and confined himself to the Tarquin pedigree,— 
which is more than I would. £o much for ' dearest 
friend.' " 



LETTER CLXXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Sept. 9, 1S13. 

"I write to you from Murray's, and I may say, 
from Murray, who, if you are not predisposed in 
favor of any other publisher, would be happy to 
treat with you, at a fitting time, for your work. I 
can safely recommend him, as fair, liberal, and at- 
tentive, and certainly, in point of reputation, he 
stands among the first of ' the trade.' I am sure 
he would do you. justice. I have written to you so 
much lately that you will be glad to see so little 
now. Ever, &c, &c." 



LETTER CLXXV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Sept. 27, 1813. 

" Thomas Moore, 

" (Thou wilt never be called ' true Thomas,' like 
he of Ercildoune,) why don't you write to me ? — as 
you won't, I must. I was near you at Aston th« 



798 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



other day, and hope I soon shall be again. If so, 
you must and shall meet me, and go to Matlock and 
elsewhere, and, take what, in flash dialect, is poeti- 
cally termed ' a lark,' with Rogers and me for ac- 
complices. Yesterday, at Holland House, I was 
introduced to Southey — the best looking bard I have 
seen for some time. To have that poet's head and 
shoulders, I would almost have written his Sapphics. 
He is certainly a prepossessing person to look on, 
and a man of talent, and all that, and — there is his 
eulogy. 

" * * read me part of a letter from you. By the 
foot of Pharoah, I believe there was abuse, for he 
stopped short, so he did, after a fine saying about 
our correspondence, and looked — I wish I could re- 
venge myself by attacking you, or by telling you 
that I have had to defend you — an agreeable way 
which one's friends have of recommending them- 
selves, by saying, — ' Ay, ay, / gave it Mr. Such-a- 
one for what he said about your being a plagiary, 
and a rake, and so on.' But do you know that you 
are one of the very few whom I never have the satis- 
faction of hearing abused, but the reverse ; — and do 
you suppose I will forgive that ? 

" I have been in the country, and ran away from 
the Doncaster races. It is odd, — I was a visitor 
in the same house which came to my sire as a 
residence with Lady Carmarthen (with whom he 
adulterated before his majority — by-the-by, remem- 
ber, she was not my mamma) — and they thrust me 
into an old room, with a nauseous picture over the 
chimney, which I should suppose my papa regarded 
with due respect, and which, inheriting the family 
taste, I looked upon with great satisfaction. I 
stayed a week with the family, and behaved very 
well — though the lady of the house is young, and 
religious, and pretty, and the master is my particu- 
lar friend. I felt no wish for any thing but a poodle 
dog, which they kindly gave me. Now, for a man 
of my course, not even to have coveted is a sign of 
great amendment. Pray pardon all this nonsense, 
and don't ' snub me when I'm in spirits.' 

" Ever yours, 

"Bn." 

" Here's an impromptu for you by a ' person of 
quality,' written last week, on being reproached for 
low spirits. 

11 When from the heart where sorrow sit*,* &c. 



LETflfcER CLXXVI. 

TO Jill. MOORE. 

" October 2, 1813. 

" You have not answered some six letters of 
mine. This, therefore, is my penultimate. I will 
write to you once more, but after that — I swear by 
all the saints — I am silent and supercilious. I have 
met Curran at Holland Houset — he beats every 
body ; — his imagination is beyond human, and his 
humor (it is difficult to define what is wit) perfect. 
Then he has fifty faces, and twice as many voices, 
when he mimics ; — I never met his equal. Now, 
were I a woman, and eke a virgin, that is the man 
I should make my Scamander. He is quite fasci- 
nating. Remember, I have met him but once ; and 
you, who have known him long, may probably de- 
duct from my panegyric. I almost fear to meet 
him again, lest the impressien should be lowered. 
He talked a great deal about you — a theme never 
tiresome to me, nor any body else that I know. 
What a variety of expression he conjures into that 
naturally not very fine countenance of his ! He 
absolutely changes it entirely. I have done — for I 
can't describe him, and you know him. On Sunday 
I return to * *, where I shall not be far from you. 
Perhaps I shall hear from you in the mean time. 
Good night. 



" Saturday morn. — Your letter has cancelled all 
my anxieties. I did not suspect you in earnest. 
Modest again ! Because I don't do a very shabby 
thing, it seems, I ' don't fear your competition.' If 
it were reduced to an alternative or preference, I 
should dread you, as much as Satan does Michael. 
But is there not room enough in our respective 
regions ? Go on — it will soon be my turn to forgive. 
To-day I dine with Mackintosh and Mrs. Stale — as 
John Bull mey be pleased to denominate Corinne — 
whom I saw last night, at Covent Garden, yawning 
over the humor of Falstaff. 

" The reputation of 'gloom,' if one's friends are 
not included in the reptitants, is of great service; 
as it saves one from a legion of impertinents, in the 
shape of common-place acquaintance. But thou 
knowest I can be a right merry and conceited fel- 
low, and rarely 'larmoyant.' Murray shall reinstate 
your line forthwith.* I believe the blunder in the 
motto was mine ; and yet I have, in general, a 
memory for you, and am sure it was rightly printed 
at first. 

" I do ' blush ' very often, if I may believe Ladies 
H. and M. — but luckily at present, no one sees me. 
Adieu." 



LETTER CLXXVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Nov. 30, 1813. 

" Since I last wrote to you, much has occurred, 
good, bad, and indifferent, — not to make me forget 
you, but to prevent me from reminding you of one 
who, nevertheless, has often thought of you, and to 
whom your thoughts, in many a measure, have fre- 
quently been a consolation* We were once very 
near neighbors this autumn ; and a good and bad 
neighborhood it has proved to me. Suffice it to say, 
that your French quotation was confoundedly to the 
purpose, — though very unexpectedly pertinent, as 
you may imagine by what I said before, and my 
silence since. * * * However, ' Richard's himself 
again,' and, except all night and some part of the 
morning, I don't think very much about the matter. 

" All convulsions end with me in rhyme ; and to 
solace my midnights, I have scribbled another Turk- 
ish storyt — not a Fragment — which you will receive 



• See Poems, p. 544. 
| See Memorandums. 



* The motto to die Giaour, which is taken from one of the Irish Melodies, 
had been quoted by him incorrectly in the first editions of the Poems. He 
made afterward a similar mistake in the lines from Burns prefixed to the 
Bride of Abydos. 

t The Bride of Abydos. To this poem he made additions, in the course ot 
printing, amounting altogether to near two hundred lines ; and the opening 
lines, " Know ye the laud," &c, — supposed to have been suggested to him 
by a song; of Goethe's, — were among the number of these new insertions, as 
were also those verses, " Who hath not proved how feebly words essay," 
&c. Having at first written the line in stanza vi., 

11 Mind on her lip and music in her face." 
he afterward altered it to — 

•' The nuud of music breathing in her face," 

But, this not satisfying him, the next step of correction brought the line to 
what it is at present — 

" The mind, the music breathing from her face." 
The whole passage which follows — 

" Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my hark," 

was sent in successive scraps to the printer, correction following correction . 
The line, " And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray," was originally 
an airy 
11 And tints to-morrow with a fancied ray," 

the following note being annexed : — " Mr. Murray, — Choose which of the 
two epithets, ' fancied,' or 'airy,' may be the best; or, if neither will do, 
tell me, and 1 will dream another." In the long passage just referred to, 
the six lines beginning " Blest as the Muezzin* strain," &c, having been 
despatched to the printer too late for insertion, were, by his desire, added to 
an errata page ; the first couplet, iu its original form, being as follows :— 
" Soft as the Mecca-Muezzin's strains invite 
Him who hath journey'd far to join the rite." 



LETTERS. 



799 



soon after this. It does not trench upon your king- 
dom in the least, and, if it did, you would soon re- 
duce me to my proper boundaries. You will think, 
and justly, that I run some risk of losing the little 
I have gained in fame, by this further experiment on 
public patience; but I have really ceased to care on 
that head. I have written this, and published it, for 
the sake of the employment, — to wring my thoughts 
from reality, and take refuge in ' imaginings,' how- 
ever ' horrible ; ' and, as to success ! those who suc- 
ceed will console me for a failure — excepting your- 
self and one or two more, whom luckily I love too 
well to wish one leaf of their laurels a tint yellower 
This is the work of a week, and will be the reading 
of an hour to you, or even less, — and so let it go * 
* # 

" P. S. Ward and I talk of going to Holland. ] 
want to see how a Dutch canal looks, after the Bos- 
phorus. Pray respond." 



sterling talent and at the expense of some suffering. 
You have not, I trust, abandoned the poem you were 
composing, when Moore and I partook of your hos- 
pitality in the summer. I hope a time will come 
when he and I may be able to repay you in kind foi 
the latter — for the rhyme, at least in quantity, you 
are in arrear to ojth. 

" Believe me very truly and affectionately yours, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CLXXVIII. 



TO LEIGH HUNT. 



" 4, Bennet street, Dec. 2, 1813. 

"My Dear Sir, 

" Few things could be more welcome than your 
note, and on Saturday morning I will avail myself of 
your permission to thank you for it in person. My 
time has not been passed, since we met, either profit- 
ably or agreeably. A very short period after my 
last visit, an incident occurred, with which, I fear, 
you are not unacquainted, as report, in many mouths 
and more than one paper, was busy with the topic. 
That, naturally, gave me much uneasiness. Then 
1 nearly incurred a lawsuit on the sale of an estate ; 
but this is now arranged : next — but why should I 
go on with a series of selfish and silly details ? I 
merely wish to assure you that it was not the frivo- 
lous forgetfulness of a mind occupied by what is 
called pleasure, (not in the true sense of Epicurus,) 
that kept me away ; but a perception of my, then, 
unfitness to share the society of those whom I value 
and wish not to displease. I hate being larmoyant, 
and making a serious face among those who are 
cheerful. 

" It is my wish that our acquaintance, or, if you 
please to accept it, friendship, may be permanent. 
I have been lucky enough to preserve some friends 
from a very early period, and I hope, as I do not (at 
least now) select them lightly, I shall not lose them 
capriciously. I have a thorough esteem for that in- 
dependence of spirit which you have maintained with 



In a few hours after, another scrap was sent off, containing the lines thus — 

" Blest as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's dome, 
Which welcomes Faith to view her Prophet's tomb," 

with the following note to Mr. Murray : — 

" December 3, 1813. 
" Look out in the Encyclopedia, article Mecca, whether it ia there or at 
Medina, the Prophet is entombed. If at Medina, the first lines of my 
alteration must run — 

11 Blest as the call which from Medina's dome 
Invites Devotion to her Prophet's tomb, &c. 

If at Mecca, the lines may stand as before. Page 45, Canto II., Bride of 
Abydos. " Yours, 

"B. 

" You will find this out either by article Mecca, Medina, or Mohammed. 
have no book of reference by me." 

Immediately after succeeded another oote : — 

" Did you look out ? Is it Medina or Mecca that contains the Holy Sep- 
Jchre? Don't make me blaspheme by your negligence. I have no book of 
elerence, or 1 would save you the trouble. I blush as a good Mussulman, 
a have confused the point. " Yours, 



Notwithstanding all these various changes, the couplet in question stands, 
A present, thus : — 

" Blest as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call." 



LETTER CLXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Dec. 8, 1813. 

" Your letter, like all the best, and even kindest, 
things in this world, is both painful and pleasing. 
But, first, to what sits rarest. Do you know I was 
actually about to dedicMfe to you, — not in a formal 
inscription, as to one's elders, — but through a short 
prefatory letter, in which I boasted myself your in- 
timate, and held forth the prospect of your Poem, 
when, lo ! the recollection of your strict injunctions 
of secrecy as to the said Poem, more than once re- 
peated by word and letter, flashed upon me, and 
marred my intents. I could have no motive for re- 
pressing my own desire of alluding to you, (and not 
a day passes that I do not think and talk of you,) 
but an idea that you might, yourself, dislike it. You 
cannot doubt my sincere admiration, waiving per- 
sonal friendship for the present, which, by-the-by, 
is not less sincere and deep-rooted. I have you by 
rote and by heart; of which ' ecce signum ! ' When 
I was at * *, on my first visit, I have a habit, in 
passing my time a good deal alone, of — I won't call 
it singing, for that I never attempt except to myself 
— but of uttering, to what I think tunes, your ' Oh 
breathe not,' ' When the last glimpse,' and ' When 
he who adores thee,' with others of the same min- 
strel ; — they are my matins and vespers. I assured- 
ly did not intend them to be overheard, but, one 
morning, in comes, not La Donna, but II Marito, 
with a very grave face, saying, ' Byron, I must re- 
quest you won't sing any more, at least of those 
songs.' I stared, and said, ' Certainly, but why ? ' 
— ' To tell you the truth,' quoth he, ' they make my 
wife cry, and so melancholy, that I wish her to hear 
no more of them.' 

" Now, my dear Moore, the effect must have been 
from your words, and certainly not my music. I 
merely mention this foolish story, to show you how 
much I am indebted to you for even your pastimes. 
A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects 
but that which pleases — at least, in composition. 
Though I think no one equal to you in that depart- 
ment, or in satire, — and surely no one was ever so 
popular in both, — I certainly am of opinion that 
you have not yet done all you can do, though more 
than enough for any one else. I want, and the 
world expects, a longer work from you ; and I see 
in you what I never saw in poet before, a strange 
diffidence of your own powers, which I cannot 
account for, and which must be unaccountable, 
when a Cossack like me can appal a cuirassier. 
Your story I did not, could not, know — I thought 
only of a Peri. I wish you had confided in me, 
not for your sake, but mine, and to prevent the 
world from losing a much better poem than my 
own, but which, I yet hope, this clashing will not 
even now deprive them of. Mine is the work of a 
week, written, why I have partly told you, and 
partly I cannot tell you by letter — some day I will. 
* * * * * * * * 
" Go on — I shall really be very unhappy if I at all 
interfere with you. The success of mine is yet 
problematical ; though the public will probably 
purchase a certain quantity, on the presumption of 
their own propensity for ' the Giaour ' and such 
horrid mysteries.' The only advantage I have is 



800 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



being on the spot ; and that merely amounts to 
saving me the trouble of turning over books, which 
I had better read again. If your chamber was 
furnished in the same way, you have no need to go 
there to describe — I mean only as to accuracy — be- 
cause I drew it from recollection^ 

***** ▼ * * 

" This last thing of mine may have the same fate, 
and I assure you I have great doubts about it. But, 
even if not, its little day will be over before you are 
ready and willing. Come out — ' screw your courage 
to the sticking-place.' Except the Post Bag (and 
surely you cannot complain of a want of success 
there), you have not been regularly out for some 
years. No man stands higher, — whatever you may 
think on a rainy day, in your provincial retreat. 
'Aucun homme, dans aucune langue, n'a, ete, 
peut-etre, plus completement le poete du cceur et le 
poete des femmes. Les critiques lui reprochent de 
n'ayoir represents le moA ni tel qu'il est, ni tel 
qu'il doit etre ; mats les Jemmes repondent qu'il I 'a 
represent* tel qu'elles le disireni. — I should have 
thought Sismondi had written this for you instead 
of Metastasio. 

" Write to me, and tell me of yourself. Do you 
remember what Rousseau said to some one — ' Have 
we quarrelled ? you have talked to me often, and 
never once mentioned yourself.' 

"P. S. The last sentence is an indirect apology 
for my own egotism, — but I believe in letters it is 
allowed. I wish it was mutual. I have met with 
an odd reflection in Grimm ; it shall not — at least, 
the bad part, — be applied to you or me, though one 
of us has certainly an indifferent name — but this 
it is : ' IV^any people have the reputation of being 
wicked, with whom wo should be too happy to pass 
our lives.' I need not add it is a woman's saying — 
a Mademoiselle de Sommery's." 



LETTER CLXXX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Dec. 4, 1813. 

" I have redde through your Persian Tales,* and 
have taken the liberty of making some remarks on 
the blank pages. There are many beautiful passages, 
and an interesting story ; and I cannot give you a 
stronger proof that such is my opinion than by the 
date of the hour — tivo o'clock, till which it has kept 
me awake without a yawn. The conclusion is not 
quite correct in costume : there is no Mussulman 
suicide on record, — at least for love. But this mat- 
ters not. The tale must have been written by some 
one who has been on the spot, and I wish him, and 
he deserves, success. Will you apologize to the 
author for the liberties I have taken with his MS.? 
Had I been less awake to, and interested in, his 
theme, I had been less obtrusive ; but you know / 
always take this in good part, and I hope he will. 
It is difficult to say what will succeed, and still 
more to pronounce what will not. I am at this 
moment in that imcertainty, (on ouroicn score,) and 
it is no small proof of the author's powers to be 
able to charm andjlx a mind's attention on similar 
subjects and climates in such a predicament. That 
he may have the same effect upon all his readers is 
very sincerely the wish, and hardly the doubt, of 
yours truly, 



LETTER CLXXXI. 



TO MR. GIFFORD. 



'Not. 12,1813. 



Uderim, 4c, by Mr. Knight. 



"My Dear Sir, 

" I hope you will consider when I venture on anj 
request, that it is the reverse of a certain Dedica- 
tion, and is addressed not to 'The Editor of the 
Quarterly Review,' but to Mr. Gifford. You will 
understand this, and on that point I need trouble 
you no farther. 

" You have been good enough to look at a thing 
of mine in MS.* — a Turkish story, and I should 
feel gratified if you would do it the same favor in its 
probationary state of printing. It was written, I 
cannot say for amusement, nor ' obliged by hunger 
and request of friends,' hut in a state of mind, 
from circumstances which occasionally occur to ' us 
youth,' that rendered it necessary for me to apply 
my mind to something, any thing but reality ; and 
under this not very brilliant inspiration it was com- 
posed. Being done, and having at least diverted 
me from myself, I thought you would not perhaps 
be offended if Mr. Murray forwarded it to you. He 
has done so, and to apologize for his doing so a 
second time is the object of my present letter. 

"I beg you will not send me any answer. I as- 
sure you very sincerely I know your time to be 
occupied, and it is enough, more than enough, if 
you read ; you are not to be bored with the fatigue 
of answers. 

A word to Mr. Murary will be sufficient, and send 
it either to the flames, or 

' A hundred hawkers' load, 
On wings of winds to fly or lull abroad. 1 

It deserves no better -than the first, as the work 
of a week, and scribbled ' stans pede in uno,' (by- 
the-by, the only foot I have to stand on;) and I 
promise never to trouble you again under forty 
cantos, and a voyage between each. 
" Believe me ever 

'• Your obliged and affectionate servant, 
" Byron." 



LETTER CLXXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



1 Nov. 12, 1813. 



" Two friends of mine (Mr. Rogers and Mr 
Sharpe) have advised me not to risk at present 
any single publication separately, for various rea- 
sons. As they have not seen the one in question, 
they can have no bias for or against the merits (if 
it has any) or the faults of the present subject of 
our conversation. You say all the last of the ' Gia- 
our ' are gone — at least out of your hands. Now, 
if you think of publishing any new edition with the 
last additions which have not yet been before the 
reader, (I mean distinct from the two-volume publi- 
cation,) we can add the ' Bride of Abydos,' which 
will thus steal quietly into the world: if liked, we 
can then throw off some copies for the purchasers 
of former ' Giaours ; ' and, if not, I can omit it in 
any future publication. What think you ? I really 
am no judge of those things, and with all my nat- 
ural partiality for one's own productions, I would 
rather follow any one's judgment than my own. 

"P. S. Pray let me have the proofs I sent, all 
to-night. I have some alterations that I wish to 
make speedily. I hope the proof wjll be on sepa- 
rate pages, and not. all huddled together on a mile- 
long ballad-singing sheet, as those of the Giaour 
sometimes are ; for then I can't read them distinct- 
ly." 



The Bride of Abydoi. 



LETTERS. 



801 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 



' Not. 13, 1813. 



"Will you forward the letter to Mr. Gifford with 
the proof ? There is an alteration I may make in 
Zuleika's speech, in second canto (the only one of 
hers in that canto.) It is now thus : — 



It must be 



' And curse, if 1 could curse, the day. 



' And mourn — 1 dare not curse — the day 
That saw my solitary birth, &c, &.C. 



" Ever yours, 



'B. 



" In the last MS. lines sent, instead of ' living 
heart,' convert to 'quivering heart.' It is in the 
line 9th of the MS. passage. 

" Ever yours again, 

"B." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Alteration of a line in canto second. 
Instead of — 

" And tints to-morrow with a fancied ray, 
" And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray. 
"The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
Anil tints to-morrow witli prophetic ray ; 
gilds 
" And tints the hope of morning with its ray ; 
" And gilds to-morrow's hope with heavenly ray. 

" I wish you would ask Mr. Gifford which of them 
is best, or rather not worst. " Ever, &c. 

'.' You can send the request contained in this at 
the same time with the revise, after I have seen the 
said revise." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 13, 1813. 

" Certainlx. Do you suppose that no one but the 
Galileans are acquainted with Adam, and Eve, and 
Cain,* and Noah f Surely, I might have had Solo- 
mon, and Abraham, and David, and even Moses. 
When you know that Zuleika is the Persian poetical 
name for Potiphar's wife, on whom and Joseph 
there is a long poem, in the Persian, this will not 
surprise you. If you want authority, look at Jones, 
D'Herbelot, Vathek, or the notes to the Arabian 
Nights ; and, if you think it necessary, model this 
into a note.f 

" Alter, in the inscription, ' the most affectionate 
respect,' to 'with every sentiment of regard and 
respect.' " 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Not. 14, 1813. 

" I send you a note for the iynorant,\ but I really 
wonder at finding you among them. I don't care 
one lump of sugar for my poetry ; but for my cos- 
tume and my correctness on those points, (of which 
I think the funeral was a proof,) I will combat 
lustily. "Yours, &c.'' 



"Let the revise which I sent just now (and not 
the proof in Mr. Gifford's possession) be returned 
to the printer, as there arc several additional correc- 
tions, and two new lines in it. 

" Yours, &c." 



* Some doubt had been expressed by Mr. Murray as to the propriety of 
his putting the name of Cain into the mouth of a Mussulman, 
t See note 30, to the Bride of Abydos. 
1 See note 28, to the Bride of Abydos. 

101 



LETTER CLXXXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 15, 1813. 

"Mr. Hodgson has looked over and stopped, or 
rather pointed, this revise, which must be the one 
to print from. He has also made some suggestions, 
with most of which I have complied, as he has 
always, for these ten years, been a very sincere, and 
by no means (at times) flattering, intimate of mine. 
He likes it (you will think fatterinr/ly, in this 
instance) better than the Giaour, but doubts (and 
so do I) its being so popular, but, contrary to some 
others, advises a separate publication. On this we 
can easily decide. I confess I like the double form 
better. Hodgson says, it is better versified than 
any of the others ; which is odd, if true, as it has 
cost me less time (though more hours at a time) 
than any attempt I ever made. 

"P. S. Do attend to the punctuation: I can't, 
for I don't know a comma — at least, where to place 
one. 

" That tory of a printer has omitted two lines of 
the opening, and perhaps more, which were in the 
MS. Will you, pray, give him a hint of accuracy? 
I have re-inserted the two, but they were in the 
manuscript, I can swear." 



LETTER CLXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 17, 1813, 

" That you and I may distinctly understand each 
other on a subject, which, like ' the dreadful reck- 
oning when men smile no more,' makes conversa- 
tion not very pleasant, I think it as well to write a 
few lines on the topic. Before I left town for York- 
shire, you said that you were ready and willing to 
give five hundred guineas for the copyright of ' The 
Giaour ; ' and my answer was, from which I do not 
mean to recede, that we would discuss the point at 
Christmas. The new story may or may not succeed; 
the probability, under present circumstances, seems 
to be, that it may at least pay its expenses ; but 
even that remains to he proved, and till it is proved 
one way or another, we will say nothing about it. 
Thus then be it : I will postpone all arrangement 
about it, and the Giaour also, till Easter, 1814 ; and 
you shall then, according to your own notions of 
fairness, make your own offer for the two. At the 
same time, I do not rate the last in my own estima- 
tion at half the Giaour ; and according to your own 
notions of its worth and its success within the time 
mentioned, be the addition or deduction to or from 
whatever sum may be your proposal for the first, 
which has already had its success. 

"The pictures of Phillips I consider as mine, all 
three, and the one (not the Arnaout) of the two 
best is much at your service, if you will accept it as 
a present. 

' P. S. The expense of engraving from the min- 
iature send me in my account, as it was destroyed 
by my desire ; and have the goodness to burn that 
detestable print from it immediately. 

" To make you some amends for eternally pester- 
ing you with alterations, I send you Cobbett, to 
confirm your orthodoxy. 

" One more alteration of a into the in the MS. ; it 
must be — ' The heart whose softness,' &c. 

" Remember — and in the inscription ' to the Right 
Honorable Lord Holland,' without the previous 
names, Henry, &c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

Nov. 20, 1813. 

" More work for the Row. I am doing my best 
to beat the ' Giaour ' — no difficult task for any on« 
but the author." 



302 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



NOTE TO MB. MUKKAY. 



' Nov. 22, 1313. 



" I have no time to crow-investigate, but I believe 
and hope all is right. I care less than you will 
believe about its success, but I can't survive a 
single misprint : it chokes me to see words misused 
by the printers. Pray look over, in case of some 
eye-sore escaping me. 

" P. S. Send the earliest copies to Mr. Frere, Mr. 
Canning, Mr. Heber, Mr. Gifibrd, Lord Holland, 
Lord Melbourne (Whitehall,) Lady Caroline Lamb 
(Brocket,) Mr. Hodgson (Cambridge,) Mr. Mem- 
rale, Mr. Ward, from the author." 



NOTE TO MB. MU1UIAY. 

" Nov. 23, 1813. 

" You wanted some reflections, and I send you 
per Selim, (see his speech in canto II., page 46,) 
eighteen lines in decent couplets, of a pensive, if not 
an ethical tendency. One more revise — positively the 
last, if decently done — at any rate the penultimate. 
Mr. Canning's approbation (if he did approve) I 
need not say makes me proud. As to printing, 
print as you will and how you will — by itself, if you 
like ; but let me have a few copies in sheets. 

" Nov. 24, 1813. 

" You must pardon me once more, as it is all for 
your good : it must be thus — 

" He makes a solitude, ami rails it peace. 

• Makes ' is closer to the passage of Tacitus, from 
which the line is taken, and is, besides, a stronger 
word than ' leaves.' 

" Mark where his carnage and his conquests cease. 
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace." 



LETTER CLXXXV. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 27, 1813. 

"If you look over this carefully by the last proof, 
with my corrections, it is probably right ; this you 
can do as well or better: — I have not now time. 
The copies I mentioned to be sent to different 
friends last night, I should wish to be made up with 
the new Giaours, if it also is ready. If not, send 
the Giaour afterward. 

"The Morning Post says / am the author of 
Nourjahad ! ! ! This comes of lending the drawings 
for their dresses ; but it is not worth a formal con- 
tradiction. Besides, the criticisms on the supposi- 
tion will, some of them, be quite amusing and 
furious. The Orientalism — which I hear is very- 
splendid — of the melodrame (whosoever it is, and I 
am sure I don't know) is as good as an advertise- 
ment for your Eastern Stories, by filling their heads 
with glitter. 

" P. S. You will of course say the truth, that I 
am not the melodramatist — if any one charges me 
in your presence with the performance." 



LETTER CLXXXVI. 

TO MB. MUBEA.Y. 

" Nov. 28, 1813. 

"Send another copy (if not too much of a 
request) to Lady Holland of the Journal,* in 
my name, when you receive this ; it is for Earl 
Grey — and I will relinquish my own. Also, to Mr. 



Sharpe, and Lady Holland, and Lady Caroline 
Lamb, copies of ' The Bride,' as soon as convenient. 

" P. S. Mr. Ward and myself still continue our 
purpose ; but I shall not trouble you on any 
arrangement on the score of the Giaour and The 
Bride till our return — or, at any rate, before Mai, 
1814 — that is, six months from hence: and before 
that time you will be able to ascertain how far your 
otter may be a losing one ; if so, you can deduct 
proportionably ; and if not, I shall not at any rate 
allow.you to go higher than your present proposal, 
which is very handsome, and more than fair.* 

" I have had — but this must be entre nous, — a 
very kind note, on the subject of ' The Bride,' from 
Sir James Mackintosh, and an invitation to go 
there this evening, which it is now too late to 
accept." 

NOTE TO MB. MUBBAY. 

" Nov. 29, 1813. 
"Sunday — Monday morning — 3 o'clock — in 
my doublet and hose, swearing. 

" I send you in time an errata page, containing 
an omission of mine which must be thus added, as 
it is too late for insertion in the text. The passage 
is an imitation altogether from Medea in Ovid, and 
is incomplete without these two lines. Pray let 
this be done, and directly; it is necessary; will add 
one page to your book {making), and can do no 
harm, and is yet in time for the public. Answer 
me, thou oracle, in the affirmative. You can send 
the loose pages to those who have copies already, if 
they like ; but certainly to all the critical copy- 
holders. 

" P. S. I have got out of my bed, (in which, 
however, I could not sleep, whether I had amended 
this or not,) and so good morning. I am trying 
whether De L'Allemagne will act as an opiate, but 
I doubt it." 

NOTE TO MB. MUBBAY'. 

" Nov. 29, 1313. 

"' You have looked at it!' to much purpose, to 
allow so stupid a blunder to stand ; it is not ' cour- 
aye,' but ' carnage ; ' and if you don't want me to 
cut my own throat, see it altered. 

" I am very sorry to hear of the fall 4f Dresden." 



LETTER CLXXXYIL 



TO MB. MUBBAY. 



Penrose's Journal, a book published by Mr. Murray at (his time. 



" Nov. 29, 1813, Mosday. 

" You' will act as you please upon that point ; 
but whether I go or stay, I shall not say another 
word on the subject till May — nor then, unless 
quite convenient to yourself. I have many things 
I wish to leave to your care, principally papers. 
The vases need not now be sent, as Mr. Ward is 
gone to Scotland. You are right about the errata 
page ; place it at the beginning. Mr. Perry is a 
little premature in his compliments ; these may do 
harm by exciting expectation, and I think we ought 
to be above it — though I see the next paragraph is 
on the Journal,^ which makes me suspect yon as 
the author of both. 

" Would it not have been as well to have said ' in 
Two Cantos ' in the advertisement ? they will else 
think of fragments, a species of composition very 
well for once like one ruin in a \iew ; but oue would 
not build a town of them. The Bride, such as it 
is, is my first entire composition of any lengtly 
(except the Satire, and be d— d to it,) for tht 
Giaour is but a string of passages, and Childe 
Harold is, and I rather think always will be, uncon- 



• Mr. Murray had offered him a thousand guineas for the two poems, 
f Penrose's Journal. 



LETTERS. 



803 



eluded. I return Mr. Hay's note, with thanks to 
him and you. 

"There have been some epigrams on Mr. Ward: 
one I see to-day. The first I did not see, but heard 
yesterday. The second seems very bad*. I only 
hope that Mr. Ward does not believe that I had 
any connexion with either. I like and value him 
too well to allow my politics to contract into spleen, 
or to admire any thing intended to annoy him or 
his. You need not take the trouble to answer this, 
as I shall see you in the course of the afternoon. 

"P. S. I have said this much about the epi- 
grams, because I lived so much in the opposite. 
camp, and, from my post as an engineer, might be 
suspected as the flinger of these hand-gernadoes ; 
but with a worthy foe, I am all for open war, and not 
this bush-fighting, and have not had, nor will have, 
any thing to do with it. I do not know the 
author." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 30, 1R13. 

" Print this at the end of all that is of the 'Bride 
of Abydos,' as an errata page. 

"Bn. 
" Omitted, canto II., page 47, after line ccccxlix. 



Read,— 



' So that those arms cling closer round i 



" Then if my lip once rr.urmur, it must be 
No sigh for safety, hut a prayer for thee ( " 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Tuesday evening, Nov. 30, 1813. 

" For the sake of correctness, particularly in an 
errata page, the alteration of the couplet I have 
just sent (half an hour ago) must take place, in 
spite of delay or cancel; let me see the proof early 
to-morrow. I found out murmur to be a neuter 
verb, and have been obliged to alter the line so as 
to make it a substantive, thus — 

" The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 

Don't send the copies to the country till this is all 
right." . 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Dec. 2, 1813. 

"When you can, let the couplet enclosed be 
inserted either in the page, or in the errata page. 
I trust it is in time for some of the copies. This 
alteration is in the same part — the page but one 
before the last correction sent. 

"P. S. I am afraid, from all I hear, that people 
are rather inordinate in their expectations, which 
is very unlucky, but cannot now be helped. This 
comes of Mr. Perry and one's wise friends ; but do 
not you wind your hopes of success to the same pitch, 
for fear of accidents, and I can assure you that my 
philosophy will stand the test very fairly ; and I 
have done every thing to ensure you, at all events, 
from positive loss, which will be some satisfaction to 
both." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Dec 3, 1813. 

"I send you a scratch or two, the which heal. 
The Christian Observer is very savage, but certainly 
well written — and quite uncomfortable at the naugh- 
tiness of book and author. I rather suspect you 
won't much like the present to be more moral, if it 
is to shave also the usual fate of your virtuous 
volumes. 

" Let me see a proof of the six before incorpora- 
tion." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

11 Monday evening, Dec. 6, 1813. 

" It is very well, except that the Hnes are not 
numbered properly, and a diabolical mistake, page 



67, which must be corrected with the pen, if no 
other way remains ; it is the omission of ' not ' 
before 'disagreeable,' in the note on the amber 
rosary. This is really horrible, and nearly as bad 
as the stumble of mine at the threshold — I mean 
the misnomer of Bride. Pray do not let a copy go 
without the 'not;' it is nonsence and worse than 
nonsense as it now stands. I wish the printer was 
saddled with a vampire. 

" P. S. It is still hath instead of have in page 20; 
never was any one so misused as I am by your devils 
of printers. 

"P. S. I hope and trust the 'not' was inserted 
in the first edition. We must have something — 
any thing — to set it right. It is enough to answer 
for one's own bulls, without other people's." 



LETTER CLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Dec. 27, 1813. 

" Lord Holland is laid up with the gout, and 
would feel very much obliged if you could obtain, 
and send as soon as possible, Madame D'Arblay's 
(or even Miss Edgeworth's) new work. I know 
they are not out ; but it is perhaps possible for your 
Majesty to command what we cannot with much 
suing purchase, as yet. I need not say that when 
you are able or willing to confer the same favor on 
me, I shall be obliged. I would almost fall sick 
myself to get at Madame D'Arblay's writings. 

" P. S. You were talking to-day of the American 
edition of a certain unquenchable memorial of my 
younger days. As it can't be helped now, I own I 
have some curiosity to see a copy of Transatlantic 
typography. This you will perhaps obtain, and one 
for yourself; but I must beg that you will not 
import more, because, seriously, I do wish to have 
that thing forgotten as much as it has been forgiven. 

" If you send to the Globe editor, say that I 
want neither excuse nor contradiction, but merely 
a discontinuance of a most ill-grounded charge. I 
never was consistent in any thing but my politics ; 
and as my redemption depends on that solitary 
virtue, it is murder to carry away my last anchor." 



LETTER CLXXXIX. 

TO MR. ASHE.* 

" 4 Eennet street, St. James's, Dec. 14, 1813. 

'Sir, 

" I leave town for a few days to-morrow : on my 
return, I will answer your letter more at length. 
Whatever may be your situation, I cannot but 
commend your resolution to abjure and abandon 
the publication and composition of works such as 
those to which you have alluded. Depend upon it, 
they amuse few, disgrace both reader and tenter, 
md benefit none. It will be my wish to assist you, 
as far as my limited means will admit, to break 
such a bondage. In your answer, inform me what 
sum you think would enable you to extricate your- 
self from the hands of your employers, and to 
regain at least temporary independence, and I shall 
be glad to contribute my mite towards it. At 
present I must conclude. Your name is not 
unknown to me, and I regret, for your own sake, 



• Author of a publication relating to the Queen, called " The Book : " 
so of " Travels through America," and of.ier notorious libels. He bad 
rilten to Lord Byron, alleging poverty as his excuse for tho vile usee to 

which he had prostituted his pen, and soliciting the means of obtaiuiog som» 

hone6t employment. 



804 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



that you have ever leant it to the works you men- 
tion. In saying this, I merely repeat your own 
words in your letter to me, and have no wish what- 
ever to say a single syllable that may appear to 
insult your misfortunes. If I have, excuse me ; it 
is unintentional. " Yours, &c. 

"Byron." 

[In answer to this letter, Ashe mentioned as the 
sum necessary to extricate him from his difficulties, 
1501. — and, some short delay having occurred in the 
reply to this demand, he, in renewing his suit, 
complained, it appears, of neglect.] 



LETTER CXC. 



TO MR. ASHE. 



Sir, 



" When you accuse a stranger of neglect, you 
forget that it is possible business or absence from 
London may have interfered to delay his answer, as 
has actually occurred in the present instance. But 
to the point. I am willing to do what I can to 
extricate you from your situation. Your first 
scheme I was considering; but your own impa- 
tience appears to have rendered it abortive, if not 
irretrievable. I will deposit in Mr. Murray's hands 
(with his consent) the sum you mentioned, to be 
advanced for the time at ten pounds per month. 

" P. S. I write in the greatest hurry, which may 
make my letter a little abrupt ; but, as I said before, 
I have no wish to distress your feelings." 



LETTER CXCI. 

TO MR. GALT. 

"Dec. 11, 1813. 

"Mt Dear Galt, 

" There was no offence — there could be none.* I 
thought it by no means impossible that we might 
have hit on something similar, particularly as you 
are a dramatist, and was anxious to assure you of 
the truth, viz., that I had not wittingly seized upon 
plot, sentiment, or incident ; and I am very glad 
that I have not in any respect trenched upon your 
subjects. Something still more singular is, that the 
first part, where you have found a coincidence in 
some events within your observations on life, was 
drawn from observation of mine also ; and I meant 
to have gone on with the story, but on second 
thoughts, I thought myself two centuries at least 
too late for the subject ; which, though admitting 
of very powerful feeling and description, yet is not 
adapted for this age, ft least this country, though 
the finest works of the Greeks, one of Schiller's 
and Alfieri's, in modern times, besides several of 
our old (and best) dramatists, have been grounded 
on incidents of a similar cast. I therefore altered 
it as you perceive, and, in so doing, have weak- 
ened the whole^y interrupting the train of thought ; 
and, in composition, I do not think second thoughts 
are the best, though second expressions may im 
prove the first ideas. 

" I do not know how other men feel towards those 
they have met abroad, but to me there seems a kind 
of tie established between all who have met to- 
gether in a foreign country, as if we had met in a 
state of preexistence, and were talking over a life 
that has ceased ; but I always look forward to re- 
newing my travels, and though you, I think, are 



now stationary, if I can at all forward your pursuits 
there as well as here, I shall be truly glad in the op 
portunity. " Ever yours very sincerely, 

' P. S. I believe 1 leave town for a day or two ; 
on Mondays but after that I am always at home, 
and happy to see you until half past two. ' 



LETTER CXCII. 



TO MR. LEIGH HUNT. 



" Dec. 22, 1S13. 

; My Dear Sir, 

" I am, indeed, ' in your debt' — and what is still 
worse, am obliged to follow royal example, [he has 
just apprized his creditors that they must wait till 
the meeting,] and entreat your indulgence for, I 
hope, a very short time. The nearest relation, and 
almost the only friend I possess, has been in Lon- 
don for a week, and leaves it to-morrow, with me, for 
her own residence. I return immediately ; but we 
meet so seldom, and are so ■minuted when we meet 
at all, that I give up all engagements, till now, 
without reluctance. On my return, I must see you 
to console myself for my past disappointments. I 
should feel highly honored in Mr. B 's permis- 
sion to make his acquaintance, and there you are in 
my debt, for it is a promise of last summer which I 
still hope to see performed. Yesterday I had a let- 
ter from Moore ; you have probably heard from him 
lately ; but if not, you will be glad to learn that he 
is the same in heart, head, and health." 



LETTER CXCIII. 

TO MR. MERIVALE. 

"Jan. 1814. 

"My Dear Merivale. 

" I have redde Roncesvaux with very great plea- 
sure, and (if I were so disposed) see very little 
room for criticism. There is a choice of two lines 
in one of the last cantos, — I think ' Live and pro- 
tect' better, because ' Oh who ?' implies a doubt of 
Roland's power of inclination. I would allow the 
— but that point you yourself must determine on — 
I mean the doubt as to where to place a part of the 
poem, whether between the actions or no. Only if 
you wish to have all the success you deserve, never 
listen to friends, and — as I am not the least trou- 
blesome of the number — least of all to me. 

" I hope you will be out soon. March, sir, 
March, is the month for the trade, and they must 
be considered. You have written a very noble 
poem, and nothing but the detestable taste of the 
day can do you harm, — but I think you will beat it. 
Your measure is uncommonly well chosen and 
wielded." * * * 



* It would appear that he had written to me something which led me to 
imagine he was offended at my observations, and that I had, in consequence, 
deprecated his wrath." — Gait. 



LETTER CXCIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Sunday, Jan. 2, 1SI4. 

"Excuse this dirty paper — it is the penultimate 
half-sheet of a quire. Thanks for your book and the 
Ln. Chron. which I return. The Corsair is copied, 
and now at Lord Holland's ; but I wish Mr. Gifford 
to have it to-night. 

" Mr. Dallas is very perverse; so that I have of- 
fended both him and you, when I really meant to dc 
good, at least to one, and certainly not to anno) 



LETTERS. 



805 



either.* But I shall manage him, I hope. I am 
pretty confident of the Tale itself ; but one cannot 
be sure. If I get it from Lord Holland, it shall be 
sent. Yours, &c." , 



LETTER CXCV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Jan. 6, 1814. 

" I have got a devil of a long story in the press, 
entitled ' The Corsair,' in the regular heroic mea- 
sure. It is a pirate's isle, peopled with my own 
creatures, and you may easily suppose they do a 
world of mischief through the three cantos. Now 
for your Dedication — if you will accept it. This is 
positively my last experiment on public literary 
opinion, till I turn my thirtieth year, — if so be I 
flourish until that downhill period. I have a con- 
fidence for you — a perplexing one to me, and, just 
at present, in a state of abeyance in itself. * * * 
However, we shall see. In the mean time, you 
may amuse yourself with my suspense, and put all 
the justices of the peace in requisition, in case I 
come into your county with ' hack but bent.' 

"Seriously, whether I am to hear from her or him, 
it is a pause, which I shall fill up with as few- 
thoughts of my own as I can borrow from other 
people. Any thing is better than stagnation ; and 
now, in the interregnum of my autumn and a 
strange summer adventure, which I don't like to 
think of, (I don't mean * *'s, however, which is 
laughable only,) the antithetical state of my lucu- 
brations makes me alive, and Macbeth can ' sleep 
no more:' — he was lucky in getting rid of the 
drowsy sensation of waking again. 

" Pray write to me. I must send you a copy of 
the letter of Dedication. When do you come out ? 
I am sure we don't clash this time, for I am all at 
sea, and in action, — and a wife, and a mistress, &c, 
&c. 

" Thomas, thou art a happy fellow ; but if you 
wish us to be so, you must come up to town, as you 
did last year ; and we shall have a world to say, and 
to see, and to hear. Let me hear from you. 

" P. S. Of course you will keep my secret, and 
don't even talk in your sleep of it. Happen what 
may, your Dedication is ensured, being already 
■written ; and I shall copy it out fair to-night, 
in case business or amusement — Ainant altema 
Camaence." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Jan. 7, 1814. 

"You don't like the Dedication — very well; 
there is an other ; but you will send the other to Mr. 
Moore, that he may know I had written it. I send 
also mottos for the cantos. I think you will allow 
that an elephant may be more sagacious, but can- 
not be more docile. " Yours, 

" Bn. 

" The name is again altered to Medora."\ 



LETTER CXCVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan, 8, 1814. 

As it would not be fair to press you into a Dedi- 
cation, without previous notice, I send you tico, and 
I will tell why tico. The first, Mr. Murray, who 
sometimes takes upon him the critic (and I bear it 
from astonishment) says, may do you harm — God 
forbid ! this alone makes me listen to him. The 



• He had made a present of the copyright of the Corsair to Mr. Dallas, 
trhich occasioned some embarrassment between him and Mr. Murray. 
t It had bejn at first Genevra. 



fact is, he is a damned Tory, and has, I dare swear, 
something of self, which I cannot divine, at the 
bottom of his objection, as it is the allusion to Ire- 
land to which he objects. But he be d — d, though 
a good fellow enough, (your sinner would not be 
worth a d — n.) 

" Take your choice ; no one, save he and Mr. \ 
Dallas, has seen either, and D. is quite on my side, 
and for the first.* If I can but testify to you and 
the world how truly I admire and esteem you, I 
shall be quite satisfied. As to prose, I don't know 
Addison's from Johnson's ; but I will try to mend 
my cacology. Pray perpend, pronounce, and don't 
be offended with either. 

" My last epistle would probably put you in a 
fidget. But the Devil, who ought to be civil on such 
occasions, proved so, and took my letter to the right 
place. * * * * 

" Is it not odd ? the very fate I said she had es- 
caped from * *, she has now undergone from the 
worthy * * . Like Mr. Fitzgerald, shall I not lay 
claim to the character of ' Vatcs :' as he did in the 
Morning Herald for prophesying the fall of Bona- 
parte, who, by-the-by, I don't think is yet fallen. I 
wish he would rally and rout your legitimate 
sovereigns, having a mortal hate to all royal entails. 
But I am scrawling a treatise. Good night. Ever, 
&c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Jan. II, 1814. 

" Correct this proof by Mr. Gifford's (and from 
the MSS.) particularly as to the pointing. I have 
added a section for Gulnare, to fill up the parting 
and dismiss her more ceremoniously. If Mr. Gif- 
ford or you dislike, 'tis but a sponge, and another 
midnight better employed than in yawning over 
Miss * * ; who, by-the-by, may soon return the 
compliment. 

" Wednesday or Thursday. 

" P. S. I have redde * *. It is full of praises of 
Lord Ellcnborough ! ! ! (from which I infer near and 
dear relations at the bar,) and * * * 

"1 do not love Madame de Stael, but depend 
upon it, she beats all your natives hollow as an au- 
thoress, in my opinion ; and I would not say this if 
I could help it. 

"P. S. Pray report my best acknowledgements to 
Mr. Gifford in any words that may best express how 
truly his kindness obliges me. I won't bore him 
with lip thanks or notes." 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan. 13, 1814. 

" I have but a moment to write, but all is as it 
should be. I have said really far short of my opin- 
ion, but if you think enough, I am content. "Will 
you return the proof by the post, as I leave town on 
Sunday, and have no other corrected copy. I put 
' servant,' as being less familiar before the public ; be- 
cause I don't like presuming upon our friendship to 
infringe upon forms. As to the other word, you 
may be sure it is one I cannot hear or repeat too 
often. 

" I write in an agony of haste and confusion.— 
Perdonate." 



* The first was the one preferred. The other was as follows : 

" Jan. 7, 1S14. 
" My Dear Moore, 

" 1 had written to you a long letter of dedication, which 1 suppress, because, 
though it contained something relating to you which every one had been glad 
to hear, yet there was too much about politics, and poesy, ami all things 
whatsoever, ending with that topic on which most men are fluent, and none 
very amusing— one's self. It might have been re-written— but to what pur- 
pose ? My praise could add nothing to your well-earned and firmly-estab- 
lished fame ; and with my most hearty admiration of your talents, and delight 
in your conversation, you are already acquainted. In availing myself of 
your friendly permission to inscribe this poem to you, 1 can only wish too 
offering were as worthy your acceptance as your regard is dear to 

" Yours, most affectionately and faithfully, 

" BYRON." 



806 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CXCVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



'Jan. 15, 1814. 



" Before any proof goes to Mr. Gifford, it may be 
as well to revise this, where there are words omitted, 
faults committed, and the devil knows what. As to 
the dedication, I cut out the parenthesis of Mr.* 
but not another word shall move unless for a better. 
Mr. Moore has seen, and decidedly preferred, the 
part your Tory bile sickens at. If every syllable 
were a rattlesnake, or every letter a pestilence, they 
should not be expunged. Let those who cannot 
■•swallow, chew the expressions on Ireland ; or should 
even Mr. Croker array himself in all his terrors 
against them, I care for none of you, except Gif- 
ford ; and he won't abuse me except I deserve it — 
which will at least reconcile me to his justice. As 
to the poems in Hobhouse's volume, f the transla- 
tion from the Romaic is well enough ; but the best 
of the other volume (of mine, I mean) have been 
already printed. But do as you please — only, as I 
shall be absent when you come out, do, pray, let 
Mr. Dallas and you have a care of the press. 

" Yours, &c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

[1814, Jan. 16.] 

" I do believe that the Devil never created or per- 
verted such a fiend as the fool of a printer. I am 
obliged to enclose you, luckily for me, this second 
proof, corrected, because there is an ingenuity in his 
blunders peculiar to himself. Let the press be 
guided by the present sheet. " Yours, &c. 

" Bum the other. 

" Correct this also by the others in some things 
which I may have forgotten. There is one mistake 
he made, which, if it had stood, I would most cer- 
tainly have broken his neck." 



LETTER CXCVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Newslead Abbey, Jan. 22, 1814. 

" You will be glad to hear of my safe arrival here. 
The time of my return will depend upon the 
weather, which is so impracticable that this letter 
has to advance through more snows than ever 
opposed the emperor's retreat. The roads are im- 
passable, and return impossible for the present ; 
which I do not regret, as I am much at my ease, 
and six-and-ticenty complete this day — a very pretty 
age, if it would always last. Our coals are excel- 
lent, our fire-places large, my cellar full, and my 
head empty ; and I have not yet recovered my joy 
at leaving London. If any unexpected turn oc- 
curred with my purchasers, I believe I should hardly 
quit the place at all ; but shut my door and let my 
beard grow. 

" I forgot to mention (and I hope it is unneces- 
sary) that the lines beginning — Remember him,%&z., 
must not appear with the Corsair. You may slip 
them in with the smaller pieces newly annexed to 
Childe Harold ; but on no account permit them to 
be appended to the Corsair. Have the goodness to 
recollect this particularly. 

" The books I have brought with me are a great 
consolation for the confinement, and I bought more 
as we came along. In short, I never consult the 
thermometer, and shall not put up prayers for a 
thaw, unless I thought it would sweep away the 
rascally invaders of France. Was ever such a 
thing as Blucher's proclamation ? 



• He had, at first, after the words " Scott alone," inserted, in a parenthe- 
U, — " He will excuse the Mr.—' we do not say Mr. Cms&t.' " 
1 See Po»ms, p. 539. 
% See Poems, p. 546. 



" Just before I left town, Kemble paid me the 
compliment of desiring me to write a tragedy; I 
wish I could, but find my scribbling mood sub- 
siding — not before it was time ; but it is lucky to 
check it at all. If I lengthen my letter you will 
think it is coming on again ; so, good-bye. 
" Yours alway, 

"B. 

" P. S. If you hear any news of battle or retreat 
on the part of the Allies, (as they call them,) pray 
send it. He has my best wishes to manure the 
fields of France with an invading army. I hate 
invaders of all countries, and have no patience with 
the cowardly cry of exultation over him, at whose 
name you all turned whiter than the snow to which 
you are indebted for your triumphs. 

" I open my letter to thank you for yours just 
received. The ' Lines to a Lady Weeping' must go 
with the Corsair. I care nothing for consequence 
on this point. My politics are to me like a young 
mistress to an old man — the worse they grow, the 
fonder I become of them. As Mr. Gilford likes the 
' Portuguese Translation,' * pray insert it as an 
addition to the Corsair. 

" In all points of difference between Mr. Gifford 
and Mr. Dallas, let the first keep his place ; and in 
all difference between Mr. Gifford and Mr. Anybody- 
else, I shall abide by the former; if I am wrong, I 
can't help it. But 1 would rather not be right with 
any other person. So there is an end of that mat- 
ter. After all the trouble he has taken about me and 
mine, I should be very ungrateful to feel or act 
otherwise. Besides, in point of judgment, he is not 
to be lowered by a comparison. In politics he may 
be right too; but that with me is &\feeling, and I 
can't torify my nature.* 



LETTER CXCIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Newstead Abbey, Feb. 4, 1814. 

" I need not say that your obliging letter was very 
welcome, and not the less so for being unexpected. 

" It doubtless gratifies me much that our finale 
has pleased, and that the curtain drops gracefully. f 
You deserve it should, for your promptitude and 
good nature in arranging immediately with Mr. 
Dallas ; and I can assure you that I esteem your 
entering so warmly into the subject, and writing to 
me so soon upon it, as a personal obligation. We 
shall now part, I hope, satisfied with each other. 
I tvas and am quite in earnest in my prefatory pro- 
mise not to intrude anymore ; and this not from any 
affectation, but a thorough conviction that it is the 
best policy, and is at least respectful to my readers, 
as it shows I would not willingly run the risk of for- 
feiting their favor in future. Besides, I have other 
views and objects, and think that I shall keep this 
resolution ; for, since I left London, though shut up, 
snoio-boxxnA, and thaiv-boxmA, and tempted with all 
kinds of paper, the dirtiest of ink, and the bluntest 
of pens, I have not even been haunted by a wish to 
put them to their combined uses, except in letters 
of business. My rhyming propensity is quite gone, 
and I feel much as I did at Patras on recovering 
from my fever — weak, but in health, and only afraid 



• His translation of the pretty Portuguese song-, " Tu mi chamas." He 
was tempted to try another version of this ingenious thought, which is, per- 
haps, still more happy. 

11 You call me still your life — ah 1 change the word — 
Life is as transient as th' inconstant sigh ; 
Say, rather, I'm your soul, more just that name, 
For, like the soul, my love can never die." — Moore. 

t It will be recollected that he had announced the Corsair as " the last 
production with which he should trespass on the public patience for somt 
jean." 



LETTERS. 



807 



of a relapse. I do most frequently hope I never 

shall. . , , , . 

" I see by the Morning Chronicle there hath been 
discussion in the Courier ; and I read in the Morning 
Post a wrathful letter about Mr. Moore, in which 
some Protestant Reader has made a sad confusion 
about India and Ireland. 

" You are to do as you please about the smaller 
poems ; but I think removing them now from the 
Corsair looks like fear ; and if so, you must allow 
me not to be pleased. I should also suppose that, 
after the fuss of these newspaper esquires, they 
would materially assist the circulation of the Cor- 
sair ; an object I should imagine at present of more 
importance to yourself than Childe Harold's seventh 
appearance. Do as you like ; but don't allow the 
withdrawing that poem to draw any imputation of 
dismay upon me.* 

" Pray make my respects to Mr. Ward, whose 
praise I value most highly, as you well know ; it is 
in the approbation of such men that fame becomes 
worth having. To Mr. Gilford I am always grate- 
ful, and surely not less so now than ever. And so 
good night to my authorship. 

"I have been sauntering and dozing here very 
quietlv and not unhappily. You will be happy to 
hear that I have completely established my title 
deeds as marketable, and that the purchaser has 
succumbed to the terms, and fulfils them, or is to 
fulfil them forthwith. He is now hei« and we go on 
very amicably together — one in each wing of the 
Abbey. We set off on Sunday— I for town, he for 
Cheshire. 

" Mrs. Leigh is with me — much pleased with the 
place, and less so with me for parting with it, to 
which not even the price can reconcile her. Your 
parcel has not yet arrived — at least the Mags. &c. ; 
but I have received Childe Harold and the Corsair. 
I believe both are very correctly printed, which is a 
great satisfaction. 

"I thank you for wishing me in town; but I 
think one's success is most felt at a distance, and I 
enjoy my solitary self-importance in an agreeably 
sulky way of my own, upon the strength of your 
letter— for which I once more thank you, and anf, 
very truly, &c. 

" P. S. Don't you think Bonaparte's next publi- 
cation will be rather expensive to the Allies ? Per- 
ry's Paris letter of yesterday looks very reviving. 
What a Hydra and Briareus it is ! I wish they 
would pacify : there is no end to this campaigning." 



LETTER CC. 

TO Mil. MUK11AY. 

" Newslead Abbey, Feb 5, 1814. 

•' I quite forgot, in my answer of yesterday, to 
mention that I have no means of ascertaining 
whether the Newark Pirate has been doing what 
you say.f If so, he is a rascal, and a shabby rascal 
too ; and if his offence is punishable by law or pugil- 
ism, he shall be fined or buffeted. Do you try and 
discover, and I will make some inquiry here._ Per- 
haps some other in town may have gone on printing, 
and used the same deception. 

" The facsimile is omitted in Childe Harold, 
which is very awkward, and there is a note expressly 
on the subject. Pray replace it as usual. 

" On second and third thoughts, the withdraw- 
ing the small poems from the Corsair (even to add 
to°Childe Harold) looks like shrinking and shuf- 
fling, after the fuss made upon one of them by 
the Tories. Pray replace them in the Corsair's ap- 



pendix. I am sorry that Childe Harold requires 
some and such abetments to make him move off: 
but, if you remember, I told you his popularity 
would not be permanent. It is very lucky for the 
author that he had made up his mind to a tempo- 
rary reputation in time. The truth is, I do not 
think that any of the present day (and least of all, 
one who has not consulted the nattering side of 
human nature) have much to hope from posterity ; 
and you may think it affectation very probably, but 
to me, my present and past success has appeared 
very singular, since it was in the teeth of so many 
prejudices. I almost think people like to be contra- 
dicted. If Childe Harold flags, it will hardly be 
worth while to go on with the engravings ; but do 
as you please ; I have done with the whole concern ; 
and the enclosed lines written years ago, and copied 
from my skull-cap, are among the last with which 
you will be troubled. If you like, add them to 
Childe Harold, if only for the sake of another out- 
cry. You received so long an answer yesterday, 
that I will not intrude on you further than to repeat 
myself, " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. Of course, in reprinting (if you have oc- 
casion) you will take great care to be correct. The 
present editions seem very much so, except in the 
last note of Childe Harold, where the word rcspoji- 
sible occurs twice, nearly together; correct the 
second into answerable." 



NOTE TO Mil. MURRAY. 

" Newark, Feb. 6, 1814. 

" I am thus far on my way to town. Master 
Ridge* I have seen, and he owns to having reprinted 
some sheets, to make up a few complete remaining 
copies ! I have now given him fair warning, and if 
he plays such tricks again, I must either get an in- 
junction, or call for an account of profits, (as I 
never have parted with the copyright,) or, in short, 
any thing vexatious to repay him in his own way. 
If the weather does not relapse, I hope to bein 
town in a day or two. " Yours, &c." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Feb. 7, 1814. 



' I see all the papers in a sad commotion with 
those eight lines ;f and the Morning Post, in par- 
ticular, has found out that I am a sort of Richard 
HI. —deformed in mind and body. The last piece 
of information is not very new to a man who passed 
five years at a public school. 

" I am very sorry you cut out those lines for 
Childe Harold. Pray reinsert them in their old 
place in ' The Corsair.' " 



• He alludes to Ihe lines beginning " Weep, daughter of a royal line."— 
Poems, p. 547. 
t Reprinting the " Hours of Idleness." 



LETTER CCI. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

"Feb. 23, 1314. 

"There is a youngster — and a clwer one, named 
Reynolds, who has'just published a poem called 
' Safie,' published by Cawthorne. He is in the most 
natural and fearful apprehension of the Reviewers 
—and as you and I both know by experience the 
effect of such things upon a young mind, I wish 
you would take his production into dissection, and 
do it gently, /cannot, because it is Inscribed to 
me; but I assure you this is not my motive for 
wishing him to be tenderly treated, but because I 
know the misery, at his time of life, of untoward 
remarks upon Jirst appearance. 



• The printer at Newark. 
f " To a Lady Weeping.' 



808 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"Now for self. Pray thank your cousin — it is 
just as it should be, to my liking, and probably 
more than will suit any one else's. I hope and trust 
that you are well, and well doing. Peace be with 
you. Ever yours, my dear friend." 



LETTER CCII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Feb. 10, 1814. 

" I arrived in town Late yesterday evening, having 
been absent three weeks, which I passed in Notts 
quietly and pleasantly. You can have no concep- 
tion of the uproar the eight lines on the little 
Royalty's weeping in 1812 (now republished) have 
occasioned. The Regent, who had always thought 
them yours, chose — God knows why — on discover- 
ing them to be mine, to be affected, ' in sorrow rather 
than anger.' The Morning Post, Sun, Herald, 
Courier, have all been in hysterics ever since. Mur- 
ray is in a fright, and wanted to shuffle — and the 
abuse against me in all directions is vehement, un- 
ceasing, loud — some of it good, and all of it hearty 
I feel a little compunctious as to the Regent's 
regret ; — ' would he had been only angry ! but I fear 
him not.' 

"Some of these same assailments you have pro- 
bably seen. My person (which is excellent for ' the 
nonce ') has been denounced in verses, the more like 
the subject, inasmuch as they halt exceedingly 
Then, in another, I am an atheist — a rebel — and, at 
last, the devil, (boitcux, I presume.) My demonism 
seems to be a female's conjecture: if so, perhaps I 
could convince her that I am but a mere mortal, — if 
a queen of the Amazons may be believed, who says 
aptcTov xoA-ij ni(j>a. I quote from memory, so my 
Greek is probably deficient ; but the passage is 
meant to mean ******. 

" Seriously, I am in; what the learned call, a di- 
lemma, and the vulgar, a scrape ; and my friends 
desire me not to be in a passion, and like Sir Fret 
ful, I assure them that I am 'quite calm,' — but I am 
nevertheless in a fury. 

'_' Since I wrote thus far, a friend has come in, and 
we have been talking and buffooning, till I have 
quite lost the thread of my thoughts ; and, as I 
won't send them unstrung to you, good morning, 
and " Believe me ever, &c. 

"P. S. Murray, during my absence, omitted the 
Tears in several of the copies. I have made him 
replace them, and am very wroth with his qualms ; 
— ' as the wine is poured out, let it be drank to the 
dregs.' " 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Feb. 10, 1814. 

"lam much better, and indeed quite well this 
morning. I have received tico, but I presume there 
are more of the Ana, subsequently, and also some- 
thing previous, to which the Morning Chronicle 
replied. You also mentioned a parody on the Skull. 
I wish to see them all, because there may be things 
that require notice either by pen or person. 

" Yours, &c. 

"You need not trouble yourself to answer this ; 
but send me the things when you get them." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Feb. 12, 1814. 

"If you' have copies of the 'Intercepted Let- 
ters,'* Lady Holland would be glad of a volume, 
and when you have served others, have the goodness 
to think of your humble servant. 

"You have played the devil by that injudicious 
suppressioii, which you did totally without my con- 



sent. Some of the papers have exactly said what 
might be expected. Now I do not, and will not be 
supposed to shrink, although myself and every 
thing belonging to me were to perish with my 
memory. " Yours, &c, 

"Bx. 
" P. S. Pray attend to what I stated yesterday on 
technical topics." 



LETTER CCIII. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

"Feb. 9, 1814. 

"My Dear Sir, 

" I have been snow-bound and thaw-swamped 
(two compound epithets for you) in the 'valley of 
the shadow ' of Newstead Abbey for nearly a month, 
and have not been four hours returned to London. 
Nearly the first use I make of my benumbed fingers, 
is to thank you for your very handsome note in the 
volume* you have just put forth, only, I trust, to 
be followed by others on subjects more worthy your 
notice than the works of contemporaries. Of my- 
self, you speak only too highly, and you must think 
me strangely spoiled, or perversely peevish, even to 
suspect that any remarks of yours, in the spirit of 
candid criticism, could possibly prove unpalatable. 
Had they been harsh, instead of being written as 
they are, in the indelible ink and friendly admoni- 
tion, had they been the harshest — as I knew and 
know that you are above any personal bias, at least, 
against your fellow-bards, believe me, they would 
not have caused a remonstrance, nor a moment of 
rankling on my part. Your poem I read long ago 
in the ' Reflector,' and it is not much to say it is the 
best ' Session ' we have, and with a more difficult 
subject, for we are neither so good nor so bad (tak- 
ing the best and worst) as the wits of the olden 
time. 

" To your smaller pieces I have not yet had time 
to do justice by perusal, and I have a quantity of 
Unanswered, and I hope unanswerable, letters to 
wade through before I sleep, but to-morrow will see 
me through your volume. I am glad to see you 
have tracked Gray among the Italians. You will 
perhaps find a friend or two of yours there also, 
though not to the same extent ; but I have always 
thought the Italians the most poetical moderns ; our 
Milton and Spenser, and Shakspeare, (the last 
through translations of their Tales,) are very Tus- 
can, and surely it is far superior to the French school. 
You are hardly fair enough to Rogers. Why tea ? 
you might surely have given him supper, if only a 
sandwich.- Murray has, I hope, sent you my last 
bantling, 'The Corsair.' I have been regaled at 
every inn on the road by lampoons and other merry 
conceits on myself in the ministerial gazettes, oc- 
casioned by the republication of two stanzas, inserted 
in 1812, in Perry's paper. The hysterics of the 
Morning Post are quite interesting ; and I hear (but 
have not seen) of something terrific in a last week's 
Courier : all which I take with the ' calm indiffer- 
ence ' of Sir Fretful Plagiary. The Morning Post 
has one copy of devices upon my deformity, which 
certainly will admit of no ' historic doubts ' like 
' Dickon my master's ; ' another upon my atheism, 
which is not quite so clear ; and another very down- 
rightly says, ' I am the devil, (boiteux, they might 
have added,) and a rebel, and what not: possibly, 
my accuser of diabolism may be Rosa Matilda ; and 
if so, it would not be difficult to convince her that I 
am a mere man. I shall break in upon you in a day 
or two ; distance has hitherto detained me ; and I 
hope to find you well, and myself welcome. 
"Ever your obliged and sincere 

" Byron. 

• The Feast of the. Poets. 



LETTERS. 



809 



" P. S. Since this letter was written, I have been 
at your text, which has much good humor, in every 
sense of the word. Your notes are of a very high 
order indeed, particularly on Wordsworth." 



LETTER CCIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Monday, Feb. 14, 1814. 

" Before I left town yesterday, I wrote you a note, 
which I presume you received. I have heard so 
many different accounts of your proceedings, or 
rather of those of others towards you, in conse- 
quence of the publication of these everlasting lines, 
that I am anxious to hear from yourself the real 
state of the case. Whatever responsibility, oblo- 
quy, or effect is to arise from the publication, should 
surely not fall upon you in any degree ; and I can 
have no objection to your stating, as distinctly and 
publicly as you please, your unwillingness to publish 
them, and my own obstinacy upon the subject. 
Take any course you please to vindicate yourself, 
but leave me to fight my own way, and, as I before 
said, do not compromise me by any thing which may 
look like shrinking on my part ; as for your own 
make the best of it. " Yours, 

"Bx." 



any thing that breathes. I shall bear what I can, 
and what I cannot, I shall resist. The worst they 
could do would be to exclude me from society. I 
have never courted it, nor, I may add, in the gen- 
eral sense of the word, enjoyed it — and ' there is a 
world elsewhere ! ' 

"Any thing remarkably injurious, I have the 
same means of repaying as other men, with such in- 
terest as circumstances may annex to it. 

."Nothing but the necessity of adhering to regi- 
men prevents me from dining with you to-morrow. 
" I am yours most truly, 
• "Bv" 



LETTER CCV. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" Feb. 16, 18H. 

" My Dear Rogers, 

" I wrote to Lord Holland briefly, but I hope dis- 
tinctly, on the subject which has lately occupied 
much of my conversation with him and you.* As 
things now stand, upon that topic my determination 
must be unalterable. 

" I declare to you most sincerely that there is no 
human being on whose regard and esteem I set a 
higher value than on Lord Holland's ; and, as far as 
concerns himself, I would concede even to humilia- 
tion without any view to the future, and solely from 
my sense of his 1 conduct as to the past. For the 
rest, I conceive that I have already done all in my 
power by the suppression. f If that is not enough, 
they must act as they please ; but I will not ' teach 
my tongue a most inherent baseness,' come what 
may. You will probably be at the Marquis Lans- 
downe's to-night. I am asked, but I am not sure 
that 1 shall be able to go. Hobhouse will be there. 
I think, if you knew him well, you would like him. 

"Believe me always, yours very affectionately, 



LETTER CCVI. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" Feb. 16, 1814. 

" If Lord Holland is satisfied, as far as regards 
himself and Lady Hd., and as this letter expresses 
him to be, it is enough. 

"As for any impression the public may receive 
from the revival of the lines on Lord Carlisle, let 
them keep it — the more favorable for him, and the 
worse for me — better for all. 

"All the sayings and doings in the world shall 
not make me utter another word of conciliation to 



• Relative to a proposed reconciliation between Lord Carlisle and himself, 
t Of the Satire. 

102 



LETTER CCYII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Feb. 16, 1814. 

"You may be assured that the only prickles that 
sting from the Royal hedgehog are those which pos- 
sess a torpedo property, and may benumb some of 
my friends. / am quite silent, and ' hush'd in grim 
repose.' The frequency of the assaults has weak- 
ened their effects, — if ever they had any ; — and, if 
they had had much I should hardly have held my 
tongue, or withheld my fingers. It is something 
quite new to attack a man for abandoning his resent- 
ments. I have heard that previous praise and sub- 
sequent vituperation were rather ungrateful, but I 
did not know that it was wrong to endeavor to do 
justice to those who did not wait till I had made 
some amends for former and boyish prejudices, but 
received me into their friendship, when I might still 
have been their enemy. 

"You perceive justly that I must intentionally 
have made my fortune, like Sir Francis Wronghead. 
It were better if there were more nlferit in my inde- 
pendence ; .but it really is something now-a-days to 
be independent at all, and the less temptation to be 
otherwise, the more uncommon the case, in these 
times of paradoxical servility. I believe that most 
of our hates and likings have been hitherto nearly 
the same ; but from henceforth, they must, of ne- 
cessity, be one and indivisible, — and now for it ! I 
am for any weapon, — the pen, till one can find 
something sharper, will do for a beginning. 

" You can have no conception of the ludicrous 
solemnity with which these two stanzas have been 
treated. The Morning Post gave notice of an in- 
tended motion in the House of my brethren on the 
subject, and God knows what proceedings besides ; 
— and all this, as Bedridden in the ' Nights ' says, 
' for making a cream tart without pepper.' This 
last piece of intelligence is, I presume, too laugh- 
able to be true ; and the destruction of the custom- 
house appears to have, in some degree, interfered 
with mine ; — added to which, the last battle of Bona- 
parte has usurped the column hitherto devoted to 
my bulletin. 

"I send you from this day's Morning Post the 
best which have hitherto appeared on this ' impu- 
dent doggerel,' as the Courier calls it. There was 
another about my diet, when a boy — not at all bad — 
some time ago ; but the rest are but indifferent. 

" I shall think about your oratorical hint ;* — but 
I have never set much upon ' that cast,' and am 
grown as tired as Solomon of every thing, and of 
myself more than any thing. This is being what 
the learned call philosophical, and the vulgar, lack- 
a-daisical. I am, however, always glad of a bles- 
sing ;f pray repeat yours soon, — at least, your letter, 
and I shall think the benediction included. 

"Ever, &c." 



* Mr. Moore had endeavored to persuade him to take a part in parlia- 
mentary affaire, and to exercise his talent for oratory more frequently. 

t In concluding his letter, Mr. Moore having said "God bless you ! " 
added — " that is, if you have no objection." 



810 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCVIII. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 

" Feb. 17, 1SH. 

" The Courier of this evening accuses me of hav- 
ing ' received and pocketed ' large sums for my 
works. I have never yet received, nor wish to re- 
ceive, a farthing for any. Mr. Murray offered a 
thousand for the Giaour and Bride of Abydos, 
which I said was too much, and that if he could af- 
ford it at the end of six months, I would then direct 
how it might be disposed of; but neither then, nor 
at any other period, have I ever availed myself of 
the profits on my own account. For the republica- 
tion of the Satire, I refused four hundred guineas ; 
and for the previous editions I never asked nor re- 
ceived a sous, nor for any writing whatever. I do 
not wish you to do any thing disagreeable to your- 
self; there never was nor shall be any conditions 
nor stipulations with regard to any accommodation 
that I could afford you ; and, on your part, I can see 
nothing derogatory, in receiving the copyright. It 
was only assistance afforded to a worthy man, by 
one not quite so worth}'. 

" Mr. Murray is going to contradict this ;* but 
your name will not be mentioned : for your own 
part, you are a free agent, and are to do as you 
please. I only hope that now, as always, you will 
think that I wish to take no unfair advantage of the 
accidental opportunity which circumstances permit- 
ted me of being of use to you. 

"Ever, &c." 



In consequence of this letter, Mr. Dallas addressed 
an explanation to one of the newspapers, of which 
the following is a part : — 



■ to the editor of tiie morning post. 
" Sir, 

"I have seen the paragraph in an evening paper, 
in which Lord Byron is accused of ' receiving and 
pocketing' large sums for his works. I believe no 
one who knows him has the slightest suspicion of 
this kind ; but the assertion being public, I think it 
a justice I owe to Lord Byron to contradict it pub- 
licly. * * * 

" I take upon me to affirm that Lord Byron never 
received a shilling for any of his works. To my 
certain knowledge, the profits of the Satire were left 
entirely to the publisher of it. The gift of the 
copyright of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, I have 
already publicly acknowledged in the dedication of 
the new edition of my novels : and I now add my 
acknowledgment for that of the Corsair, not only 
for the profitable part of it, but for the delicate and 
delightful manner of bestowing it while yet unpub- 
lished. With respect to his two other poems, the 
Giaour and the Bride of Abydos, Mr. Murray, the 
publisher of them, can truly attest that no part of 
the sale of them has ever touched his hands, or been 
disposed of for his use." 



LETTER CCIX. 

TO * * * * . 

"Feb. 20, 1814. 

" Sir, 

" My absence from London till within these last 
few days, and business since, have hitherto pre- 
vented my acknowledgment of the volume I have 
lately received, and the inscription which it contains, 
for both of which I beg leave to return you my 
thanks, and best wishes for the success of the book 



and its author. The poem itself, as the work nf a 
young man, is creditable to your talents, and pro- 
mises better for future efforts than any which 1 can 
now recollect. Whether you intend to pursue your 
poetical career, I do not know, and can have no right 
to inquire — but, in whatever channel your abilities 
are directed, I think it will be your own fault il 
they do not eventually lead to distinction. Happi- 
ness must of course depend upon conduct — and even 
fame itself would be but a poor compensation for 
self-reproach. You will excuse me for talking to a 
man perhaps not many years my junior, with these 
grave airs of seniority ; but though I cannot claim 
much advantage in that respect, it was my lot to be 
thrown very early upon the world — to mix a good 
deal in it in more climates than one — and to pur- 
chase experience which would probably have been of 
greater service to any one than myself. But my 
business with you is in your capacity of author, and 
to that I will confine myself. 

" The first thing a young writer must expect, and 
yet can least of all suffer, is criticism. I did not 
bear it — a few years, and many changes have since 
passed over my head, and my reflections on that 
subject are attended with regret. I find, on dispas- 
sionate comparison, my own revenge more than the 
provocation warranted. It is true, I was very young 
— that might be an excuse to those I attacked — but 
to me it is none : the best reply to all objections is 
to write better — and if your enemies will not then 
do you justice, the world will. On the other hand, 
you should not be discouraged — to be opposed, is not 
to be vanquished, though a timid mind is apt to 
mistake every scratch for a mortal wound. There 
is a saying of Dr. Johnson's, which it is as well to 
remember, that ' no man was ever written down ex- 
cept by himself.' I sincerely hope that you will 
meet with as few obstacles as yourself can desire ; 
but if you should, you will find that they are to be 
stepped over ; to kick them down is the first resolve 
of a young and fiery spirit — a pleasant thing enough 
at the time — but not so afterwards : on this point, I 
speak of a man's oimi reflections — what others think 
or say, is a secondary consideration — at least, it has 
been so with me, but will not answer as a general 
maxim : he who would make his way in the world, 
must let the world believe that it was made for him, 
and accommodate himself to the minutest observ- 
ance of its regulations. I beg once more to thank 
you for your pleasing present, 

'< And have the honor to be 

" Your obliged and very obedient servant, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



; Feb. 26, 1814. 



"Dallas had, perhaps, have better kept silence; 
— but that was his concern, and, as his facts "are 
correct, and his motive not dishonorable to himself, 
I wished him well through it. As for his interpre- 
tations of the lines, he and any one else may inter- 
pret them as they please. I have and shall adhere 
to my taciturnity, unless something very particular 
occurs to render this impossible. Do not you say a 
word. If any one is to speak, it is the person prin- 
cipally concerned. The most amusing thing is 
that every one (to me) attributes the abuse to the 
man they personally most dislike ! — some say Croker, 
some C * * e, others Fitzgerald, &c., &c, &c. I 
do not know, and have no clue but conjecture. If 
discovered, and he turns out a hireling, he must be 
left to his wages ; if a cavalier, he must ' wink, and 
hold out his iron.' 

"I had some thoughts of putting the question to 
Croker, but Hobhouse, who, I am sure, would not 
dissuade me, if it were right, advised me by all 
means not;— 'that I had no right to take it upon 



LETTERS. 



811 



suspicion,' &c, &c. Whether Hobhouse is correct, 
I am not aware, but he believes himself so, and 
says there can be but one opinion on that subject. 
This I am, at least, sure of, that he would never 
prevent me from doing what he deemed the duty of 
a preux chevalier. In such cases — at least, in this 
country — we must act according to usages. In 
considering this instance, I dismiss my own per- 
sonal feelings. Any man will and must fight, when 
necessary, — even without a motive. Here, I should 
take it up really without much resentment; for 
unless a woman one likes is in the way, it is some 
years since I felt a long anger. But, undoubtedly, 
could I, or may I, trace it to a man of station, I 
should and shall do what is proper. 

" * * was angerly, but tried to conceal it. You 
are not called upon to avow the 'Twopenny,' and 
would only gratify them by so doing. Do you not 
see the great object of all these fooleries is to set 
him, and you, and me, and all persons whatsoever, 
by the ears ? — more especially those who are on 
good terms — and nearly succeeded. Lord H. wished 
me to concede to Lord Carlisle — concede to the devil ! 
— to a man who used me ill ? I told him, in answer, 
that I would neither concede, nor recede on the sub- 
ject, but be silent altogether ; unless any thing 
more could be said about Lady H. and himself, who 
had been since my very good friends ; — and there it 
ended. This was no time for concessions to Lord C. 

" I have been interrupted, but shall write again 
soon. Believe me ever, my dear Moore, &c." 



LETTER CCXI. 

TO W * * W * *, ESQ.* 

"Feb. 28, 1314. 

"M\ DearW., 

" I have but a few moments to write to you. Si- 
lence is the only answer to the things you mention ; 
nor should I regard that man as my friend who said 
a word more on the subject. I care little for attacks, 
but I will not submit to defences ; and I do hope 
and trust that you have never entertained a serious 
thought of engaging in so foolish a controversy. 
Dallas's letter was, to his credit, merely as to the 
facts which he had a right to state ; / neither have 
nor shall take the least public notice, nor permit 
any one else to do so. If I discover the writer, 
then I may act in a different manner ; but it will 
not be in writing. 

" An expression in your letter has induced me to 
write this to you, to entreat you not to interfere in 
any way in such a business, — it is now nearly over, 
and depend upon it they are much more chagrined 
by my silence than they could be by the best defence 
in the world. I do not know any thing that would 
vex me more than any further reply to these things. 
" Ever yours, in haste, 

"B." 



arises from other causes. Some day or other, when 
we are veterans, 1 may tell you a tale of present and 
past times ; and it is not from want of confidence 
that I do not now, — but— but— always a but to the 
end of the chapter. 

" There is nothing, however, upon the spot either 
to love or hate ; — but I certainly have subjects for 
both at no very great distance, and am besides 
embarrassed between three whom I know, and one 
(whose name at least) I do not know. All this 
would be very well, if I had no heart; but, unluck- 
ily, 1 have found that there, is such a thing still 
about me, though in no very good repair, and, also, 
that it has a habit of attaching itself to one, whe- 
ther I will or no. ' Divide et impera,' I begin to 
think, will only do for politics. 

"If I discover the 'toad,' as you call him, 1 
shall ' tread,' — and put spikes in my shoes to do it 
more effectually. The effect of all these fine things, 
I do not inquire much nor perceive. I believe * * 
felt them more than either of us. People are civil 
enough, and I have had no dearth of invitations, — 
none of which, however, I have accepted. I went 
out very little last year, and mean to go about still 
less. I have no passion for circles, and have, long 
regretted that I ever gave way to what is called a 
town life ; — which, of all the lives I ever saw (and 
they are nearly as many as Plutarch's) seems to me 
to leave the least for the past and future. 

" How proceeds the Poem ? Do not neglect it, 
and I have no fears. I need not say to you that 
your fame is dear to me, — I really might say dearer 
than my own ; for I have lately begun to think my 
things have been strangely overrated ; and, at any 
rate, whether or not, I have done with them for 
ever. I may say to you, what I would not say to 
every body, that the last two were written, the 
Bride in four, and the Corsair in ten days, — which I 
take to be a most humiliating confession, as it 
proves my own want of judgment in publishing, 
and the public's, in reading things, which cannot 
have stamina for permanent attention. ' So much 
for Buckingham.' 

" I have no dread of your being too hasty, and I 
have still less of your failing. But I think a year 
a very fair allotment of time to a composition which 
is not to be Epic; and even Horace's ' Nonum pre-' 
matur ' must have been intended for the Millenni- 
um, or some longer-lived generation than ours. I 
wonder how much we should have had of him, had 
he observed his own doctrines to the letter. Peace 
be with you ! Remember that I am always and 
most truly yours, &c. 

" P. S. I never heard the ' report ' you mention, 
nor, I dare say, many others. But, in course, you, 
as well as others, have ' damned good-natured 
friends,' who do their duty in the usual way. One 
thing will make you laugh * * * ." 



LETTER CCXII. 
to mr. moore. 
My Dear Friend, 



' March 3, 1814. 



" I have a great mind to tell you that I am 'un- 
comfortable,' if only to make you come to town; 
where no one ever more delighted in seeing you, 
nor is there any one to whom I would sooner turn 
for consolation in my mott vaporish moments. The 
truth is, I have 'no lack of argument ' to ponder 
upon of the most gloomy description, but this 



• A gentleman who volunteered to defend him in relation to the "Two 
Stanzas." 



LETTER CCXIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" March 12, 1814. 

" Guess darkly, and you will seldom err. At 
present, I shall say no more, and, perhaps — but no 
matter. I hope we shall some day meet, and what- 
ever years may precede or succeed it, I shall mark 
it with the ' white stone ' in my calendar. I am 
not sure that I shall not soon be in your neighbor- 
hood again. If so, and I am alone, (as will proba- 
bly be the case,) I shall invade and carry you off, 
and endeavor to atone for sorry fare by a sincere 
welcome. I don't know the person absent (barring 
'the sect') I should be so glad to see again. 

" I have nothing of the sort you mention but the 
lines, (the Weepers,) if you like to have them ii$ 
the Bag. I wish to give them all possible circula 



812 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



{ion. The Vault reflection is downright actionable, 
»nd to print it would be peril to the publisher ; but I 
think the Tears have a natural right to be bagged, 
and the editor (whoever he may be) might supply a 
facetious note or not, as he pleased. 

" I cannot conceive how the Vault* has got about, 
— but so it is. It is too farouche ; but, truth to say, 
my satires are not very playful. I have the plan of 
an epistle in my head, at him and to him ; and, if 
they are not a little quieter, I shall embody it. I 
should say little or nothing of myself. As to mirth 
and ridicule, that is out of my way ; but I have a 
tolerable fund of sternness and contempt, and, with 
Juvenal before me, I shall perhaps read him a lec- 
ture he has not lately heard in the Court. From 
particular circumstances, which came to my know- 
ledge almost by accident, I could ' tell him what he 
is — J know him well.' 

"1 meant, my dear M. to write to you a long 
letter, but I am hurried, and time clips my inclina- 
tion down to yours, &c. 

" P. S. Think again before you shelf your poem. 
There is a youngster, (older than me, by-the-by, 
but a younger poet,) Mr. G. Knight, with' a vol. of 
Eastern Tales, written since his return, for he has 
been in the countries. He sent to me last summer, 
and I advised him to write one in each measure, 
without any intention, at that time, of doing the 
same thing. Since that, from a habit of writing in 
a fever, I have anticipated him in the variety of 
measures, but quite unintentionally. Of the stories 
I know nothing, not having seen them ; but he has 
some lady in a sack, too, like the Giaour : — he told 
me at the time. 

"The best way to make the public 'forget' me 
is to remind them of yourself. You cannot suppose 
that / would ask you or advise you to publish, if I 
thought you would fail. I really have no literary 
envy ; and I do not believe a friend's success ever 
sat nearer another than yours do to my best wishes. 
It is for elderly gentlemen to 'bear no brother near,' 
and cannot become our disease for more years than 
we may perhaps number. I wish you to be out 
before Eastern subjects are again before the public." 



LETTER CCXIV. 

TO Mil. MURRAY. 

" March 12, 1814. 

" I have not time to read the whole MS.f but 
what I have seen seems very well written, (both 
prose and verse,) and, though I am and can be no 
judge, (at least a. fair one on this subject,) contain- 
ing nothing which you ought to hesitate publishing 
upon my account. If the author is not Dr. Busby 
himself, I think it a pity, on his oum account, that 
he should dedicate it to his subscribers ; nor can I 
perceive what Dr. Busby has to,do with the matter, 
except as a translator of Lucretius, for whose doc- 
trines he is surely not responsible. I tell you open- 
ly, and really most sincerely, that, if published at 
all, there is no earthly reason why you should not ; 
on the contrary I should receive it as the greatest 
compliment you could pay to your good opinion of 
my candor, to print and circulate that, or any other 
work, attacking me in a manly manner, and with- 
out any malicious intention, from which, as far as I 
have seen, I must exonerate this writer. 

"He is wrong in one thing,—/ am nil atheist; 
but if he thinks I have published principles tending 
to such opinions, he has a perfect right to contro- 



* The lines on the opening of the vault that contained the remaios of 
Henry VIII. and Charles I. 

t The manuscript of a long grave satire, entitled " Anti-Byron," wltich 
had been sent to Mr. Murray, and by him forwarded to Lord Byron, with a 
request — not meant, I believe, seriously — that he would give his opinion as to 
the propriety of publishing it.— Moore. ' 



vert them. Pray publish it; I shall never forgive 
myself if I think that I have prevented you. 

" Make my compliments to the author, and tell 
him I wish him success ; his verse is very deserving 
of it ; and I shall be the last person to suspect his 
motives. Yours, &c. 

"P. S. If you do not publish it, some one else 
will. You cannot suppose me so narrow-minded as 
to shrink from discussion. I repeat once for all, 
that I think it a good poem, (as far as I have 
redde;) and that is the only point you should con- 
sider. How odd that eight lines should have given 
birth, I really think, to eight thousand, including 
all that has been said, and will be, on the subject ' " 



LETTER CCXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 9, 1814. 

" All these news are very fine ; but nevertheless I 
want my books, if you can find, or cause them to be 
found for me, — if only to lend them to Napoleon in 
'the island of Elba,' during his retirement. I also 
(if convenient, and you have no party with you) 
should be glad to speak with you for a few minutes 
this evening, as I have had a letter from Mr. Moore, 
and wish to ask you, as the best judge, of the best 
time for him to publish the work he has composed. 
I need not say, that I have his success much at 
heart ; not only because he is my friend, but some- 
thing much better — a man of great talent, of which 
he is less sensible than I believe any even of his 
enemies. If you can so far oblige me as to step 
down, do so ; and if you are otherwise occupied, 
say nothing about it. I shall find you at home in 
the course of next week. 

"P. S. I see Sotheby's Tragedies advertised. 
The Death of Darnley is a famous subject — one of 
the best, I should think, for the drama. Pray let 
me have a copy, when ready. 

"Mrs. Leigh was very much pleased with her 
books and desired me to thank you ; she means, 
I believe, to write to you her acknowledgments." 



LETTER CCXVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" 2, Albany, April 9, 1814. 

"Viscount Althorp is about to be married, and I 
have gotten his spacious bachelor apartments in 
Albany, to which you will, I hope, address a speedy 
answer to this mine epistle. 

" I am but just returned to town, from which you 

ay infer that I have been out of it ; and I have 
been boxing, for exercise, with Jackson for this last 
month daily. I have also been drinking, — and, on 
one occasion, with three other friends at the Cocoa 
Tree, from six till four, yea, unto five in the matin. 
We clareted and champagned till two — then supped, 
and finished with a kind of regency punch composed 
of Madeira, brandy, and green tea, no real water 
being admitted therein. There was a night for you ! — 
without once quitting the table, except to ambulate 
home, which I did alone, and in utter contempt ot 
a hackney-coach and my own vis, both of which 
were deemed necessary for our conveyance. And 
s0) — i am very well, and they say it will hurt my 
constitution. 

' I have also, more or less, been breaking a few of 
the favorite commandments ; but I mean to pull up 
and marry,— if any one will have me. In the mean 
time, the other day I nearly killed myself with a 
collar of brawn, which I swallowed for supper, and 



LETTERS. 



endigested for I don't know how long ; — but that is 
by-the-by. All this gormandize was in honor of 
Lent ; for I am forbidden meat all the rest of the 
year, — but it is strictly enjoined me during your 
solemn fast. I have been, and am, in very tolerable 
love ; — but of that hereafter, as it may be. 

" My dear Moore, say what you will in your pre- 
face ; and quiz any thing, or any body, — me, if you 
like it. Oons ? dost thou think me of the old, or 
rather elderly, school ? If one can't jest with one's 
friends, with whom can we be facetious ? You have 
nothing to fear from * *, whom I have not seen, 
being out of town when he called. He will be very 
correct, smooth, and all that, but I doubt whether 
there will be any ' grace beyond the reach of art ;' — 
and whether there is or not, how long will you be so 
d — d modest ? As for Jeffrey, it is a very handsome 
thing of him to speak well of an old antagonist, — 
and what a mean mind dared not do. Any one 
will revoke praise ; but — were it not partly my own 
case — I should say that very few have strength of 
mind to unsay their censure, or follow it up with 
praise of other things. 

"What think you of the review of Levis? It 
beats the Bag and my hand-grenade hollow, as an 
invective, and hath thrown the Court into hysterics, 
as I hear from very good authority. Have you 
heard from * * *. 

" No more rhyme for — or rather, from — me. I 
have taken my leave of that stage, and henceforth 
will mountebank it no longer. I have had my day, 
and there's an end. The utmost I expect, or even 
wish, is to have it said in the Biographia Britannica, 
that I might perhaps have been a poet, had I gone 
on and amended. My great comfort is that the tem- 
porary celebrity I have wrung from the world has 
been in the very teeth of all opinions and preju- 
dices. I have flattered^o ruling powers ; I have 
never concealed a single thought that tempted me. 
They can't say I have truckled to the times, nor to 
popular topics, (as Johnson, or somebody, said of 
Cleveland,) and whatever I have gained has been at 
the expenditure of as much personal favor as pos- 
sible ; for I do believe never was a bard more un- 
popular, quoad homo, than myself. And now I 
have done ; — ' fudite nunc alios.' Every body may 
be d — d, as they- seem fond of it, and resolved to 
stickle lustily for endless brimstone. 
' " Oh — by-the-by, I had nearly forgot. There is a 
long poem, an ' Anti-Byron,' coming out, to prove 
that I have formed a conspiracy to overthrow, by 
rhyme, all religion and government, and have al- 
ready made great progress ? It is not very scurri- 
lous, but serious and ethereal. I never felt myself 
important, till I saw and heard of my being such a 
little Voltaire as to induce such a production. — 
Murray would not publish it, for he was a fool, and 
so I told him ; but some one else will, doubtless. 
'Something too much of this.' 

"Your French scheme is good, but let it be 
Italian ; all the Angles will be at Paris. Let it be 
Rome, Milan, Naples, Florence, Turin, Venice, »r 
Switzerland, and 'egad!' (as Bayes saith) I will 
connubiate and join you; and will write a new 
' Inferno' in our Paradise. Pray think of this — and 
I will really buy a wife and a ring, and say the cere- 
mony, and settle near you in a summer-house upon 
the Arno, or the Po, or the Adriatic. 

"Ah! my poor little pagod, Napoleon, has 
walked off his pedestal. He has abdicated, they 
say. This would draw molten brass from the eyes 
of Zatanai. What ! ' kiss the ground before young 
Malcom's feet, and then be baited by the rabble's 
curse !' I cannot bear such a crouching catastrophe. 
I must stick to Sylla, for my modern favorites don't 
do, — their resignations are of a different kind. All 
health and prosperity, my dear Moore. Excuse 
this lengthy letter. Ever, &c. 

" P. S. The Quarterly quotes you frequently in 



perpetually after you and yours, 
answer them in person ? 



813 

When will you 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

* "April 10, 1814. 

" I have written an Ode on the fall of Napoleon, 
which, if you like, I will copy out, and make you a 
present of. Mr. Merivale has seen part of it, and 
likes it. You may show it to Mr. Gifford, and 
print it, or not, as you please— it is of no conse- 
quence. It contains nothing in his favor, and 
no allusion whatever to our own government or the 
Bourbons. Yours, &c. 

" P. S. It is in the measure of my stanzas at the 
end of Childe Harrold, which were much liked, be- 
ginning, ' And thou art dead,' &c. There are ten 
stanzas of it — ninety lines in all." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 11, 1814. 

" I enclose you a lettered froWMrs. Leigh. 

"It will be best not to put my name to our Ode ; 
but you may say as openly as you like that it is 
mine, and I can inscribe it to Mr. Hobhouse from 
the autmr, which will mark it sufficiently. After 
the resolution of not publishing, though it is a 
thing of little length and less consequence, it will 
be better altogether that it is anonymous ; but we 
will incorporate it in the first tome of ours that you 
find time or the wish to publish. 

" Yours alway, 

"B. 

" P. S. I hope you got a note of alterations, sent 
this matin ? 

"P. S. Oh my books ! my books ! will you never 
find my books ? 

"Alter 'potent spell' to 'quickening spell:' the 
first (as Polonius says) ' is a vile phrase,' and means 
nothing, besides being common-place and Rosa- 
Matildaish." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" April 12, 1814. 

I send you a few notes and trifling alterations, 
and an additional motto from Gibbon, which you will 
find singularly approjwiatc. A ' Good-Natured 
Friend' tells me there is a most scurrilous attack on 
us in the Antijacobin Review, which you have not 
sent. Send it, as I am in that state of languor 
which will derive benefit from getting into a pas- 
sion. Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Albany, April Sil), 1S14. 

" I am very glad to hear that you are to be tran- 
sient from Mayfield so very soon, and was taken in 
by the first part of your letter. f Indeed, for aught 

know, you may be treating me as, Slipslop 
says, with ' ironing ' even now. I shall say noth- 
ing of the shock, which had nothing of humeur in 
it ; as I am apt to take even a critic, and still more 
a friend, at his word, and never to doubt that \ 



i 1 am ; and, besides, they seem to forget that you promised, abjut 
an Article On America ; and every body I knOW asks month or two ago, not to write any more for years. Seriously," Jtc, &c. 



' See page 527. 

t 1 had begun my letter in the following manner: — " Have you seen the 
'Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte ?' — I suspect it to be either Fitzgerald's or Rosa 
Matilda's. Those rapid and masterly portraits of all the tyrants that pre- 
ceded Napoleon have a vigor in them which would incline me to say th»* 
Rosa Matilda is the person ; but then, on the other hand, that powerful grasp 
of history," &c, &c. After a little more ol this mock parallel, the letter wen) 
on thus :— " 1 should like to know what you think of the matter t Some 
friends of mine here will insist that it is the work of the author ol Child* 
Harold,— but then they are not so well read in Fitzgerald and Rosa Matildt 



814 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



have been writing cursed nonsense if they say so. 
There was a mental reservation in my pact with the 
public, in behalf of anonymes ; and, 'even had there 
not, the provocation was such as to make it physi- 
cally impossible to pass over this damnable epoch 
of triumphant tameness. 'Tis a cursed business; 
and, after all, I shall think higher of rhyme and 
reason, and very humbly of your heroic people, till 
— Elba becomes a volcano, and sends him out again. 
I can't think it all over yet. 

"My departure for the Continent depends, in 
some measure, on the incontinent. I have two 
country invitations at home, and don't know what 
to say or do. In the mean time, I have bought a 
macaw and a parrot, and have got up my books ; 
and I box and fence daily, and go out very little. 

"At this present writing, Louis the Gouty is 
wheeling in triumph into Piccadilly, in all the 
pomp and rabblement of royalty. I had an offer of 
seats to see them pass ; but, as I have seen a sultan 
going to mosque, and been at his reception of an 
ambassador, the most Christian King ' hath no at- 
tractions for me :' — Wough in some coming year of 
the Hegira, I should not dislike to see the place 
where he had reigned, shortly after the second revo- 
lution, and a happy sovereignty of two months, the 
last six weeks being civil war. 

" Pray write, and deem me ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXX. 



LETTER CCXVIII. 

TO MR. MURH.VY. 

"April 21, 1S14. 

" Many thanks with the letters which I return. 
You know I am a jacobin, and could not wear 
white, nor see the installation of Louis the Gouty. 

" This is sad news, and very hard upon the suf- 
ferers at any, but more at such a time — I mean the 
Bayonne sortie. 

" You should urge Moore to come out. 

" P. S. I want Moreri to purchase for good and 
all. I have a Bayle, but want Moreri too. 

" P. S. Perry hath a piece of compliment to-day ; 
but I think the name might have been as well omit- 
ted. No matter ; they can but throw the old story 
of inconsistency in my teeth, — let them, — I mean as 
to not publishing. However, now I will keep my 
word. Nothing but the occasion, which was phys- 
ically irresistible, made me swerve ; and I thought 
an anonyme within my pact with the public. It is 
the only thing I have or shall set about." 



LETTER CCXIX. 

TO ME. MURRAY. 

" April 25, 1814. 

" Let Mr. Gifford have the letter and return it at 
his leisure. I would have offered it, had I thought 
that he liked things of the kind. 

" Do you want the last page immediately ? I have 
doubt the lines being worth printing ; at any 
rate, I must see them again, and alter some pas- 
sages, before they go forth in any shape into the 
gcean of circulation ; a very conceited phrase, by- 
the-by : well then — channel of publication will do. 

" ' I am not i' the vein,' or I could knock off a 
stanza or three for the Ode, that might answer the 
purpose better. At all events, I must see the lines 
again first, as there be two I have altered in my 
mind's manuscript already. Has any one seen and 
judged of them? that is the criterion by which I 
will abide — only give me a fair report, and ' nothing 
extenuate,' as I will in that case do something else. 

" Ever, &c. 

" I want Moore, and an Athe?iceus." 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" April 26, 1814. 

" I have been thinking that it might be as well to 
publish no more of the Ode separately, but incorpo- 
rate it with any of the other things, and include 
the smaller poem too (in that case)i-which I must 
previously correct, nevertheless. I can't for the 
head of me, add a line worth scribbling ; my ' vein' 
is quite gone, and my present occupations are of 
the gymnastic order — boxing and fencing — and my 
principal conversation is with my macaw and Bayle. 
want my Moreri, and I want Athenaeus. 

" P. S. I hope you sent back that poetical 
packet to the address which I forwarded to you on 
Sunday : if not, pray do ; or I shall have the au- 
thor screaming after his Epic." 



LETTER CCXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" April 26, 1814. 

"I have no guess at your author, — but it is 
a noble Poem,* and worth a thousand Odes of any 
body's. I suppose I may keep this copy ; — after 
reading it, I really regret having written my own. I 
say this very sincerely, albeit unused to think 
humbly of myself. 

" I don't like the additional stanzas at all, and 
they had better be left out. The fact is, I can't 
do any thing I am asked to do, however gladly I 
would ; and at the end of a week my interest in a 
composition goes off. This will account to you for 
my doing no better for your ' Stamp Duty' Post- 
script. • 

" The S. R. is verf civil — but what do they mean 
by Cliilde Harold resembling Marmion ? and the 
next two, Giaour and Bride, not resembling Scott ? 
I certainly never intended to copy him ; but, if 
there be any copyism, it must be in the two poems, 
where the same versification is adopted. However, 
they exempt the Corsair from all resemblance to any 
thins, — though I rather wonder at his escape. 

" If ever I did any thing original, it was in 
Childe Harold, which /prefer to the other things 
always, after the first week. Yesterday I re-read 
English Bards ; — bating the malice, it is the best. 

"Ever &c." 



LETTER CCXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" 2, Albany, April 29, 1814. 

Dear Sie, 

" I enclose a draft for the money : when paid, send 
the copyright. I release you from the thousand 
ptfunds "agreed on for the Giaour and Bride, and 
there's an end. 

' If any accident occurs to me, you may do then 
as you please; but, with the exception of two 
copies of each for yourself only, I expect and re 
quest that the advertisements be withdrawn, and 
the remaining copies of all destroyed ; and any ex- 
pense so incurred, I will be glad to defray. f 

' For all this, it might be as well to assign some 
reason. I have none to give, except my own ca- 
price, and I do not consider the circumstance of con- 
sequence enough to require explanation. 

" In course, I need hardly assure you that they 
never shall be published with my consent, directly 



* " Bonaparte," by Mr. Stratford Canning. 

t He had, at this time, formed a resolution of purchasing back the whote 
of hU past copyrights, and suppressing every page and line he had e»ef 
written. 



LETTERS. 



815 



or indirectly, by any person whatsoever, — that I am 
perfectly satisfied and have every reason so to be, 
with your conduct in all transactions between us as 
publisher and author. 

" It will give me great pleasure to preserve your 
acquaintance, and to consider you as my friend. 
Relieve me very truly, and for much attention, 
" Your obliged and. very obedient servant, 

" Byron. 

" P. S. I do not think that I have overdrawn at 
Hammersley's ; but if that be the case, I can draw 
for the superflux on Hoares. The draft is 51. short, 
but that I will make up. On payment — not before 
— return the copyright papers." 



LETTER CCXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"May 1, 1814. 

" Dear Sir, 

" If your present note is serious, and it really 
would be inconvenient, there is an end to the 
matter : tear my draft, and go on as usual : in that 
case, we will recur to our former basis. That I 
was perfectly serious, in wishing to suppress all 
future publication, is true ; but certainly not to 
interfere with the convenience of others, and more 
particulars your own. Some day, I will tell you 
the reason of this apparently strange resolution. 
At present, it may be enough to say that I recall it 
at your suggestion : and as it appears to have 
annoyed you, I lose no time in saying so. 

" Yours, truly, 

«B." 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" May 4, 1814. 

" Last night we supp'd at R fe's board, &c. 

******** 

" I wish people would not shirk their dinners — 
ought it not to have been a dinner ? — and that d — d 
anchovy sandwich ! 

" That plaguy voice of yours made me sentimen- 
tal, and almost fall in love with a girl who was 
recommending herself, during your song, by hating 
music. But the song is past, and my passion can 
wait, till the puerile is more harmonious. 

" Do you go to Lady Jersey's to-night ? It is a 
large party, and you won't be bored into ' softening 
rocks,' und. all that. Othello is to-morrow and 
Saturday too. Which day shall we go ? t When 
shall I see you ? If you call, let it be after three 
and as near four as you please. Ever, &c." 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" May 4, 1814. 

" Dear Tom, 

" Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose 
you an experiment, which has cost me something 
more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to 
be worth your taking any in your proposed setting.* 
Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire, without 
phrase. " Ever yours, 

" Byron." 
i. 

11 1 speak not, I trace not, 1 breathe not thy name, 4c. n 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" Will you and Rogers come to my box at 
Covent, then ? I shall be there, and none else — or 
I won't be there, if vou twain would like to go 
without me. You will not get so good a place 



• See Poemi, p. 558. 



hustling among the publican boxers, with damnable 
apprentices (six feet high) on a back row. Will 
you both oblige me and come — or one — or neither — 
or, what you will ? 

" P. S. An' you will, I will call for you at half 
past six, or any time of your own dial." 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"I have gotten a box for Othello to-night, and 
send the ticket for your friends the R — fe's. I 
seriously recommend to you to recommend to them 
to go for half an hour, if only to see the third act — 
they will not easily have another opportunity. We 
— at least, I — cannot be there, so there will be no 
one in the way. Will you give or send it to them ? 
it will come with a better grace from you than me. 

" I am in no good plight, but will dine at * * 's 
with you, if I can. There is music and Covent-g. — 
Will you go, at all events, to my box there after- 
ward, to see a ch'but of a young sixteen,* in the 
' Child of Nature ? ' " 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 
• " Sunday matin. 

" Was not Iago perfection ? particularly the last 
look. I was close to him (in the orchestra,) and 
never saw an English countenance half so expres- 
sive. I am acquainted with no fmmaterial sensual- 
ity so delightful as good acting ; and, as it is fitting 
there should be good plays, now and then, besides 
Shakspeare's, I wish you or Campbell would write 
one; the rest of 'us youth' have not heart enough. 

" You were cut up in the Champion — is it not 
so ? this day, so am I — even to shocking the editor. 
The critic writes well ; and as, at present, poesy is 
not my passion predominant, and my snake of 
Aaron has swallowed up all the other serpents, I 
don't feel fractious. I send you the paper, which I 
mean to take in for the future. We go to M.'s 
together. Perhaps I shall see you before, but don't 
let me bore you, now, nor ever. 

" Ever, as now, truly and affectionately, &c." 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" May 5, 1814. 

" Do you go to Lady Cahir's this even ? If you 
do — and whenever we are bound to the same follies 
— let us embark in the same ' Shippe of Fooles.' I 
have been up till five, and up at nine : and feel 
heavy with only winking for the last three or four 
nights. 

" I lost my party and place at supper, trying to 
keep out of the way of * * * *. I would have gone 
away altogether, but that would have appeared a 
worse affectation than t' other. You are of course 
engaged to dinner, or we may go quietly together 
to my box at Covent Garden, and afterward to this 
assemblage. Why did you go away so soon ? 

" Ever, &c. 

P. S. Ought not R * * * fe's supper to have been 
a dinner ? Jackson is here, and I must fatigue 
myself into spirits." 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" May 18, 1314. 

" Thanks — and punctuality. What has passed 
at * * * * House ? I suppose that i" am to know, 
and ' pars fui ' of the conference. I regret that 
your * * * s will detain you so late, but I suppose 
you will be at Lady Jersey's. I am going earlier 
with Hobhouse. You recollect that to-morrow we 
sup and see Kean. 

" P. S. Two to-morrow is the hour of pugilism." 



• Mia* Foote's lirat appearance. 



816 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCXXIV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 

" May 23, 1814. 

" I must send you the Java government gazette 
of July 3, 1813, just sent me by Murray. Only 
think of our (for it is you and I) setting paper 
warriors in array in the Indian seas. Does not this 
sound like fame — something almost like posterity? 
It is something to have scribblers squabbling about 
us five thousand miles off, while we are agreeing so 
well at home. Bring it with you in your pocket ; 
it will make you laugh, as it hath me. 

" Ever yours, 



B. 



" P. S. Oh, the anecdote ! 



LETTER CCXXV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"May 31, 1814. 

" As I shall probably not see you he-re to-day, I 
write to request that if not inconvenient to your- 
self, you will stay in town till Sunday ; if not to 
gratify me, yet to please a great many others, who 
will be very sorry to lose you. As for myself, I can 
only repeat that I wish you would either remain a 
long time with us, or not come at all ; for these 
snatches of society make the subsequent separations 
bitterer than ever. 

" I believe you think that I have not been quite 
fair with that Alpha and Omega of beauty, &c, 
with whom you would willingly have united me. 
But if you consider what her sister said on the 
subject, you will less wonder that my pride should 
have taken the alarm ; particularly as nothing but 
the every-day flirtation of every-day people ever 
occurred between your heroine and myself. Had 
Lady * * * appeared to wish it, or even not to 
oppose it, I would have gone on, and very possibly 
married (that is, if the other had been equally 
accordant) with the same indifference which has 
frozen over the ' Black Sea ' of almost all my pas 
sions. It is that very indifference which makes me 
so uncertain and apparently capricious. It is not 
eagerness of new pursuits, but that nothing im- 
presses me sufficiently to jix ; neither do I feel 
disgusted, but simply indifferent to almost all 
excitements. The proof of this is, that obstacles, 
the slightest even, stop me. This can hardly be 
timidity, for I have done some impudent things too, 
in my time. ; and in almost all cases, opposition is a 
stimulus. In mine, it is not ; if a straw were in my 
way, I could not stoop to pick it up. 

" I have sent this long tirade, because I would 
not have you suppose that I have been trifling 
designedly with you or others. If you think so, in 
the name of St. Hubert (the patron of antlers and 
hunters) let me be married out of hand — I don't 
care to whom, so that it amuses any body else, and 
don't interfere with me much in the day-time. 

« Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Juno 14, 1814. 

" I could be very sentimental now, but I won't. 
The truth is, that I have been all my life trying to 
harden my heart, and have not yet quite succeeded — 
though there are great hopes — and you do not 
know how it sunk with your departure. What adds 
to my regret is having seen so little of you during 
your stay in this crowded desert where one ought 



to be able te. oear thirst like a camel, — the springs 
are so few, and most of them so muddy. 

" The newspapers will tell you all that is to be 
told of emperors, &c. They have dined, and supped, 
and shown their flat faces in all thoroughfares, and 
several saloons. Their uniforms are very becoming, 
but rather short in the skirts ; and their conversa- 
tion is a catechism, for which and the answers I 
refer you to those who have heard it. 

< I think of leaving town for Newstead soon. Il 
so, I shall not be remote from your recess, and 
(unless Mrs. M. detains you at home over the 
caudle-cup and a new cradle), we will meet. You 
shall come to me, or I to you, as you like it ; — but 
meet we will. An invitation from Aston has reached 
me, but I do not think I shall go. I have also 
heard of * * * — I should like to see her again, for I 
have not met her for years ; and though ' the light 
that ne'er can shine again ' is set, I do not know 
that ' one dear smile like those of old ' might not 
make me for a moment forget the ' dulness of life's 
stream.' 

' I am going to R * * * 's to-night — to one of 
those suppers which ' ouyht to be dinners.' I have 
hardly seen her, and never him, since you set out. 
I told you, you were the last link of that chain. 
As for * * we have not syllabled one another's names 
since. The post will not permit me to continue my 
scrawl. More anon. "Ever dear Moore, &c. 

" P. S. Keep the Journal, I care not what 
becomes of it, and if it has amused you, I am glad 
that I kept it. ' Lara ' is finished, -\nd I am copy- 
ing him for my third vol. now collecting ; but no 
separate publication." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"June 14, 1814. 

" I return your packet of this morning. Have 
you heard that Bertrand has returned to Paris with 
the account of Napoleon's having lost his senses ? 
It is a rejmrt ; but, if true, I must, like Mr. Fitz- 
gerald and Jeremiah, (of lamentable memory,) lay 
claim to prophecy ; that is to say, of saying that he 
ouyht to go out of his senses, in the penultimate 
stanza of a certain Ode, — the which, having been 
pronounced no?isense by several profound critics, 
has a still further pretension, by its unintclligibility, 
to inspiration. "Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXXVII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" June 19, 1814, 

"I am always obliged to trouble you with my 
awkwardnesses, and now I have a fresh one. Mr. 
W.* called on me several times, and I have missed 
the honor of making his acquaintance, which I 
regret, but which you, who know my desultory and 
uncertain habits, will not wonder at, and will, I am 
sure, attribute to any thing but a wish to offend a 
person who has shown me much kindness, and 
possesses character and talents entitled to general 
respect. My mornings are late, and passed in 
fencing and boxing, and a variety of most unpoeti- 
cal exercises, very wholesome, &c, but would be 
very disagreeable to my friends, whom I am obliged 
to exclude during their operation. I never go out 
till the evening, and I have not been fortunate 
enough to meet Mr. W. at Lord Lansdowne's or 
Lord Jersey's, where I had hoped to pay him my 
rcsDccts. 

" I would have written to him, but a few words 
from you will go further than all the apologetical 
sesquipedalities I could muster on the occasion. It 
is only to say that, without intending it, I contrive 
to behave very ill to every body, and am very sorry 
for it. "Ever, dear R. *' 



&c. 



Mr. Wrangham. 



LETTERS 



817 



The following undated notes to Mr. Rogers were 
written about this time. 

11 Sunday. 

" Your non-attendance at Corinne's is very 
apropos, as I was on the eve of sending you an 
excuse. I do not feel well enough to go there 
this evening, and have been obliged to despatch an 
apology. I belieVe I need not add one for not 
accepting Mr. Sheridan's invitation on Wednesday, 
which I fancy both you and I understood in the 
same sense : — with him the saying of Mirabeau, 
that ' words are things,' is not to be taken literally. 

" Ever, &c. 

" I will call for you at a quaiter before seven, if 
that will suit you. I return you Sir Proteus,* and 
shall merely add in return, as Johnson said of, and 
to, somebody or other, ' Are we alive after all this 
censure ? ' " Believe me, &c." 



" Tuesday. 

" Sheridan was yesterday, at first, too sober to 
remember your invitation, but in the dregs of the 
third bottle he fished up his memory. The Stat" 1 
out-talked Whitbread, was ironed by Sheridan, con- 
founded Sir Humphrey, and utterly perplexed your 
slave. The rest (great names in the red book, 
nevertheless), were mere segments of the circle. 
Ma'mselle danced a Russ saraband with great 
vigor, grace, and expression. " Ever, &c.'" 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"June 21, 1814. 

"I suppose 'Lara' is gone to the devil, — which 
is no great matter, only let me know that I may be 
saved the trouble of copying the rest, and put the 
first part into the fire. I really have no anxiety 
about it, and shall not be sorry to be saved the 
copying, which goes on very slowly, and may prove 
to you that you may speak out — or I should be less 
sluggish. "Yours, &c," 



LETTER CCXXVIII. 

TO Mil. ROGERS. 

"June, 27, 1814. 

" You could not have made me a more acceptable 
present than Jacqueline, — she is all grace, and soft- 
ness, and poetry ; there is so much of the last, that 
we do not feel the want of story which is simple, 
yet enough. I wonder that you do not oftener 
unbend to more of the same kind. I have some 
sympathy with the softer affections, though very 
little in my way, and no one can depict them so 
truly and successfully as yourself. I have half a 
mind to pay you in kind, or rather «mkind, for I 
have just ' supped full of horror ' in two cantos of 
darkness and dismay. 

" Do you go to Lord Essex's to-night ? if so, will 
you let me call for you at your own hour ? I dined 
with Holland-House yesterday at Lord Cowper's ; my 
lady very gracious, which she can be more than any 
one, when she likes. I was not sorry to see them 
again, for I can't forget that they have been very 
kind to me. " Ever yours most truly, 

"Bn. 

"P. S. Is there any chance or possibility of 
making it up with Lord Carlisle, as I feel disposed 
to do any thing reasonable or unreasonable to effect 
it ? I would before, but for the ' Courier,' and the 
possible misconstructions at such a time. Perpend, 
pronounce." 



LETTER CCXXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 

"July 8, 1814. 

"I returned to town last night, and had some 
hopes of seeing you to-day, and would have called, 
— but I have been (though in exceeding distem- 
pered good health) a little headachy with free liv- 
ing, as it is called, and am now at the freezing 
point of returning soberness. Of course, I should 
be sorry that our parallel lines did not deviate into 
intersection before you return to the country, — after 
that same nonsuit whereof the papers have told us, 
— but, as you must be much occupied, I won't be 
affronted, should your time and business militate 
against our meeting. 

" Rogers and I have almost coalesced into a joint 
invasion of the public. Whether it will take place 
or not, I do not yet know, and I am afraid Jacque- 
line (which is very beautiful) will be in bad com- 
pany.* But, in this case, the lady will not be the 
sufferer. 

"I am going to the sea, and then to Scotland; 
and I have been doing nothing — that is, no good, — 
and am very truly, &c." 



LETTER CCXXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"I suppose, by your non-appearance, that the 
philosophy of my note, and the previous silence of 
the writer, have put or kept you in humeur. Never 
mind — it is hardly worth while. 

" This day have I received information from my 
man of law of the non — and never likely to be — 
performance of purchasef by Mr. Claughton, of 
(^pecuniary memory. He don't know what to do, 
or when to pay ; and so all my hopes and worldly 
projects and prospects are gone to the devil. He 
(the purchaser, and the devil too, for aught I care) 
and I, and my legal advisers, are to meet to-morrow, 
— the said purchaser having first taken special care 
to inquire ' whether I would meet him with tem- 
per ? ' — Certainly. The question is this — I shall 
either have the estate back, which is as good as ruin, 
or I shall go on with him dawdling, which is rather 
worse. I have brought my pigs to a Mussulman 
market. If I had but a wife now, and children, of 
whose paternity I entertained doubts, I should be 
happy, or rather fortunate, as Candide or Scarmen- 
tado. In the mean time, if you don't come and 
see me, I shall think that Sam's bank is broke too ; 
and that you, having assets there, are despairing of 
more than a piastre in the pound for your dividend. 

" Ever, &c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"July 11, 1814. 

" You shall have one of the pictures. I wish you 
to send the proof of ' Lara ' to Mr. Moore, 33 Bury 
street, to-night, as he leaves town to-morrow, and 
wishes to see it before he goes ; and I am also wil- 
ling to have the benefit of his remarks. 

"Yours, &c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"July 18, 1SH. 

"I think yo U will be satisfied even to repletion 
with our northern friends, t and I won't deprive you 
longer of what I think will give you pleasure : for 
my own part, my modesty or my vanity must be 
silent. 



* A satirical pamphlet in which all the writers of the day were attacked. 

103 



• Lara and Jacqueliue, the latter by Mr. Rogers, both nrpeared in thf 
same volume. 

t Purchase of Newstead Abbey. See Letter cxii. 

% He here refers to an article in the number of the Edinburgh Review, 'jm 
then published. (No. 45,) on the Corsair and Bride of Abydos. 



818 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" P. S. If you could spare it for an hour in the 
evening, I wish you to send it up to Mrs. Leigh, 
your neighbor, at the London Hotel, Albemarle 
street." 



LETTER CCXXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" July 23, 1814. 

" I am sorry to say that the print* is by no means 
approved of by those who have seen it, who are 
pretty conversant with the original, as well as the 
picture from whence it is taken. I rather suspect 
that it is from the copy and not the exhibited por- 
trait, and in this dilemma would recommend a sus- 
pension, if not an abandonment of the prefixion to 
the volumes which you purpose inflicting upon the 
public. 

" With regard to Lara don't be in any hurry. I 
have not yet made up my mind on the subject, nor 
know what to think or do till I hear from you ; and 
Mr, Moore appeared to me in a similar state of 
indetermination. I do not know that it may not be 
better to reserve it for the entire publication you 
proposed, and not adventure in hardy singleness, 
or even backed by the fairy Jacqueline. I have 
been seized with all kinds of doubts, &c, &c, since 
I left London. 

" Pray let me hear from you, 
" And believe me, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"July 24, 1814. 

"The minority must, in this case, carry it, 
pray let it be so, for I don't care sixpence for any of 
«he opinions you mention, on such a subject ; and 
Phillips must be a dunce to agree with them. For 
my own part, I have no objection at all ; but Mrs. 
Leigh and my cousin must be better judges of the 
likeness than others ; and they hate it ; and so I 
won't have it at all. 

"Mr. Hobhouse is right as for his conclusion; 
but I deny the premises. The name only is Span- 
ish ;f the country is not Spain, but the Morea. 

" Waverley is the best and most interesting novel 
I have redde since — I don't know when. I like it 
as much as I hate * *, and * *, and * *, and all the 
feminine trash of the last four months. Besides, it 
is all easy to me, I have been in Scotland so much, 
(though then young enough too,) and feel at home 
with the people, Lowland and Gael. 

"A note will correct what Mr. Hobhouse thinks 
an error, (about the feudal system in Spain;) it is 
not Spain. If he puts a few words of prose any 
where, it will set all right. 

" I have been ordered to town to vote. I shall 
disobey. There is no good in so much pratin ,,. 
since ' certain issues strokes should arbitrate.' If 
you have any thing to say, let me hear from you. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Aug. 3, 1814. 

"It is certainly a little extraordinary that you 
have not sent the Edinhurgh Review, as I re- 
quested, and hoped itf would not require a note 
* day to remind you. I see advertiseraeiits of Lara 



* An engraving by Agar from Phillips's portrait of hirc. 
t Alluding to Lara. 



and Jacqueline ; pray why? when I requested you 
to postpone publication till my return to town. 

" I have a most amusing epistle from the Ettrick 
bard — Hogg ; in which, speaking of his bookseller, 
whom he denominates the ' shabbiest ' of the trade 
for not ' lifting his bills,' he adds, in so many 
words, ' G — d d — n him and them both.' This is 
a pretty prelude to asking you to adopt him, (the 
said Hogg ;) but this he wishes ; and if you please, 
you and I will talk it over. He has a poem ready 
for the press, (and your bills too, if ' liftablc,') and 
bestows some benedictions on Mr. Moore for his 
abduction of Lara from the forthcoming Miscellany. 

" P. S. Sincerely, I think Mr. Hogg would suit 
you very well ; and surely he is a man of great 
powers, and deserving of encouragement. I must 
knock out a tale for him, and you should at all 
events consider before you reject his suit. Scott is 
one to the Orkneys in a gale of wind, and Hogg 
says that, during the said gale, ' he is sure that 
Scott is not quite at his ease, to say the best of it.' 
Ah ! I wish these home-keeping bards could taste a 
Mediterranean white squall, or the Gut in a gale of 
wind, or even the Bay of Biscay with no wind at 
all." 



LETTER CCXXXIV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Hastings, Aug. 6, 1814. 

"By the time this reaches your dwelling, I shall 
(God wot) be in town again probably. I have here 
been renewing my acquaintance with my old friend 
Ocean ; and I find his bosom as pleasant a pillow 
for an hour in the morning as his daughters of Pa- 
phos could be in the twilight. I have been swim- 
ming and eating turbot, and smuggling neat bran- 
dies and silk handkerchiefs, — and listening to my 
friend Hodgson's raptures about a pretty wife-elect 
of his, — and walking on cliffs, and tumbling down 
hills, and making the most of the ' dolce farnieute ' 
for the last fortnight. I met a son of Lord Ers 
kine's, who says he has been married a year, and is 
the 'happiest of men;' and I have met the afore- 
said H. who is alio the ' happiest of men ; ' so, it 
is worth while being here, if only to witness the 
superlative felicity of these foxes, who have cut off 
their tails, and would persuade the rest to part with 
their brushes to keep them in countenance. 

" It rejoices me that you like ' Lara.' Jeffrey is 
out with his forty-fifth number, which I suppose 
you have got. He is only too kind to me, in my 
share of it, and I begin to fancy myself a golden 
pheasant, upon the strength of the plumage where- 
with he hath bedecked me. But then, ' surgit 
amari,' &c. — the gentlemen of the Champion, and 
Perry, have got hold (I know not how) of the con- 
dolatory address to Lady J. on the picture-abduc- 
tion by our Regent, and have published them — with 
my name, too, smack — without even asking leave, 
or inquiring whether or no ! D — n their impudence, 
and d — n every thing. It has put me out of pa- 
tience, and so I shall say no more about it.* 

"You shall have Lara and Jacque (both with 
some additions) when out, but I am still demurring 
and delaying, and in a fuss, and so is Rogers in his 
way. 

" Newstead is to be mine again. Claughton for- 
feits twenty-five thousand pounds; but that don't 
prevent me from being very prettily ruined. I 
mean to bury myself there — and let my beard grow 
— and hate you all. 

" Oh ! I have had the most amusing letter from 
Hogg, the Ettrick minstrel and shepherd. He 
wants me to recommend him to Murray, and, 
speaking of his present bookseller, whose ' bills 
are never ' lifted,' he adds, totidem verbis, ' G — d 



Sec Poems, p. 568 



LETTERS. 



819 



d — x him and them hoth.' I laughed, and so would 
you too, at the way in which this extrication was 
introduced. The said Hogg is a strange being, but 
of great, though uncouth, powers. I think very 
highly of him as a poet ; but he, and half of these 
Scotch and Lake troubadors, are spoiled by living 
in little circles and petty societies. London and 
the world is the only place to take the conceit out 
of a man — in the milling phrase. Scott, he said, is 
gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind ; — during 
which wind, he affirms, the said Scott, 'he is sure 
is not at hrs ease, — to say the best of it.' Lord, 
Lord, if these home-keeping minstrels had crossed 
your Atlantic, or my Mediterranean, and tasted a 
little open boating in a white squall — or a gale in 
. ' the Gut ' — or the ' Bay of Biscay, with no gale at 
all — how it would enliven and introduce them to a 
few of the sensations ! — to say nothing of an illicit 
amour or two upon shore, in the way of essay upon 
the Passions, beginning with simple adultery, and 
compounding it as they went along. 

" I have forwarded your letter to Murray, — by the 
way, you had addressed it to Miller. Pray write to 
me, and say what art thou doing ? ' Not finished ! ' 
— Oons ! how is this ? — these ' flaws and starts ' 
must be ' authorized by your grandam,' and are 
becoming of any other author. I was sorry to hear 
of your discrepancy with * *s, or rather, your abju- 
ration of agreement. I don't want to be imperti- 
nent, or buffoon on a serious subject, and am there 
fore at a loss what to say. 

"I hope nothing will induce you to abate from 
the proper price of your poems, as long as there is 
a prospect of getting it. For my own part, I have 
seriously and not whiningly, (for that is not my way 
— at least, it used not to be,) neither hopes, nor 
prospects, and scarcely even wishes. I am, in some 
respects, happy, but not in a manner that can or 
ought to last, — but enough of that. The worst of 
it is, I feel quite enervated and indifferent. I really 
do not know, if Jupiter were to offer me my choice 
of the contents of his benevolent cask, what I 
would pick out of it. If I was born as the nurses 
say witli a 'silver spoon in my mouth,' it has stuck 
in my throat, and spoiled my palate so that nothing 
put into it is swallowed with much relish, — unless 
it be cayenne. However, I have grievances enough 
to occupy me that way too ; but for fear of adding 
to yours by this pestilent long diatribe, I postpone 
the reading them, sine die. 

" Ever dear, M., yours, &c. 
"P. S. Don't forget my godson. Yoa could 
not have fixed on a fitter porter for his sins than 
me, being used to carry double without inconven- 
ience." ******* 



LETTER CCXXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



LETTER CCXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Aug. 4, 1814. 

" Not having received the slightest answer to my 
last three letters, nor the book (the last number of 
the Edinburgh Review) which they requested, I 
presume that you were the unfortunate person* who 
perished in the pagoda on Monday last, and ad- 
dress this rather to your executors than yourself, 
regretting that you should have have had the ill 
luck to be the sole victim on that joyous occasion. 

" I beg leave then to inform these gentlemen 
(whoever they may be) that I am a little surprised 
at the previous neglect of the deceased, and also at 
observing an advertisement of an approaching pub- 
lication on Saturday next, against the which I pro- 
tested, and do protest, for the present. 

" Yours, (or theirs,) &c, 

"B." 



Bee Note to Uinta from Horace, p. 476. 



"The Edinburgh Review is arrived — thanks. I 
enclose Mr. Hobhouse's letter, from which you will 
perceive the work you have made. However, I have 
done: you must send my rhymes to the devil your 
own way. It seems also that the ' faithful and spir- 
ited likeness ' is another of your publications. I 
wish you joy of it ; but it is no likeness— that is the 
point. Seriously, if I have delayed your journey to 
Scotland, I am sorry that you carried your com- 
plaisance so far; particularly as upon trifles you 
have a more summary method ;— witness the gram- 
mar of Hobhouse's 'bit of prose,' which has put " 
him and me into a fever. 

"Hogg must translate his own words : 'lifting' 
is a quotation from his letter, together with"' G — d 
d — n,' &c, which I suppose requires no translation. 

"I was unaware of the contents of Mr. Moore's 
letter ; I think your offer very handsome, but of that 
you and he must judge. If he can get more, you 
won't wonder that he should accept it. 

" Out with Lara, since it must be. The tome 
looks pretty enough — on the outside. I shall be in 
town next week, and in the mean time wish you ? 
pleasant journey. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" I was not alone, nor will be while I can help it. 
Newsteadis not yet decided. Claughton is to make 
a grand effort by Saturday week to complete, — if not, 
he must give up twenty-five thousand pounds, and 
the estate, with expenses, &c, &c. If I resume 
the Abbacy, you shall have due notice, and a cell 
set apart for your reception, with a pious welcome. 
Rogers I have not seen, but Larry and Jacky came 
out a few days ago. Of their effect, I know noth- 
ing. ******* 

" There is something very amusing in your being 
an Edinburgh Reviewer. You know, I suppose, 
that Thurlow is none of the placidest, and may pos- 
sibly enact some tragedy on being told that he is 
only a fool. If, now, Jeffrey were to be slain on 
account of an article of yours, there would be a fine 
conclusion. For my part, as*Irs. Winifred Jenkins 
says, 'he has done the handsome thing by me,' par- 
ticularly in his last number ; so, he is the best of 
men and the ablest of critics, and I won't have him 
killed, — though I dare say many wish he were, for 
being so good-humored. 

"Before I left Hastings, I got in a passion with 
an ink-bottle, which I flung out of the window one 
night with a vengeance ; — and what then ? why, 
next morning I was horrified by seeing that it had 
struck, and split upon, the pettieoatof Euterpe's 
graven image in the garden, and grimed her as if it 
were on purpose.* Only think of my distress, and 
— the epigrams that might be engendered on the 
Muse and her misadventure. 

" I had an adventure, almost as ridiculous, at 
some private theatricals near Cambridge— though 
of a different description — since I saw you last. I 
quarreled with a man in the dark, for asking me 
who I was, (insolently enough, to be sure,) and fol- 
lowed him into the green-room (a stable) in a rage, 
among a set of people I never saw before. He 
turned out to be a low comedian, engaged to act 
with the amateurs, and to be a civil-spoken man 



His Bervant had brought him up a large jar of ink, into which, not sup. 
ng it to be full, he had thrust his pen down to the very bottom. Enraged, 
biding it come out all sr»eared with ink, he flung the botUf out of the 
clow into the garden, where it lighted, as here described, upon one o 
eight ieaden Moaefi, that had been imported, some time befure, from Holland 
— the ninth having- been, by some accident, kit behind. — Moore. 



820 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



enough, when he found out that nothing very plea- 
sant was to be got by rudeness. But you would have 
been amused with the row, and the dialogue, and 
the dress — or rather the undress — of the party, 
where I had introduced myself in a devil of a hurry, 
and the astonishment that ensued. I had gone out 
of the theatre, for coolness, into the garden ; there 
I had tumbled over some dogs, and, coming away 
from them in very ill-humor, encountered the man 
in a worse, which produced all this confusion. 

" Well — and why don't you ' launch ? ' — Now is 
your time. The people are tolerably tired with me, 
and not very much enamored of Wordsworth, who 
has just spawned a quarto of metaphysical blank 
verse, which is nevertheless only a part of a poem. 

" Murray talks of divorcing Larry and Jacky — a 
bad sign for the authors, who, I suppose, will be 
divorced too, and thf»w the blame upon one another. 
Seriously, I don't care a cigar about it, and I don't 
see why Sam should. 

"Let me hear from and of you and my godson. 
If a daughter, the name will do quite as well. 
* " * * * * * * * 

" Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXVIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

f " Aug. 13, 1814. 

" I wrote yesterday to, Mayfield, and have just 
now enfranked your letter to mamma. My stay in 
town is so uncertain (not later than next week) that 
your packets for the north may not reach me ; and 
as I know not exactly where I am going, — however, 
Newstead is my most probable destination, and if 
you send your despatches before Tuesday, I can 
forward them to our new ally. But, after that day, 
you had better not trust to their arrival in time. 

" * * has been exiled from Paris, on (lit, for say- 
ing the Bourbons were old women. The Bourbons 
might have been content, I think, with returning 
the compliment. ***** 

" I told you all about Jacky and Larry yesterday ; 
— they are to be separated, — at least, so says the 
grand Murray, and I know no more of the matter. 
Jeffrey has done me more than 'justice; ' but as to 
tragedy — lira ! — I have no time for fiction at present. 
A man cannot paint a storm with the vessel under 
bare poles, on a lee share. When I get to land, I 
will try what is to be done, and, if I founder, there 
be plenty of mine elders and betters to console 
Melpomene. 

" When at Newstead, you must come over, if only 
for a day — should Mrs. M. be exigeante of your 
presence. The place is worth seeing, as a ruin, and 
I can assure you there teas some fun there, even in 
my time ; but that is past. The ghosts, however, 
and the gothics, and the waters, and the desolation, 
make it very lively still. 

" Ever, dear Tom, yours, &c." 



"I still think Mr. Hogg and yourself might make 
out an alliance. Dodsley's was, I believe, the last 
decent thing of the kind, and his had great success 
in its day, and lasted several years ; but then he had 
the double advantage of editing and publishing. 
The Spleen, and several of Oray's odes, much of 
Shenstone, and many others of good repute, made 
their first appearance in his collection. Now, with 
the support of Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, &C, I 
see little reason why you should not do as well ; and 
if once fairly established, you would have assistance 
from the youngsters, I dare say. Stratford Canning, 
(whq.se ' Bonaparte ' is excellent,) and many others, 
and Moore, and Hobhouse, and I, would try a fall 
now and then, (if permitted,) and you might coax 
Camubell, too, into it. By-the-by, he has an un- 
published (though printed) poem on a scene in Ger- 
many, (Bavaria, I think,) which I saw last year, that 
is perfectly magnificent, and equal to himself. I 
wonder he don't publish it. 

" Oh ! — do you recollect S**, the engraver's, mad 
letter about not engraving Phillips's picture of Lord 
Foley? (as he blundered it;) well, I have traced it, 
I think. It seems, by the papers, a preacher of 
Johanna Southcote's is named Foley ; and I can no 
way account for the said S**'s confusion of words 
and ideas, but by that of his head's running on 
Johanna and her apostles. It was a mercy he did 
not say Lord 'Inzer. You know, of course, that 
S**,is a believer in this new (old) virgin of spiritual 
impregnation. 

" I long to know what she will produce : her being 
with child at sixty-five is indeed a miracle, but her 
getting any one to beget it, a greater. 

" If you were not going to Paris or Scotland, I 
could send you some game : if you remain, let me 
know. 

" P. S. A word or two of ' Lara,' which your en- 
closure brings before me. It is of no great promise 
separately ; but, as connected with the other tales, 
it will do very well for the volumes you mean to 
publish. I Would recommend this arrangement — 
Childe Harold, the smaller Poems, Giaour, Bride, 
Corsair, Lara ; the last completes the series, and 
its very likeness renders it necessary to the others. 
Cawthorne writes that they are publishing English 
Bards in Ireland : pray inquire into this ; because 
it must be stopped." 



LETTER CCXL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



LETTER CCXXXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 2, 1814. 

" I am obliged by what you have sent, but would 
rather not see any thing of the kind;* we have had 
enough of these things already, good and bad, and 
next month you need not trouble yourself to collect 
even the higher generation — on my account. It 
gives me much pleasure to hear of Mr. Hobhouse's 
and Mr. Merivale's good entreatment by the jour- 
nals you mention. 



The Reviews and Magazines gf the mouth. 



" Newste;ul Abbey, Sopt. 7, 1814. 

" I should think Mr. Hogg, for his own sake, as 
well as yours, would be ' critical' as Iago himself in 
his editorial capacity ; and that such a publication 
would answer his purpose, and yours too, with tol- 
erable management. You should, however, have a 
good number to start with — I mean, good- in quality ; 
in these days, there can be little fear of not coming 
up to the mark in quantity. There must be many 
' fine things ' in Wordsworth ; but I should think it 
difficult to make six quartos (the amount of the 
whole) all fine, particularly the pedler's portion ol 
the poem ; but there can be no doubt of his powers 
to do almost any thing. 

" I am ' very idle.' I have read the few books I 
had with me, and been forced to fish, for lack of ar- 
gument. I have caught a great many perch, and 
some carp, which is a comfort, as one would not lose 
one's labor willingly. 

" Pray, who corrects the press of your volumes ? 
I hope ' The Corsair ' is printed from the copy I 
corrected with the additional lines in the first canto, 
and some notes from Sismondi and Lavater, which I 
gave you to add thereto. The arrangement is very 
well. 



LETTERS. 



821 



" My cursed people have not sent my papers sinse 
Sunday, and I have lost Johanna's divorce from 
Jupiter. Who hath gotten her with prophet ? Is 
it Sharpe ? and how ? * * * * 
I should like to buy one of her seals : if salvation 
can be had at half a guinea a head, the landlord of 
the Crown and Anchor should be ashamed of him 
self for charging double for tickets to a mere terres- 
trial banquet. I am afraid, seriously, that these 
matters will lend a sad handle to your profane scof- 
fers, and give a loose to much damnable laughter. 

" I have not seen Hunt's Sonnets nor Descent of 
Liberty ; he has chosen a pretty place wheiein to 
compose the last. Let me hear from you before 
you embark. Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXLI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Newslead Abbey, Sept. 15, 1314. 

"This is the fourth letter I have begun to you 
within the month. Whether I shall finish or not, 
or burn it like the rest, I know not. When we 
meet, I shall explain tohy I have not written — ichy 
I have not asked you here, as I wished — with a great 
many other whys and wherefores, which will keep 
cold. In short, you must excuse all my seeming 
omissions and commissions, and grant me more re- 
mission than St. Athanasius will to yourself, if you 
lop off a single shred of mystery from his pious 
puzzle. It is my creed (and it may be St. Atha- 
nasius's too) that your article on T** will get some- 
body killed, and that, on the Saints, get him d — d 
afterward, which will be quite enow for one num- 
ber. Oons, Tom ! you must not meddle just now 
with the incomprehensible ;. for if Johanna South- 
cote turns out to be * * * 

"Now for a little egotism. My affairs stand 
thus. To-morrow, I shall know whether a circum- 
stance of importance enough to change many of 
my plans will occur or not. If it does not, I am off 
for Italy next month, and London, in the mean 
time, next week. I have got back Ncwstead, and 
twenty-five thousand pounds (out of twenty-eight 
paid already,) — as a ' sacrifice,' the late purchaser 
calls it, and he may choose his own name. I have 
paid some of my debts, and contracted others; but 
I have a few thousand pounds, which I can't spend 
after my own heart in this climate, and so, I shall 
go back to the south. Hobhouse, I think and 
hope, will go with me ; but, whether he will or not, 
I shall. I want to see Venice, and the Alps, and 
Parmesan cheeses, and look at the coast of Greece, 
or rather Epirus, from Italy, as I once did — or fan- 
cied I did — that of Italy, when off Corfu. All this, 
however, depends upon an event, which may, or 
may not, happen. Whether it will, I shall know 
probably to-morrow, and if it does, I can't well go 
abroad at present. 

" Pray pardon this parenthetical scrawl. You 
shall hear from me again soon ; — I don't call this 
an answer. 

"Ever most affectionately, &c." 

The " circumstance of importance," to which he 
alludes in this letter, was his second proposal for 
Miss Milbanke, of which he was now waiting the 
result. 



LETTER CCXLII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"NJ., Sept. 15, 1814. 

" I have written to you one letter to-night, but 
must send you this much more, as I have not franked 



my number, to say that I rejoice in my goddaughter, 
and will send her a coral and bells, which I hope she 
will accept, the moment I get back to London. 
_ " My head is at this moment in a state of confu- 
sion, from various causes, which I can neither de- 
scribe nor explain — but let that pass. My employ- 
ments have been very rural — fishing, shooting, 
bathing, and boating. Books I have but few here, 
and those I have read ten times over, till sick of 
them. So, I have taken to breaking soda water 
bottles with my pistols, and jumping into the water, 
and rowing over it, and firing at the fowls of the air. 
But why should I ' monster my nothings ' to you 
who are well employed, and happily too, I should 
hope. For my part, I am happy too, in my way— 
but, as usual, have contrived to get into three or 
four perpexities, which I do not see my way 
through. But a few days, perhaps a day, will deter- 
mine one of them. 

" You do not say a word to me of your Poem. I 
wish I could see or hear it. I neither could, nor 
would, do it or its author any harm. I believe I 
told you of Larry and Jacquy. A friend of mine 
was reading — at least a friend of his was reading — ■ 
said Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A 
passenger took up a book and queried as to the au- 
thor. The proprietor said ' there were two ' — to 
which the answer of the unknown was, ' Ay, ay — a 
joint concern, I suppose, summot like Sternhold and 
Hopkins.' 

" Is not this excellent ? I would not havo 
missed the ' vile comparison' to have scaped being^ 
one of the 'Arcades bo et cantare pares,' Good 
night. Again yours." 



LETTER CCXLIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 20, 1814. 
11 Here's to her who long 

Hath waited the poet's sigh ! 
The gir! who gave to song 
What gold could never buy. 

' My dear Moore, I am going to be married — that 
is, I am accepted, and one usually hopes the rest 
will follow. My mother of the Gracchi (that are to 
be) you think too strait-laced for me, although the 
paragon of only children, and invested with 'golden 
opinions of all sorts of men,' and full of 'most 
blessed conditions ' as Desdamona herself. Miss 
Milbanke is the lady, and I have her father's invi- 
tation to proceed there in my elect capacity, — which, 
however, I cannot do till I have settled some busi- 
ness in London, and got a blue coat. 

" She is said to be an heiress, but of that I really 
know nothing certainly, and shall not inquire. But 
I do know, that she has talents and excellent quali- 
ties, and you will not deny her judgment, after 
having refused six suitors and taken me. 

' Now, if you have any thing to say against this, 
pray do ; my mind's made up, positively fixed, de- 
termined, and therefore I will listen to reason, be- 
cause now it can do no harm. Things may occur 1o 
break it off, but I will hope not. In the mean time, 
I tell you (a secret, by-the-by, — at least, till I know 
she wishes it to be public) that I have proposed and 
am accepted. You need not be in a hurry to wish 
me joy, for one may'nt be married for months. I am 
oing to town to-morrow; but expect to be here, 
on my way there, within a fortnight. 

" If this had not happened I should have gone tc 
Italy. In my way down, perhaps, you will meet me 
at Nottingham, and come over with me here. I 
need not say that nothing will give me greater plea 
sure. I must, of course, reform thoroughly ; and, 
seriously, if I can contribute to her happiness, 1 
shall secure my own. She is so good a person, 
that — that — in short, I wish I was a better. 

" Ever, &c." 



822 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCXLIV. 



TO THE COUNTESS OF * * *. 

" Albany, Oct. 5, 1814. 

"Dear Lady* *, 

"Your recollection and invitation do me great 
honor ; but I am going to be ' married, and can't 
come.' My intended is two hundred miles off, and 
the moment my business here is arranged, I must 
set out in a great hurry to be happy. Miss Milbanke 
is the good-natured person who has undertaken me, 
and, of course, I am very much in love and as silly 
as all single gentlemen must be in that sentimental 
situation. I have been accepted these three weeks ; 
but when the event will take place, I don't exactly 
know. It depends partly upon lawyers, who are 
never in a hurry. One can be sure of nothing ; but, 
at present, there appears no other interruption to 
this intention, which seems as mutual as possible, 
and now- no secret, though I did not tell first, — 
and all our relatives are congratulating away to 
right and left in the most fatiguing manner. 

" You perhaps know the lady. She is niece to 
Lady Melbourne, and cousin to Lady Cowper, and 
others of your acquaintance, and has no fault, ex- 
cept being a great deal too good for me, and that / 
must pardon, if nobody else should. It might have 
been two years ago, and, if it had, would have saved 
me a world of trouble. She has employed the inter- 
val in refusing about half a dozen of my particular 
friends, (as she did me once, by the way,) and has 
taken me at last, for which I am very much obliged 
to her. I wish it was well over, for I do hate bustle, 
and there is no marrying without some ; — and then 
I must not marry in a black coat, they tell me, and 
I can't wear a blue one. 

" Pray forgive me for scribbling all this nonsense. 
You know I must be serious all the rest of my life, 
and this is a parting piece of buffoonery, which I 
write with tears in my eyes, expecting to be agi- 
tated. Believe most seriously and sincerely your 
obliged servant, " Byron. 

" P. S. My best rems. to Lord * * on his re- 
turn." 



LETTER CCXLV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Oct. 7, 1814. 

" Notwithstanding the contradictory paragraph 
in the Morning Chronicle, which must have been 
sent by * *, or perhaps — I know not why I should 
suspect Claughton of such a thing, and yet I partly 
do, because it might interrupt his renewal of pur- 
chase, if so disposed; in short, it matters not, but 
we are all in the road to matrimony — lawyers set- 
tling, relations congratulating, my intended as kind- 
as heart could wish, and every one, whose opinion 
I value, very glad of it. All her relatives, and all 
mine too, seem equally pleased. 

" Perry was very sorry, and has re-contradicted, 
as you will perceive by this day's paper. It was, to 
be sure, a devil of an insertion, since the first para- 
graph came from Sir Ralph's own County Journal, 
and this in the teeth of it would appear to him and 
his as my denial. But I have written to do away 
that, enclosing Perry's letter, which was very polite 
and kind. 

"Nobody hates bustle so much as I do ; but 
there seems a fatality over every scene of my drama, 
always a row of some sort or other. No matter — 
Fortune is my best friend, and as I acknowledge my 
obligations to her, I hope she will treat me better 
than she treated the Athenian, who took some 
merit to himself on some occasion, but (after that) 
took no more towns. In fact, she, that exquisite 
goddess, has hitherto carried me through every 



thing, and will, I hope, now ; since I own it will be 
all her doing. 

" Well, now for thee. Your article on * * is 
perfection itself. You must not leave off reviewing. 
By Jove, I believe you can do any thing. There is 
wit, and taste, and learning, and good-humor 
(though not a whit less severe for that) in every 
line of that critique. * * * 

"Next to your being an E. Reviewer, my being 
of the same kidney, and Jeffrey's being such a 
friend to both, are among the events which I con- 
ceive were not calculated upon in Mr. — what's his 
name's ? — ' Essay on Probabilities.' 

" But, Tom, I say — Oons! Scott menaces the 
' Lord of the Isles.' Do you mean to compete? 
or lay by, till this wave has broke upon the shelves 
(of booksellers, not rocks — a bro7ce?i metaphor, by 
the way.) You ouyht to be afraid of nobody; but 
your modesty is really as provoking and unneces- 
sary as a * *'s. I am very merry, and have just 
been writing some elegiac stanzas on the death of 
Sir P. Parker.* He was my first cousin, but never 
met since boyhood. Our relations desired me, and 
I have scribbled and given it to Perry, who will 
chronicle it to-morrow. I dm as sorry for him as 
one could be for one I never saw since I was a child ; 
but should not have wept melodiously, except ' at 
the request of friends.' 

" I hope to get out of town and be married, but I 
shall take Newstead in my way, and you must meet 
me at Nottingham and accompany me to mine Ab- 
bey. I will tell you the day when I know it. 

"Ever, &c. 

"P. S. By the way, my wife-elect is perfection; 
and I hear of nothing but her merits and her won- 
ders, and that she is ' very pretty.' Her expecta- 
tions, I am told, are great ; but what, I have not 
asked. I have not seen her these ten months." 



LETTER CCXLVI. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

" Oct. 15, 1814. 

"My Dear Hunt, 

" I send you some game, of which I beg your ac- 
ceptance. I specify the quantity as a security 
against the porter ; a hare, a pheasant, and two 
brace of partridges, which I hope are fresh. My 
stay in town has not been long, and I am in all the 
agonies of quitting it again next week on business, 
preparatory to ' a change of condition,' as it is 
called by the talkers on such matters. I am about 
to be married : and am, of course, in all the misery 
of a man in pursuit of happiness. My intended is 
two hundred miles off, and the efforts I am making 
with lawyers, &c, &c, to join my future con- 
nexions, are for a personage of my single and in- 
veterate habits, to say nothing of indolence, quite 
prodigious ! I sincerely hope you are better than 
your paper intimated lately, and that your approach 
ing freedom will find you in full health to enjoy it 
" Yours ever, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCXLVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Oct. 15, 1814. 

An' there were any thing in marriage that would 
make a difference between friends and me, particu- 
larly in your case, I would ' none on't.' My agent 
sets off for Durham next week, and I shall follow 
him, taking Newstead and you in my way. I cer- 
tainly did not address Miss Milbanke with these 



Poems, p. 547. 



LETTERS. 



823 



views, but it is likely she may prove a considerable 
parti. All her father can give, or leave her, he will ; 
and from her childless uncle, Lord Wentworth, 
whose barony, it is supposed, will devolve on Ly. 
Milbanke, (his sister,) she has expectations. But 
these will depend upon his own disposition, which 
seems very partial towards her. She is an only 
child, and Sir Ralph's estates, though dipped by 
electioneering are considerable. Part of them are 
settled on her ; but whether that will be doioered 
now, I do not know, — though, from what has been 
intimated to me, it probably will. The lawyers are 
to settle this among them, and I am getting my 
property into matrimonial array, and myself ready 
for the journey to Seaham, which I must make in a 
week or ten days. 

" I certainly did not dream that she was attached 
to me, which it seems she has been for some time. 
I also thought her of a very cold disposition, in 
which I was also mistaken — it is a long story, and I 
won't trouble you with it. As to her virtues, &c, 
&c, you will hear enough of them (for she is a kind 
of pattern in the north), without my running into a 
display on the subject. It is well that one of us is 
of such fame, since there is a sad deficit in the 
morale of that article upon my part, — all owing to 
my ' bitch of a star,' as Captain Tranchemont says 
of his planet. 

" Don't think you have not said enough of me in 
your article on T * * ; what more could or need be 
saidP^ * * * 

" Your-long delayed and expected work — I sup- 
pose you will take fright at ' The Lord of the Isles' 
and Scott now. You must do as you like, — I have 
said my say. You ought to fear comparison with 
none, and any one would stare who heard you were 
so tremulous, — though, after all, I believe it is the 
surest sign of talent. Good morning. I hope we 
shall meet soon, but I will write again, and perhaps 
you will meet me at Nottingham. Pray say so. 

n P. S. If this union is productive, you shall 
name the first fruits." 



LETTER CCXLIX. 



LETTER CCXLVIII. 



TO MR. HEXRY DKl'RY. 



" Oct. 18, 1814. 

" My Dear Drury, 

" Many thanks for } - our hitherto unacknowledged 
' Anecdotes.' Now for one of mine — I am going to 
be married, and have been engaged this month. It 
is a long story, and therefore I won't tell it, — an old 
and (though I did not know it till lately) a mutual 
attachment. The very sad life I have led since I 
was your pupil must partly account for the offs and 
ons in this now to be arranged business. We are 
only waiting for the lawyers and settlements, &c, 
and next week, or the week after, I shall go down 
to Seaham in the new character of a regular suitor 
for a wife of mine own. * * * 

"I hope Hodgson is in a fair way on the same 
■voyage — I saw him and his idol at Hastings. I wish 
he would be married at the same time. I should 
like to make a party, — like people electrified in a 
row, by (or rather through) the same chain, holding 
one another's hands, and all feeling the shock at 
once. I have not yet apprized him of this. He 
makes such a serious matter of all these things, 
and is so ' melancholy and gentlemanlike,' that it is 
quite overcoming to us choice spirits. * * * 
' " They say one shouldn't be married in a black 
coat. I won't have a blue one, — that's flat. I hate 
it. "Yours, &c." 



TO MR. COWELL. 

" Oct. 22, 1814. 

"My Dear Cowell, 

" Many and sincere thanks for your kind letter— 
the bet, or rather forfeit, was one hundred to 
Hawke, and fifty to Hay, (nothing to Kelly,) for a 
guinea received from each of the two former.* I 
shall feel much obliged by your setting me right if 
I am incorrect in this statement in any way, and 
have reasons for wishing you to recollect as much as 
possible of what passed, and state it to Hodgson. 
My reason is this : some time ago Mr. * * required 
a bet of me which I never made, and of course, re- 
fused to pay, and have heard no more of it ; to pre- 
vent similar mistakes is my object in wishing you to 
remember well what passed, and to put Hodgson in 
possession of your memory on the subject. 

" I hope to see you soon in my way through Cam- 
bridge. Remember me to H., and believe me ever 
and truly, &c." 



LETTER CCL. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Dec. 14, 1814. 

"My Dearest Tom, 

" I will send the pattern to-morrow, and since 
you don't go to our friend (' of the keeping part of 
the town ') this evening, I shall e'en sulk at home 
over a solitary potation. My self-opinion rises 
much by your eulogy of my social qualities. As my 
friend Scrope is pleased to say, I believe I am very 
well for a 'holiday drinker.' Where the devil are 
you ? with Woolridge, I conjecture — for which you 
deserve another abscess. Hoping that the Ameri- 
can war will last for many years, and that all the 
prizes may be registered at Bermoothes, believe me, 
&c. 

" P. S. I have just been composing an epistle to 
the archbishop for an especial license. Oons ! it 
looks serious. Murray is impatient to see you, and 
would call, if you will give him audience. Your 
new coat ! — I wonder you like the color, and don't 
go about, like Dives, in purple." 



LETTER CCLI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Dec. 31. 1S14. 

" A thousand thanks for Gibbon : all the addi- 
tions are very great improvements. 

"At last, I must be most peremptory with you 
about the print from Phillips's picture : it is pro 
nounced on all hands the most stupid and disagree- 
able possible ; so do, pray, have a new engraving, 
and let me see it first ; there really must be no more 
from the same plate. I don't much care, myself; 
but every one I honor torments me to death about 
it, and abuses it to a degree beyond repeating. Now, 
don't answer with excuses ; but, for my sake, have 
it destroyed : I never shall have peace till it is. I 
write in the greatest haste. 

" P. S. I have written this most illegibly: but it 
is to beg you to destroy the print, and have another 
'by particular desire.' It must be d — d bad, to be 
sure, since every body says so but the original ; and 
he don't, know what to say. But do do it: that is, 
burn the plate, and employ a new etcher from the 
other picture. This is stupid and sulky." 



* He h-id agreed to forfeit these i 
ever marry. 



j to the persons mentioned, should h« 



624 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCLII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Kirby, Jan. 6, 1815. 

" The marriage took place on the 2d instant ; so 
pray, make haste and congratulate away. 

" Thanks for the Edinburgh Review and the abo- 
lition of the print. Let the next be from the other 
of Phillips — I mean {not the Albanian, but) the 
original one in the exhibition ; the last was from 
the copy. I should wish my sister and Lady Byron 
to decide upon the next, as they found fault with the 
last. I have no opinion of my own upon the sub- 
ject. 

" Mr. Kinnaird will, I dare say, have the goodness 
to furnish copies of the Melodies,* if you state my 
wish upon the subject. You may have them, if you 
think them worth inserting. The volumes, in their 
collected state, must be inscribed to Mr. Hobhouse, 
but I have not yet mustered the expressions of my 
inscription ; but will supply them in time. 

" With many thanks for your good wishes, which 
have all been realized, I remain very truly, 

" Yours, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCLIII. 

TO MR. NATHAN. 

"Jan. 7, 181-j. 

"Dear Nathan, 

" Murray, being about to publish a complete edi- 
tion of my poetical effusions, has a wish to include 
the stanzas of the Hebrew Melodies. Will you 
allow him that privilege without considering it an 
infringement on your copyright ? I certainly wish 
to oblige the gentleman, but you know, Nathan, it 
is against all good fashion to give and take back. I 
therefore cannot grant what is not at my disposal. 
Let me hear from you on the subject. Dear Nathan, 
" Yours truly, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCLIV 



T« MR. MOORE. 



"Halnaby, Darlington, Jan. 10, 1815. 

"I was married this day week. The parson has 
pronounced it — Perry has announced it — and the 
Morning Post, also, under the head of ' Lord By- 
ron's marriage' — as if it were a fabrication, or the 
puff-direct of a new stay-maker. 

"Now for thine affairs. I have reddc thee upon 
the Fathers, and it is excellent well. Positively, 
you must not leave off reviewing. You shine in it 
— you kill in it ; and this article has been taken for 
Sydney Smith's, (as I heard in town,) which proves 
not only your proficiency in parsonology, but that 
you have all the airs of a veteran critic at your first 
onset. So, prithee, go on and prosper. 

"Scott's 'Lord of the Isles ' is out — 'the mail- 
coach copy ' I have, by special license of Murray. 
****** 

" Now is your time ; — you will come upon them 
newly and freshly. It is impossible to read what 
you have lately done (verse or prose) without seeing 
that you have trained on tenfold. * * has floun- 
dered. * * has foundered. / have tired the rascals 
(i. e. the public) with my Harrys and Larrys, Pil- 
grims and Pirates. Nobody but Southey has done 
any thing worth a slice of bookseller's pudding ; and 
he has not luck enough to be found out in doing a 



* The Hebrew Melodies, which he had employed mmself in writing durin« 
his recent stay in London. 



good thing. Now, Tom, is thy time — ' Oh joyful day t 
I would not take a knighthood for thy forune.' Let 
me hear from you soon, and beleve me ever, &c. 

" P. S. Lady Byron is vastly well. How are Mrs. 
Moore and Joe Atkinson's ' Graces ? ' We must 
present our women to one another." 



LETTER CCLV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan. 19,1815. 

"Egad! I don't think he is 'down;' and my 
prophecy — like most auguries, sacred and profane-— 
is not annulled, but inverted. * * * 

" To your question about the ' dog '* — Umph ! — 
my ' mother I won't say any thing against — that is, 
about her ; but how long a ' mistress ' or fjiend 
may recollect paramours or competitors (lust and 
thirst being the two great and only bonds between 
the amatory or the amicable), I can't say, — or, 
rather, you know as well as I could tell you. But, as 
for canine recollections, as far as I could judge by 
a cur of mine own, (always bating Boatswain, the 
dearest, and, alas ! the maddest of dogs,) I had one 
(half a wolf' by the she side) that doted on me at ten 
years old, and very nearly ate me at twenty. When 
I thought he was going to enact Argus, he bit away 
the backside of my breeches, and never would con- 
sent to any kind of recognition, in despite of all 
kinds of bones which I offered him. So, let Southey 
blush, and Homer too, as far as I can decide upon 
quadruped memories. f 

"I humbly take it, the mother knows the son 
that pays her jointure — a mistress her mate, till he 
* * and refuses salary — a friend his fellow, till he 
loses cash and character, and a dog his master, till 
he changes him. 

"So, you want to know about Milady and me? 
But let me not, as Roderick Random says, ' profane 
the chaste mysteries of Hymen 'J — damn the word, 
I had nearly spelled it with a small h. I like Bell 
as well as you do (or did, you villain!) Bessy — and 
that is (or was) saying a great deal. 

"Address your next to Seaham, Stockton-on- 
Tees, where we are going on Saturday (a bore, by- 
the-way) to see father-in-law, Sir Jacob, and my 
lady's "lady-mother. Write — and write more at 
length — both to the public and 

" Yours ever most affectionately, 

"B." 



LETTER CCLVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Seaham, Stockton-on-Tees, Feb. 2, 1815. 

" I have heard from London that yon have left 
Chatsworth and all the women full of ' entusy- 
musy'§ about you, personally and poetically; and, 
in particular, that ' When first I met thee ' has been 
quite overwhelming in its effect. I told you it was 
one of the best things you ever wrote, though that 
dog Power wanted you to omit part of it. They 



* Mr. Moore had just been reading Mr. Southey's poem of " Roderick," 
and, with reference to an incident in it, had put the following question to 
Lord Byron :— " 1 should like to know from you, who are one of the Philo- 
cynic sect, whether it is at all probable, that any dog (out of a melodrame) 
could recognize a master, whom neither his own moth-*? w QiV-ess was at le 
to find out. I don't care about Ulysses' dog, &c. — all 1 wu<<t to know from 
you, (who are renowned as ' friend of the dog, companion of the bear,) 
whether such a thing is piobable." 

J Don Juan, canto iii., stanza xxiii., letter xcii. 

} The letter H is blotted in the MS. 

§ It was thus that, according to his account, Mr. Braman, the celebrated 
singer and actor, used frequently to pronounce the word " enthusiasm." 



LETTERS. 



825 



are all regretting your absence at Chatsworth, ac- 
cording to my informant — 'all the ladies quite. &c, 
&c, &c.' Stap my vitals ! 

" Well, now you have got home again — which I 
dare say is as agreeable as a ' draught of cool small 
beer to the scorched palate of a waking sot ' — now 
you have got home again, I say, probably I shall 
hear from you. Since I wrote last, I have been 
transferred to my father-in-law's, with my lady and 
lady's maid, &c, &c, &c, and the treacle-moon is 
over, and I am awake, and find myself married. 
My spouse and I agree to — and in — admiration. 
Swift says, ' no wise man ever married ; ' but, for a 
fool, I think it the most ambrosial of all possible 
future states. I still think one ought to marry 
upon lease ; but am very sure I should renew mine 
at the expiration, though next term were for ninety 
and nine years. 

" I wish you would respond, for I am here ' obli- 
tusque meorum obliviscendus ct illis.' Pray tell 
me whfct is going on in the way of intriguery, and 

how me W; s and rogues of the upper Beggar's 

Opera go on — or rather go off — in or after marriage ; 
or who are going to break any particular command- 
ment. Upon this dreary coast, we have nothing 
but country meetings and shipwrecks ; and I have 
this day dined upon fish, which probably dined upon 
the crews of several colliers lost in the late gales. 
But I saw the sea once more in all the glories of 
surf and foam, — almost equal to the Bay of Biscay, 
and the interesting white squalls and short seas of 
Archipelago memory. 

"My papa, Sir llalpho, hath recently made a 
speech at a Durham tax-meeting ; and not only at 
Durham, but here, several times since, after dinner. 
lie is now, I believe, speaking to himself (I left 
him in the middle) over various decanters, which 
can neither interrupt him nor fall asleep, — as^might 
possibly have been the case with some of his au- 
dience. " Ever thine, 

"B. 

" I must go to tea — damn tea. I wish it was Kin- 
naird's brandy, and with you to lecture me about 
it." 



LETTER CCLVII. 



TO Mil. MURRAY. 



" Seaham, Stockion-npon-Tees, Feb. 2, 1813. 

"You will oblige me very much by making an 
occasional inquiry at Albany, at my chambers, 
whether my books, &c, are kept in tolerable order, 
and how far my old woman* continues in health and 
industry as keeper of my old den. Your parcels 
have been duly received and perused ; but I had 
hoped to receive ' Guy Mannering ' before this time. 
I won't intrude further for the present on your avo- 
cations, professional or pleasurable, but am, as 
usual, "Very truly, &c." 



LETTER CCLVIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Feb. 4, 1815. 

" I enclose you half a letter from * *, which will 
explain itself — at least the latter part — the former 
refers to private business of mine own. If Jeffrey 
wili take such an article, and you will undertake the 
revision, or, indeed, any portion of the article itself, 
(for unless you do, by Phoebus, I will have nothing 
to do with it,) we can cook up, between us three, as 
pretty a dish of sour-crout as ever tipped over the 
,ongue of a book-maker. * * * * 



' You can, at any rate, try Jeffrey's inclination. 

Your late proposal from him made me hint this to 

* *, who is a much better proser and scholar than I 

am, and a very superior man indeed. Excuse haste 

answer this. " Ever yours most, 



•' P. S. All is well at home, 
terday." 



B. 

I wrote to you yes- 



LETTER CCIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"FeUlO, 1815. 

My Dear Thom, 

" Jeffrey has been so very kind about me and my 
damnable works, that I would not be indirect or 
equivocal with him, even for a friend. So, it may 
be as well to tell him that it is not mine ; but that, 
if I did not firmly and truly believe it to be much 
better than I could offer, I would never have trou- 
bled him or you about it. You can judge between 
you how far it is admissible, and reject it, if not of 
the right sort. For my own part, I have no interest 
in the article one way or the other, further than to 
oblige * * ; and should the composition be a good 
one, it can hurt neither party, — nor, indeed, any 
one, saving and excepting Mr. * * * *. 

* * * * 

' Curse catch me if I know what H * * means, or 
moaned, about the demonstrative pronoun,* but I 
admire your fear of being inoculated with the same. 
Have you never found out that you have a particu- 
lar style of your own, which is as distinct from all 
other people, as Hafiz of Shiraz from Hafiz of the 
Morning Post ? 

" So you allowed B * * and such like to hum and 
haw you, or, rather, Lady Jersey, out of her com- 
pliment, and me out of mine.f Sunburn me but 
this was pitiful-hearted. However, I will tell her 
all about it when I see her. 

" Bell desires me to say all kinds of civilities, and 
assure you of her recognition and high considera- 
tion. I will tell you of our movements south, 
which may be in about three weeks from this present 
writing. By-the-way, don't engage yourself in any 
travelling expedition, as I have a plan of travel into 
Italy, which we will discuss. And then, think of 
the poesy wherewithal we should overflow from 
Venice to Vesuvius, to say nothing of Greece, 
through all which — God willing — we might per- 
ambulate in one twelvemonth. If I take my wife, 
you can take yours ; and if I leave mine, you may 
do the same. ' Mind you stand by me, in either 
case, Brother Bruin.' 

" And believe me inveterately yours, 

"B." 



LETTER CCLX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



' Feb. 22, 1815. 



* Mrs. Mule, ijs housekeeper. 

104 



" Yesterday, I sent off the packet and letter to 
Edinburgh. It consisted of forty-one pages, so that 
I have not added a line ; but in my letter, I men- 
tioned what passed between you and me in autumn, 
as my inducement for presuming to trouble him 
either with my own or * *'s lucubrations. I am 
any thing but sure that it will do; but I have told 
Jeffrey that if there is any decent raw material in it, 
he may cut it into what shape he pleases, and warp 
it to his liking. 



• Some remark which had been made with respect to tte frequent use o/ 
the demonstrative pronoun, both by himself and by Sir W. Scott. 

t Verses to Lady Jersey (containing an allusion to Lord Byron), which 
Mr. Moore had written, while at Chatsworth, but afterwards destroyed. 



826 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"So you won't go abroad, then, with me — but 
alone. I fully purpose starting much about the 
time you mention, and alone, too. 

****** 

" I hope Jeffrey won't think me very impudent in 
sending * * only ; there was not room for a sylla- 
ble. I have avowed * * as the author, and said that 
you thought or said, when I met you last, that he 
"(J.) would not be angry at the coalition, (though 
alas ! we have not coalesced,) and so, if I have got 
into a scrape, I must get out of it — Heaven knows 
how. 

" Your Anacreon* is come, and with it I sealed 
(its first impression) the packet and epistle to our 
patron. 

"Curse the Melodies, and the Tribes to boot. 
Braham is to assist — or hath assisted — but will do no 
more good than a second physician. I merely inter- 
fered to oblige a whim of Kinnaird's and all I have 
got by it was 'a speech,' and a receipt for stewed 
oysters. 

" ' Not meet' — prtfy don't say so. We must meet 
somewhere or somehow. Newstead is out of the 
question, being nearly sold again, or, if not, is un- 
inhabitable for my spouse. Pray write again. I 
will soon. 

"P. S. Pray when do you come out? ever, or 
never ? I hope I have made no blunder ; but I cer- 
tainly think you said to me (after Wordsworth, 
whom I first pondered upon, was given up) that 
* * and I might attempt * * *. His length alone 
prevented me from trying my part, though I should 
have been less severe upon the Reviewee. 

" Your seal is the best and prettiest of my set, 
and I thank you very much therefor. I have just 
been — or, rather, ought to be — very much shocked 
by the death of the Duke of Dorset. We were at 
school together, and there I was passionately at- 
tached to him. Since, we have never met — but once, 
I think, since 180,5 — and it would be a paltry affec- 
tation to pretend that I had any feeling for him 
worth the name. But there was a time in my life 
when this event would have broken my heart ; and 
all I can say for it now is, that — it is not worth 
breaking. "Adieu — it is all a farce." 



LETTER CCLXI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

March 2, 1815. 

"My Dear Thom, 

" Jeffrey has sent me the most friendly of all pos- 
sible letters, and has accepted * *'s article. He 
says he has long liked not only, &c, &c, but my 
' character.' This must be your doing, you dog — 
arn't you ashamed of yourself, knowing me so well ? 
This is what one gets for having you for a father 
confessor. 

" I feel merry enough to send you a sad song.f 
You once asked me for some words which you would 
set. Now you may set or not, as you like, — but 
there they are, in a legible hand, J and not in mine, 
but of my own scribbling ; so you may say of them 
what you please. Why don't you write to me ? I 
shall make you ' a speech '§ if you don't respond 
quickly. 

" I am in such a state of sameness and stagna- 



• A seal, with the head of Anacreon, which Mr. Moore had given him. 

1 The verses enclosed were those melancholy ones, now printed in his 
works. 

" There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away." 

Poems, p. 549. 

X The MS. was in the handwriting of Lady Byron. 

§ These allusions to a " speech " are connected with a little incident, not 
woilh mentioning, which had amused us both when I was in town. He was 
rather fond (and had been always so, as may be seen in his early letters) of 
thus harping on some conventional phrase or joke. — Moore. 



tion, and so totally occupied in consuming the fruits 
— and sauntering — and playing dull games at cards 
— and yawning — and trying to read old Annual 
Registers and the daily papers — and gathering shells 
on the shore — and watching the growth of stunted 
gooseberry bushes in the garden — that I have nei- 
ther time nor sense to say more than 

"Yours ever " B. 
" P. S. I open my letter again to put a question 
to you. What would Lady Cork, or any jther fash- 
ionable Pidcock give, to collect you and Jeffrey and 
me to one party. I have been answering his letter, 
which suggested this dainty query. I can't help 
laughing at the thoughts of your face and mine ; 
and our anxiety to keep the Aristarch in good hu- 
mor during the early part of a compotation, till 
we got drunk enough to make him ' a speech.' I 
think the critic would have much the best of us — of 
one, at least — for 1 don't think diffidence (I mean 
social) is a disease of yours." 



LETTER CCLXII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



March 8, 1815. 



" An event — the death of poor Dorset — and the 
recollection of what I once felt, and ought to have 
felt now, but could not — set me pondering, and 
finally into the train of thought which you have in 
your hands. I am very glad you like them, for I 
flatter myself they will pass as an imitation of your 
style. If I could imitate it well, I should have n« 
great ambition of originality — I wish I could make 
you exclaim with Dennis, ' That's my thunder, by 
G — d ! ' I wrote them with a view to your setting 
them, and as a present to Power, if he would accept 
the words, and you did not think yourself degraded, 
for once in a way, by marrying them to music. 

" Sunburn Nathan ! why do you always twit me 
with his vile 'Ebrew nasalities ? Have I not told 
you it was all K.'s doing, and my own exquisite fa- 
cility of temper ? But thou wilt be a wag Thomas ; 
and see what you get for it. Now for my re- 
venge. 

" Depend — and prepend — upon it that your opin- 
ion of * * 'spoem will travel through one or other of 
the quintuple correspondents, till it reaches the ear 
and the liver of the author.* Your adventure, how- 
ever, is truly laughable ; but how could you be such 
a potato ? You ' a brother ' (of the quill) too ' near 
the throne,' to confide to a man's own publisher 
(who has ' bought,' or rather sold, ' golden opin- 
ions ' about him) such a damnatory parenthesis ! . 
' Between you and me,' quotha, it reminds me of a 
passage in the Heir at Law — ' Tete-a-tete with Lady 
Duberly, I suppose ' — ' No — tete-atete vntYiJive hun- 
dred people ; ' and your confidential communication 
will doubtless be in circulation to that amount, in a 
short time, with several additions, and in several 
letters, all signed L. H. R. O. B. &c, &c, &c. 

" We leave this place to-morrow, and shall stop 
on our way to town (in the interval of taking a 
house there) at Col. Leigh's, near Newmarket, 
where any epistle of yours will find its welcome 
way. 

" I have been very comfortable here, listening to 
that d — d monologue, which elderly gentlemen call 



* He here alludes to a circumstance which 1 had communicated to him in a 
preceding letter. In writing to one of the numerous partners of a well-known 
publishing establishment, (with which I have since been lucky enough to form 
a more intimate connection,) 1 had said confidentially, (as 1 thought,) iu 
reference to a poem that had just appeared, — " between you and rae, I <b 
not much admire Mr. • • 's poem." The letter being chiefly upon businesi, 
was answered through the regular business channel, and, to my dismay, con. 
eluded with the fallowing words :—"We are very sorry that you do not ap 
prove of Mr. • • 's new poem, and are your obedient, &c, &c. L. H. R. O 
&c, Six.."— Moore. 



LETTERS. 



827 



conversation, and in which my pions father-in-law 
repeats himself every evening, save one, when he 
played upon the fiddle. However, they have been 
very kind and hospitable, and I like them and the 
place vastly, and I hope they will live many happy 
months. Bell is in health, and unvaried good hu- 
mor and behavior. But we are all in the agonies of 
packing and parting ; and I suppose by this time 
to-morrow I shall be stuck in the chariot with my 
chin upon a bandbox. I have prepared, however, 
another carriage for the abigail, and all the trump- 
ery which our wives drag along with them. 

" Ever thine, most affectionately, 
" B." 



LETTER CCLXIII. 

„ TO MR. MOORE. 

" March 27, 1815. 

" I meant to write to you before on the subject of 
your loss ;* but the recollection of the uselessness 
and worthlessness of any observations on such 
events prevented me. I shall only now add, that I 
rejoice to see you bear it so well, and that I trust 
time will enable Mrs. M. to sustain it better. Every 
thing should be done to divert and occupy her 
with other thoughts and cares, and I am sure all 
that can be done will. 

" Now to your letter. Napoleon — but the papers 
will have told you all. I quite think with you upon 
the subject, and for my real thoughts this time 
last year, I would refer you to the last pages of the 
Journal I gave you. I can forgive the rogue for 
utterly falsifying every line of mine- Ode — which I 
take to be the last and uttermost stretch of human 
magnanimity. Do you remember the story of a cer- 
tain abbe, who wrote a Treatise on the Swedish 
Constitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal ? 
Just as he had corrected the last sheet, news came 
that Gustavus III: had destroyed this immortal gov- 
ernment : ' Sir,' quoth the abbe, ' the king of Swe- 
den may overthrow the constitution, but not my 
book ! !' I think of the abbe, but not with him. 

" Making every allowance for talent and most 
consummate daring, there is, after all, a good deal 
in luck or destiny. He might have been stopped by 
our frigates*— or wrecked in the gulf of Lyons, which 
is particularly tempestuous — or — a thousand things. 
But he is certainly Fortune's favorite, and 

" Once ftirly eet out on his party of pleasure, 
Taking towns at his liking 1 and crowns at his leisure. 
From EIha to Lyons and Paris he goeB, 
Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes. 

You must have seen the account of his driving into 
the middle of the royal army, and the immediate 
effect of his pretty speeches. And now, if he don't 
drub the allies, there is ' no purchase in money.' 
If he can take France by himself, the devil's in't if 
he don't repulse the invaders, when backed by those 
celebrated sworders — those boys of the blade, the 
Imperial Guard, and the old and new army. It is 
impossible not to be dazzled and overwhelmed by 
his character and career. Nothing ever so disap- 
pointed me as his abdication, and nothing could 
have reconciled me to him but some such revival as 
his recent exploit ; though no one could anticipate 
such a complete and brilliant renovation. 

" To your question, I can only answer that there 
have been some symptoms which look a little ges- 
tatory. It is a subject upon which I am not partic- 
ularly anxious, except that I think it would please 
her uncle, Lord Wentworth, and her father and 
mother. The former (Lord W.) is now in town, 
and in very indifferent health. - You perhaps know 
that his property, amounting to seven or eight thou- 
sand a year, .will eventually devolve upon Bell. 



The death of his infant goddaughter, Olivia Byron Moore. 



But the old gentleman has been so very kind to her 
and me, that I hardly know how to wish him in 
heaven, if he can be comfortable on earth. Her fa- 
ther is still in the country. 

"We mean to metropolize to-morrow, and you 
will address your next to Piccadilly. We have got 
the Duchess of Devon's house there, she being in 
France. 

" I don't care what Power says to secure the 
property of the Song, so that it is not complimenta- 
ry to me, nor any thing about ' condescending ' 
or ' noble authors ' — both 'vile phrases,' as Poloui- 
us says. ****** 

" Pray let me hear from you, and when you mean 
to be in town. Your continential scheme is imprac- 
ticable for the present. I have to thank you for a 
longer letter than usual, which I hope will induce 
you to tax my gratitude still farther in the same 
way. 

" You never told me about ' Longman,' and ' next - 
winter,' and I am not a ' milestone.'* 



LETTER CCLXIV. 



TO MR. COLERIDGE. 



" Piccadilly, March 31, 1815. 

Dear. Sir, 

" It will give me great pleasure to comply with 
your request, though I hope there is still taste 
enough left among us to render it almost unneces- 
ary, sordid and interested as, it must be admitted, 
many of ' the trade ' are, where circumstances give 
them an advantage. I trust you do not permit 
yourself to be depressed by the temporary partiality 
of what is called ' the public ' for the favorites of 
the moment ; all experience is against the perma- 
nency of such impressions. You must have lived 
to see many of these pass away, and will survive 
many more — I mean personally, for poetically* I 
would not insult you by a comparison. 

" If I may be permitted, I would suggest that 
there never was such an opening for tragedy. In 
Kean, there is an actor worthy of expressing the 
thoughts of the characters which you have every 
power of embodying ; and I cannot but regret that 
the part of Ordonio was disposed of before his 
appearance at Drury Lane. We have nothing to be 
mentioned in the same breath with ' Remorse ' for 
very many years ; and I should think that the recep- 
tion of that play was sufficient to encourage the 
highest hopes of author and audience. It is to be 
hoped that you are proceeding in a career which 
could not but be successful. With my best respects 
to Mr. Bowles, I have the honor to be, 

" Your obliged and very obedient servant, 

" Byron. 

"P. S. You mention my 'Satire,' lampoon, or 
whatever you or others please to call it. I can only 
say, that it was written when I was very young and 
very angry, and has been a thorn in my side ever 
since ; more particularly as almost all the persons 
animadverted upon became subsequently my ac- 
quaintances, and some of them my friends, which 
is ' heaping fire upon an enemy's head,' and forgiv- 
ing me too readily to permit me to forgive myself. 
The part applied to you is pert, and petulant, and 
shallow enough ; but although I have long done 
everything in my power to suppress the circulation ol 
the whole thing, I shall always regret the wanton- 
ness or generality of many cf its attempted at- 
tacks." 



• I had accused him of having entirely forgot that, in a preceding letter, 
had informed him of my intention to publish with the Messrs. Longman it- 
the ensuing winter, and added that, in gi* tng him this information, 1 founc 
1 had been, — to use an Irish metaphor,- -" whistling jigs to a milestone.'' 
Moore. 



328 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCLXV. 



TO MR. MUltltAY. 

"April 9, 1815. 

" Thanks for the books. I have great objection 
to your proposition about inscribing the vase,* 
which is, that it would appear ostentations on my 
part ; and of course I must send it as it is, without 
any alteration. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCLXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

( " April 23, 1815. 

" Lord Wentworth died last week. The bulk of 
his property (from seven to eight thousand per 
ann.) is entailed on Lady Milbanke and Lady 
Byron. The first is gone to take possession in 
Leicestershire, and attend the funeral, &c, this 
dav. ******* 

" I have mentioned the facts of the settlement of 
Lord W.'s property, because the newspapers, with 
their usual accuracy, have been making all kinds of 
blunders in their statement. His will is just as 
expected — the principal part settled on Lady Mil- 
banke (now Noel) and Bell, and a separate estate 
left for sale to pay debts, (which are not great,) and 
legacies to his natural son and daughter. 

" Mrs. * *'s tragedy was last night damned. They 
may bring it on again, and probably will ; but damned 
it was, — not a word of the last act audible. I went 
(malgri that I ought to have staid at home in sack- 
cloth for unc, but I could not resist the first night 
of any thing) to a private and quiet nook in my 
private box, and witnessed the whole process. The 
first three acts, with transient gushes of applause, 
oozed patiently but heavily on. 1 must say it was 
badly acted, particularly by * *, who was groaned 
upon in the third act, — something about ' horror — 
such a horror ' was the cause. Well, the fourth 
act became as muddy and turbid as need be ; but 
the fifth — what Garrick used to call (like a fool) the 
concoction of a play — the fifth act stuck fast at the 
King's prayer. You know he says, ' he never went 
to bed without saying them, and did not like to 
omit them now.' But he was no sooner upon his 
knees, than the audience got upon their legs — the 
damnable pit — and roared, and groaned, and hissed, 
and whistled. Well, that was choked a little ; but 
the ruffian scene — the penitent peasantry — and kill- 
ing the Bishop and the Princess — oh, it was all 
over. The curtain fell upon unheard actors, and 
the announcement attempted by Kean for Monday 
was equally ineffectual. Mrs. Bartley was so fright- 
ened, that, though the people were tolerably -quiet, 
the Epilogue was quite inaudible to half the house. 
In short, — you know all. I clapped till my hands 
were skinless, and so did Sir James Mackintosh, 
who was with me in the box. All the world were 
in the house, from the Jerseys, Greys, &c, &c, 
downwards. But it would not do. It is, after all, 
not an acting play, — good language, but no power. 

****** 
Women (saving Joanna Baillie) cannot write trag- 
edy ; they have not seen enough nor felt enough of 
life for it. I think Semiramis or Catherine II. 
might have written (could they have been un- 
queened) a rare play. * * * * * 

" It is, however, a good warning not to risk or 



* A large sepulchral vase of silver, presented by Lord Byron, through Mr. 
Murray, to Sir Walter Scott. It was lull of dead men's tones, and had in- 
scriptions on two sides of the base. One ran thus—" The bones contained in 
this urn were found fu certain ancient sepulchres within the land walls of 
Athens in the month of February 1811." The other face bears the lines of 
Juvenal : 

" Expende — quot libraa n duce summo invenies. 
— Mors sola f:\tetur q antule hominum corpuscula."— Juv. x. 



write tragedies. I never had much bent that way • 
but, if I had, this would have cured me. 

"Ever, carissime Thorn., thine, 



LETTER CCLXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" May 21, 1815. 

"You must have thought it very odd, not to say 
ungrateful, that I made no mention of the draw- 
ings,* &c, when I had the pleasure of seeing you 
this morning. The fact is, that till this moment I 
had not seen them, nor heard of their arrival : they 
were carried up into the library, where I have not 
been till just now, and no intimation given me of 
their coming. The present is so very magnificent, 
that — in short, I leave Lady Byron to thank you for 
it herself, and merely send this to apologize for a 
piece of apparent and unintentional neglect on my 
own part. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCLXVIII. 



TO MR. HUNT. 



" 13 Piccadilly Terrace, May— June 1, 1815. 

"My Dear Hunt, 

" I am as glad to hear from as I shall be to see 
you. We came to town what is called late in the 
season ; and since that time, the death of Lady 
Byron's uncle (in the first place) and her own deli- 
cate state of health, have prevented either of us 
from going out much ; however, she is now better, 
and in a fair way of going creditably through the 
whole process of beginning a family. 

" I have the alternate weeks of a private^ box at 
Drury-Lane Theatre ; this is my week, and I send 
you an admission to it for Kean's nights, Friday 
and Saturday next, in case you should like to see 
him quietly ; it is close to the stage, the entrance 
by the private-box door, and you can go without 
the bore of crowding, jostling, or dressing. I also 
enclose you a parcel of recent letters from Paris ; 
perhaps you may find some extracts that may 
amuse yourself or your readers. I have only to 
beg you will prevent your copyist, or printer, from 
mixing up any of the English names, or private 
matter contained therein, which might lead to a 
discovery of the writer ; and as the Examiner is 
sure to travel back to Paris, might get him into a 
scrape, to say nothing of his correspondent at home. 
At any rate, I hope and think the perusal will amuse 
you. Whenever you come this way, I shall be 
happy to make you acquainted with Lady Byron, 
whom you will find any thing but a fine lady, — a 
species of animal whom you probably do not affect 
more than myself. Thanks for the ' Mask ; ' there 
is not only poetry and thought in the body, but 
much research and good old reading in your prefa- 
tory manner. I hope you have not given up your 
narrative poem, of which I heard you speak as in 
progress. — It rejoices me to hear of the well-doing 
and regeneration of the ' Feast,' setting aside my 
own selfish reasons for wishing it success. I fear 
you stand almost single in your liking of ' Lara,' — it 
is natural that I should, as being my last and most 
unpopular effervescence: passing by its other sins, 
it is too little narrative, and too metaphysical to 
please the greater number of readers. I have, 
however, much consolation in the exception with 
which you furnish me. From Moore I have not 
heard very lately ; I fear he is a little humorous,, 



• Mr. Murray had presented Lady Byron with twelve dra\ 
Stothard, fronaLord Byron's Poems. 



LETTERS. 



829 



because I am a lazy correspondent ; but that shall 
be mended. " Ever your obliged 

" And very sincere friend, 
" Byron. 
" P. S. ' Politics ! ' The barking of the war-dogs 
for thek carrion has sickened me of them for the 
present. ' 



LETTER CCLXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" 13, Piccadilly Terrace, June 12, 1815. 

"I have nothing to offer in behalf of my late 
silence, except the most inveterate and ineffable 
laziness ; but I am too supine to invent a lie, or I 
certainly should, being ashamed of the truth. Kin- 
naird, I hope, has appeased your magnanimous 
indignation at his blunders. 1 wished and wish 
you were in committee, with all my heart.* It 
seems so hopeless a business, that the company 
of a friend would be quite consoling, — but more 
of this when me meet. In the mean time, you are 
entreated to prevail upon Mrs. Esterre to engage 
herself. I believe she has been written to, but your 
influence, in person, or proxy, would probably go 
farther than our proposals. What they are, I know 
not ; all my new function consists in listening to 
the despair of Cavendish Bradshaw, the hopes of 
Kinnaird, the wishes of Lord Essex, the complaints 
of Whitbread, and the calculations of Peter Moore, 
—all of which, and whom, seem totally at variance. 
C. Bradshaw wants to light the theatre with gas, 
which may, perhaps, (if the vulgar be believed,) 
poison half the audience, and all the Dramatis 
Personm. Essex has endeavored to persuade Kean 
not to get drunk, the consequence of which is, that 
he has never been sober since. Kinnaird, with 
equal success, would have convinced Raymond that 
he, the said Raymond, had too much salary. Whit- 
bread wants us to assess the pit another sixpence, — 

a d d insidious proposition, — which will end in 

an O. P. combustion. To crown all, Robins, the 
auctioneer, has the impudence to be displeased, 
because he has no dividend. The villain is a pro- 
prietor of shares, and a long-lunged orator in the 
meetings. I hear he has prophesied our incapacity, 
— ' a foregone conclusion,' — whereof I hope to give 
him signal proofs before we are done. 

" Will you give us an Opera ? no, I'll be sworn, 
but I wish you would. * * * * 

" To go on with the poetical world, — Walter Scott 
has gone back to Scotland. Murray, the bookseller, 
has been cruelly cudgelled of misbegotten knaves, 
' in Kendal green,' at Newington Butts, in his way 
lome from a purlieu dinner — and robbed — would 
you believe it ? — of three or four bonds of forty 
pounds apiece, and a seal-ring of his grandfather's, 
worth a million ! This is his version, — but others 
opine that DTsraeli, with whom he dined, knocked 
him down with his last publication, ' the Quarrels 
of Authors,' — in a dispute about copyright. Be 
that as it may, the newspapers have teemed with 
his ' injuria forms,' and he has been embrocated 
and invisible to all but the apothecary ever since. 

" Lady B. is better than three months advanced in 
her progress towards maternity, and, we hope, like- 
ly to go well through with it We have been very 
little out this season, as I wish to keep her quiet in 
her present situation. Her father and mother have 
changed their names to Noel, in compliance with 
Lord Wentworth's will, and in complaisance to the 
property bequeathed by him. 

" I hear that you have been gloriously received by 
the Irish, — and so you ought. But don't let them 
kill you with claret and kindness at the national 



The Committee of Managers ot Drury-Lane Theatre. 



dinner in your honor, which, I hear and hope, is in 
contemplation. If you will tell me the day, I'll get 
drunk myself on this side of the water, and waft 
you an applauding hiccup over the Channel. 

" Of politics, we have nothing but the yell for 
war ; and Castlereagh is preparing his head for the 
pike, on which we shall see it carried before he has 
done. The loan has made every body sulky. I 
hear often from Paris, but in direct contradiction to 
the home statements of our hirelings. Of domestic 
doings, there has been nothing since Lady D * *. 
Not a divorce stirring, — but a good many in embryo, 
in the shape of marriages. 

"I enclose yovf an epistle, received this morning 
from I know not whom ; but I think it will amuse 
you. The writer must be a rare fellow. 

" P. S. A gentleman named DAlton (not your 
Dalton) has sent me a national poem called ' Der- 
mid.' The same cause which prevented my writing 
to you operated against my wish to write to him an 
epistle of thanks. If you see him, will you make , 
all kinds of fine speeches for me, and tell him that 
I am the laziest and most ungrateful of mortals ? 

"A word more; — don't let Sir John Stevenson 
(as an evidence on trials for copyright, &c.) talk 
about the price of your next poem, or they will 
come upon you for the Property Tax for it. I am 
serious, and have just heard a long story of the ras- 
cally tax-men making Scott pay for his. So, take 
care. Three hundred is a devil of a deduction out 
of three thousand. 



LETTER CCLXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" July 7, 1815. 

' ' Grata superveniet,' &c, &c. I had written to 
you again, but burnt the letter, because I began to 
think you seriously hurt at my indolence, and did 
not know how the buffoonery it contained might be 
taken. In the mean time I have yours, and all is 
well. 

' I had given over all hopes of yours. By-the-by, 
my 'grata superveniet' should be in the present 
tense ; for I perceive it looks now as if it applied to 
this present scrawl reaching you, whereas it is to 
the receipt of thy Kilkenny epistle that 1 have 
tacked that venerable sentiment. 

' Poor Whitbread died yesterday morning, — a 
sudden and severe loss. His health had been 
wavering, but so fatal an attack was not appre- 
hended. He dropped down, and, I believe, never 
spoke afterward. I perceive Perry attributes his 
death to Drury Lane, — a consolatory encourage- 
ment to the new committee. I have no doubt that 
* *, who is of a plethoric habit, will be bled imme- 
diately ; and as I have since my marriage, lost much 
of my paleness, and, — ' horresco referens ' (for I 
hate even moderate fat) — that happy slenderness, 
to which, when I first knew you, 1 had attained, I 
by no means sit easy under this dispensation of the 
Morning Chronicle. Every one must regret the 
loss of Whitbread ; he was surely a great and very 
good man. 

' Paris is taken for the second time. I presume 
it, for the future, will have an anniversary capture. 
In the late battles, like all the world, I have lost a 
connexion, — poor Frederick Howard,* the best of 
his race. I had little intercourse, of late years, 
with his' family, but I never saw or heard but good 
oMiim. Hobhouse's brother is killed. In short, 
the havoc has not left a family out of its tender 
mercies. 

' Every hope of a republic is over, and we must 
go on under the old system. But I am sick at 
heart of politics and slaughters ; and the luck 



See Childe Harold, canto iii.— stan 



830 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



which Providence is pleased to lavish on Lord * *, 
is only a proof of the little value the gods set upon 
prosperity, when they permit such * * * s as he 
and that drunken corporal, old Blucher, to bully 
their betters. From this, however, Wellington 
should be excepted. He is a man, — and the Scipio 
of our Hannibal. However, he may thank the 
Russian frosts, which destroyed the real elite of the 
French army, for the successes of Waterloo. 

" La ! Moore — how you blaspheme about ' Par- 
nassus ' and 'Moses!' I am ashamed for you. 
Won't you do any thing for the drama ? We be- 
seech an opera. Kinnaird's blunder was partly 
mine. I wanted you of all things in the commit- 
tee, and so did he. But we are now glad you were 
wiser ; for it is, I doubt, a bitter business. 

" When shall we see you in England ? Sir Ralph 
Noel (late Milbanke — he don't promise to be late 
Noel in a hurry) finding that one man can't inhabit 
two houses, has given his place in the north to me 
for a habitation ; and there Lady B. threatens to 
be brought to bed in November. Sir R. and my 
Lady Mother are to quarter at Kirby — Lord Went- 
worth's that was. Perhaps you and Mrs. Moore 
will pay us a visit at Seaham in the course of the 
autumn. If so, you and I (without our wives) will 
take a lark to Edinburgh and embrace Jeffrey. It 
is not much above one hundred miles from us. But 
all this, and other high matters we will discuss at 
meeting, which I hope will be on your return. We 
don't leave town till August. 

" Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXI. 



TO Mil. SOTHEBT. 



" Sept. 15, 1815. Piccadilly Terrace. 

" Dear Sir, 

" ' Ivan ' * is accepted, and will be put in progress 
on Kean's arrival. 

" The theatrical gentlemen have a confident hope 
of its success. I know not that any alterations for 
the stage will be necessary : if any, they will be 
trifling, and you shall be duly apprized. I would 
suggest that you should not attend any except the 
latter rehearsals — the managers have requested me 
to state this to you. You can see them, viz., Dibdin 
and Rae, whenever you please, and 1 will do any 
thing you wish to be done, on your suggestion, in 
the mean time. 

" Mrs. Mardyn is not yet out, and nothing can be 
determined till she has made her appearance — I 
mean as to her capacity for the part you mention, 
which I take it for granted is not in Ivan — as I 
think Ivan may be performed very well without her. 
But of that hereafter. 

" Ever yours, very truly, 

"Byron. 

" P. S. You will be glad to hear that the season has 
begun uncommonly well — great and constant houses 
—the performers in much harmony with the com- 
mittee and one another, and as much good-humor 
as can be preserved in such complicated and exten- 
sive interests as the Drury-Lane proprietary." 



LETTER CCLXXII. 

10 MR. SOTHEBY. 

" Sept. 25, 1815. 

Dhar Sir, 

" I think it would be advisable for you to see the 
acting managers when convenient, as there must be 



A Tragedy, by Mr. Sotheby. 



points on which you will want to confer ; the objec- 
tion ^ stated was merely on the part of the per- 
formers, and is general and not particular to this 
instance. I thought it as well to mention it a 
once — and some of the reharsals you will doubtless 
see, notwithstanding. 

" Rae, I rather think, has his eye on Narftzen for 
himself. He is a more popular performer than 
Bartley, and certainly the cast will be stronger with 
him in it ; besides, he is one of the managers, and 
will feel doubly interested if he can act in both ca- 
pacities. Mrs. Bartley will be Petrowna ; — as to the 
Empress, I know not what to say or think. The 
truth is we are not amply furnished with tragic 
women ; but make the best of those we have — you 
can take your choice of them. We have all great 
hopes of the success — on which, setting aside other 
considerations, we are particularly anxious, as 
being the first tragedy to be brought out since the 
old committee. 

" By-the-way — I have a charge against you. As 
the great Mr. Dennis roared out on a similar occa- 
sion — ' By G — d, that is my thunder ! ' so do I 
exclaim ' This is my lightning ! ' I allude to a 
speech of Ivan's, in the scene with Petrowna and 
the Empress, where the thought and almost expres- 
sion are similar to Conrad's in the third canto of 
the Corsair. I, however, do not say this to accuse 
you, but to exempt myself from suspicion, as there 
is a priority of six months' publication, on my part, 
between the appearance of that composition and of 
your tragedies. 

" George Lambe meant to have written to you. 
If you don't like to confer with the managers at 
present, I will attend to your wishes — so state 
them. " Yours very truly, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCLXXIII. 



TO MR. TAYLOR. 



" 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept. 55, 1815. 

'' Dear Sin, 

" I am sorry you should feel uneasy at what has 
by no means troubled me.* If your editor, his 
correspondents, and readers, are amused, I have no 
objection to be the theme of all the ballads he can 
find room for, — provided his lucubrations are con- 
fined to me only. 

" It is a long time since things of this kind have 
ceased to ' fright me from my propriety ; ' nor do I 
know any similar attack which would induce me to 
turn again, unless it involved those connected 
with me, whose qualities, I hope, are such as to 
exempt them in the eyes of those who bear no good 
will to myself. In such a case, supposing it to oc- 
cur, — to reverse the saying of Dr. Johnson, — ' what 
the law could not do for me, I would do for myself,' 
be the consequences what they might. 

"I return you, with many thanks, Colman and 
the letters. The poems, I hope, you intended me to 
keep ; — at least, I shall do so, till I hear the con- 
trary. "Very truly yours." 



LETTER CCLXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

'• Sept. 25, 1815. 

' Will you publish the Drury Lane ' Magpye ?'or, 
what is more, will you give fifty, or even forty, 
pounds for the copyright of the said ? I have un- 



Au attack on Lord and Lady Byron, in the Sun newspaper, of which 
Mr. Taylor was proprietor. 



LETTERS. 



831 



dertaken to ask you this question on behalf of the 
translator, and wish you would. We can't get so 
much for him by ten pounds from any body else, 
and I, knowing your magnificence, would be glad 
of an answer." " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Sept. 27, 1815. 

" That's right, and splendid, and becoming a pub- 
lisher of high degree. Mr. Concanen (the trans- 
lator) will be delighted, and pay his washerwoman ; 
and in reward for your bountiful behavior in this 
instance, I won't ask you to publish any more for 
Drury Lane, or any lane whatever again. "You will 
have no tragedy or any thing else from me, I assure 
you, and may think yourself lucky in having got rid 
of me, for good and all, without more damage. But 
I'll Jell you what we will do for you, — act Sotheby's 
Ivan, which will succeed ; and then your present 
and next impression of the dramas of that dramatic 
gentlemen will be expedited to your heart's content ; 
and if there is any thing very good, you shall have 
the refusal ; but you shan't have any more requests. 

" Sotheby has got a thought, and almost the 
words, from the third canto of the Corsair, which, 
you know, was published six months before his 
tragedy. It is from the storm in Conrad's cell. I 
have written to Mr. Sotheby to claim it ; and, as 
Dennis roared out of the pit, ' By G — d, that's my 
thunder!' so do I, and will I, exclaim, ' By G — d, 
that's my lightning !' that electrical fluid being, in 
fact, the subject of the said passage. 

" You will have a print of Fanny Kelly, in the 
Maid, to prefix, which is honestly worth twice the 
money you have given for the MS. Pray whit did 
you do with the note I gave you about Mungo Park ? 

"Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXVII. 



LETTER CCLXXVI. 



TO MR. HUNT. 



" 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, OcC. 7, 1815. 

"My Dear ID'nt, 

" I had written a long answer to your last, which 
I put into the fire, partly, because it was a repeti- 
tion of what I have already said, and next, because 
I considered what my opinions are worth, before I 
made you pay double postage, as your proximity 
lays you within the jaws of the tremendous ' Two- 
penny,' and beyond the verge of franking, the only 
parliamentary privilege, (saving one other,) of 
much-avail in these ' costermonger' days. 

" Pray don't make me an exception to the ' Long 
live King Richard' of your bards in the ' Feast.' I 
do allow him* to be ' the prince of the bards of his 
time,' upon the judgment of those who must judge 
more impartially than I probably do. I acknow- 
ledge him as I acknowledge the Houses of Hanover 
and Bourbon, the — not the 'one-eyed monarch of 
the blind,' — but the blind monarch of the one-eyed. 
I merely take the liberty of a free subject to vitu- 
perate certain of his edicts, and that only in pri- 
vate. I shall be very glad to see you, or your re- 
maining canto ; if both together, so much the bet- 
ter. — I am interrupted." * * * 



TO MR. HUNT. 

" Oct. 15, 1815. 

"Dear Hunt, 

" I send you a thing whose greatest value is ita 
present rarity ; * the present copy contains some 
manuscript corrections previous to an edition which 
was printed, but not published, and, in short, all 
that is in the suppressed edition, the fifth, except 
twenty lines in addition, for which there was not 
room in the copy before me. There are in it many 
opinions I have altered, and some which I retain ; 
upon the whole, I wish that it had never been writ- 
ten, though my sending you this copy (the only 
one in my possession, unless one of Lady B.'s be 
excepted), may seem at variance with this state- 
ment : but my reason for this is very different ; it is, 
however, the only gift I nave made of the kind this 
many a day. 

"P. S. You probably know that it is not in print 
for sale, nor ever will be (if I can help it) again." 



LETTER CCLXXVIII. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

" Oct. 22, 1315. 

" My Dear Hunt, 

" You have excelled yourself, if not all your con- 
temporaries in the canto which I have just finished. 
I think it above the former books ; but that is as 
it should be ; it rises with the subject, the concep- 
tion appears to me perfect, and the execution per- 
haps as nearly so as verse will admit. There is 
more originality than I recollect to have seen else- 
where within the same compass, and frequent and 
great happiness of expression. In short, I must 
turn to the faults, or what appear to be such to me : 
these are not many, nor such as may not be easily 
altered, being almost all verbal ; and of the same 
kind as I pretended to point out in the former 
cantos, viz., cc 'asional quaintness and obscurity, and 
a kind of harsh and yet colloquial compounding of 
epithets, as if to avoid saying common things in the 
common way ' difficile est proprie communia dicere,' 
seems at times to have met with in you a literal 
translator. I have made a few, and but a few pen- 
cil marks on the MS. which you can follow, or not, 
as 5'ou please. 

" The poem, as a whole, will give you a very high 
station; but where is the conclusion? Don't let it 
cool in the composition You can always delay as 
long as you like revising, though I am not sure, in 
the very face of Horace, that the ' nonum,' &c., is 
attended with advantage, unless we read ' months' 
for ' years.' I am glad the book sent* reached you. 
I forgot to tell you the story of its suppression, 
which shan't be longer than I can make it. My 
motive for writing that poem was, I fear, not so fair 
as you are willing to believe it ; I was angry, and de- 
termined to be witty, and, fighting in a crowd, dealt 
about my blows against all alike, without distinction 
or discernment. When I came home from the East, 
among other new acquaintances and friends, politics 
and the state of the Nottingham rioters, (of which 
county I am a landholder, and Lord Holland Re- 
corder of the town,) led me by the good offices of 
Mr. Rogers, into the society of Lord Holland, who, 
with Lady Holland, was particularly kind to me ; 
about March, 1812, this introduction took place, 
when I made my first speech on the Frame Bill, in 
the same debate in which Lord Holland spoke. 
Soon after this, I was correcting the fifth edition of 
' E. B.' for the press, when Rogers represented to 
me that he knew Lord and Lady Holland would not 



A ropy of Or. English Bardi and Scotch Reriewere. 



832 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



be sorry if I suppressed any farther publication of 
that poem ; and I immediately acquiesced, and with 
great pleasure, for 1 had attacked them upon a fan- 
cied and false provocation with many others ; and 
neither was, nor am sorry, to have done what I 
could to stifle that ferocious rhapsody. This was 
subsequent to my acquaintance with Lord Holland, 
and was neither expressed nor understood, as a con- 
dition of that acquaintance. Rogers told me he 
thought I ought to suppress it; I thought so too, 
and did as far as I could, and that's all. I sent you 
my copy, because I consider your having it much 
the same as having it myself. Lady Byron has one ; 
I desire not to have any other, and sent it only as a 
curiosity and a memento." 



LETTER CCLXXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. !», 1815. 

" You are, it seems, in England again, as I am 
to hear from every body but yourself; and I sup- 
pose you punctilious because I did not answer your 
last Irish letter. When did you leave the ' swate 
country ?' Never mind, I forgive you ; — a strong 
proof — I know not what — to give the lie to — 



■ pardo 



vho hrull done the < 



" You have written to * *. You have also writ- 
ten to Perry, who intimates hope of an opera from 
you. Coleridge has promised a tragedy.' Now, if 
you keep Perry's word, and Coleridge keeps his 
own, Drury Lane will be set up ; — and, sooth to say, 
it is in grievous want of such a lift. We began at 
speed, and are blown already. When I say ' we,' I 
mean Kinnaird, who is the ' all in all sufficient,' and 
can count, which none of the rest of the committee 
can. 

"It is really very good fun, as far as the daily 
and nightly stir of these strutters and fretters go ; 
and, if the concern could be brought to pay a shil- 
ling in the pound, would do much credit to the man- 
agement. Mr. has an accepted tragedy, * * * *, 

whose first scene is in his sleep, (I don't mean the 
author's. ) It was forwarded to us as a prodigious fa- 
vorite of Kean's ; but the said Kean, upon interro- 
gation, denies his eulogy, and protests against his 
part. How it will end, I know not. 

" I say so much about the theatre, because there 
is nothing else alive at this season. All the world 
are out of it, except us, who remain to lie in, — in 
December or perhaps earlier. Lady B. is very pon- 
derous and prosperous, apparently, and I wish it 
well over. 

" There is a play before me from a personage who 
signs himself ' Hibernicus.' The hero is Malachi, 
the Irishman and king ; and the villain and 
usurper, Turgesius, the Dane. The conclusion is 
fine. Turgesius is chained by the leg (vide stage 
direction) to a pillar on the stage ; and ' King 
Malachi makes him a speech, not unlike Lord Cas- 
tlereagh's, about the balance of power and the law- 
fulness of legitimacy, which puts Turgesius into a 
phrensy — as Castlereagh's would, if his audience 
was chained by the leg. He draws a dagger and 
rushes at the orator ; but, finding himself at the 
end of his tether, he sticks it into his own carcass, 
and dies, saying, he has fulfilled a prophecy. 

"Now, this is serious, dowiiritjht matter of fact, 
and the gravest part of a tragedy which is not in- 
tended for burlesque. I tell it you for the honor of 
Ireland. The writer hopes it will be represented : — 
Dut what is Hope ? nothing but the paint on the 
face of Existence ; the least touch of Truth rubs it 
off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot 
we have got hold of. I am not sure that I have not 



said this last superfine reflection before. But never 
mind ; — it will do for the tragedy of Turgesius, to 
which I can append it. 

" Well, but how dost thou do ? thou bard, not ot 
a thousand, but three thousand ! I wish your friend, 
Sir John Pianoforte, had kept that to himself, and 
not made it public at the trial of the song-seller in 
Dublin. I tell you why ; it is a liberal thing for 
Longman to do, and honorable for you to obtain ; 
but it will set all the ' hungry and dinnerless lank- 
jawed judges ' upon the fortunate author. But 
they be d — d ! — the ' Jeffrey and the Moore together 
are confident against the world in ink ! ' By-the- 
way, if poor Coleridge — who is a man of wonderful 
talent, and in distress, and about to publish two 
vols, of Poesy and Biography, and who has been 
worse used by the critics than ever we were — will 
you, if he comes out % promise me to review him fa- 
vorably in the E. R. ? Praise him, I trunk you 
must, but you will also praise him well, — of all 
things the most difficult. It will be the making of 
him. 

" This must be a secret between you and me, as 
Jeffrey might not like such a project — nor, indeed, 
might Coleridge himself like it. But I do think he 
only wants a pioneer, and a sparkle or two to ex- 
plode most gloriously. 

" Ever yours most affectionatelv, 
"B." 



LETTER CCLXXX. 



TO MR. HUNT. 



" 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept.— Oct. 30, 1815. 

" My Dear Hunt, 

"Many thanks for your books, of which you 
already know my opinion : their external splendor 
should not disturb you as inappropriate — they have 
still more within than without. I take leave to dif- 
fer from you on Wordsworth, as freely as I once 
agreed with you ; at that time I gave him credit for 
a promise, which is unfulfilled. I still think his 
capacity warrants all you say of it only, but that his 
performances since ' Lyrical Ballads ' are miserably 
inadequate to the ability which lurks within him : 
there is undoubtedly much natural talent spilt over 
the ' Excursion,' but it is rain upon rocks, where it 
stands and stagnates, or rain upon sands, where it 
falls without fertilizing. Who can understand him ? 
Let those who do, make him intelligible. Jacoto 
Behmen, Swedenborg, and Johanna Southcote, are 
mere types of this arch-apostle of mystery and mys- 
ticism. But I have done, — no, I have not done — for 
I have two petty, and perhaps unworthy, objections 
in small matters to make to him, which, with his 
pretensions to accurate observations, and fury 
against Pope's false translation of 'the moonlight 
scene in Homer,' I wonder he should have fallen into 
— these be they : — He says of Greece in the body of 
his books, that -it is a land of 

" ' Rivers, fertile plains, and sounding shores, 
Under a cope of variegated sky.' 

The rivers are dry half the year, the plains are bar- 
ren, and the shores still and tideless as the Mediter- 
ranean can make them ; the sky is any thing but 
variegated, being for months and months but ' dark- 
ly, deeply, beautifully blue.' — The next is in his 
notes, where he talks of our ' Monuments crowded 
together in the busy, &c, of a large town,' as com- 
pared with the ' still seclusion of a Turkish ceme- 
tery in some remote place.' This is pure stuff; for 
one monument in our churchyards there are ten in 
the Turkish, and so crowded that you cannot walk 
between them ; that is, divided merely by a path or 
road ; and as to ' remote places,' men never take the 
trouble, in a barbarous country, to carry their dead 



LETTERS. 



833 



very far; they must have lived near to where they 
were buried. There are no cemeteries in ' remote 
places,' except such as have the cypress and the 
tombstone still left, where the olive and the habita- 
tion of the living have perished. . . . These things I 
was struck with, as coming peculiarly in my own 
way ; and in both of these he is wrong : yet I should 
have noticed neither, but for his attack on Pope for 
a like blunder, and a peevish affectation about him 
of despising a popularity which he will never obtain. 
I write in great haste, and, I doubt, not much to the 
purpose, but you have it hot and hot, just as it 
comes, and so let it go. By-the-way, both he and 
you go too far against Pope's ' So when the moon,' 
etc. ; it is no translation, I know ; but it is not such 
falfee description as asserted. I have read it on the 
spot ; there is a burst, and a lightness, and a glow 
about the night in the Troad, which makes the 
'planets vivid,' and the 'pole glaring.' The moon 
is, at least the sky is, clearness itself; and I know 
no more appropriate expression for the expan- 
sion of such a heaven — o'er the scene — the plain — 
the sea — the sky — Ida — the Hellespont — Simois — 
Scamander — and the Isles — than that of a ' flood of 
glory.' I am getting horribly lengthy, and must 
stop : to the whole of your letter I say ' ditto to 
Mr. Burke,' as the Bristol candidate cried, by way 
of electioneering harangue. You need not speak of 
morbid feelings and vexations to me ; I have plen- 
ty ; but I must blame partly the times, and chiefly 
myself: but let us forget them. / shall be very apt 
to do so when I see you next. Will you come to 
the theatre and see our new management ? You 
shall cut it up to your heart's content, root and 
branch, afterwards, if you like, but come and see it ! 
If not, I must come and see you. 

"Ever yours, very truly and affectionately, 

" Byron. 
"P. S. Not a word from Moore for these two 
months. Pray let me have the rest of Rimini. You 
have two excellent points in that poem — originality 
and Italianism. I will back yon as a bard against 
half the fellows on whom you have thrown away 
much good criticism and eulogy ; but don't let your 
bookseller publish in quarto — it is the worst size pos- 
sible for circulation. I say this on bibliopolical 
authority. " Again, youis ever, 

"B." 



" Both he and Colman were, as usual, very good ; 
but I carried away much wine, and the wine had 
previously carried away my memory ; so that all 
was hiccup and happiness for the last hour or so, 
and I am not impregnated with any of the conver- 
sation. Perhaps you heard of a late answer of 
Sheridan to the watchman, who found him bereft of 
that ' divine particle of air,' called reason, — * * 
* * * *. He, the watchman, found Sherry in 
the street, fuddled and bewildered, and almost in 
sensible. 'Who are yon, sir?'-r-no answer. 
' What's your name ? ' — a hiccup. ' What's your 
name ? ' — Answer, in a slow, deliberate, and impas- 
sive tone,—' Wilberforce ! ! ! ' Is not that Sherry 
all over ? — and to my niind excellent. Poor fellow"! 
his very dregs are better than the 'first sprightly 
runnings ' of others. 

" My paper is full, and I have a grievous head- 
ache. 

" P. S. Lady B. is in full progress. Next month 
will bring to light (with the aid of ' Juno Lucina, 
fer opem, y or rather opes, for the last are most 
wanted) the tenth wonder of the world ; Gil Bias 
being the eighth, and he (my son's father) the 
ninth." 



LETTER CCLXXXI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 31, 1815. 

" I have not been able to ascertain precisely the 
time of duration of the stock market ; but I believe 
it is a good time for selling out, and I hope so. 
First, because I shall see you ; and, next, because I 
shall receive certain moneys on behalf of Lady B., 
the which will materially conduce to my comfort, — 
T wanting (as the duns say) ' to make up a sum.' 

"Yesterday I dined out with a largeish party, 
where were Sheridan and Colman, Harry Harris of 
C. G., and his brother, Sir Gilbert Heathcote, Ds. 
Kinnaird, and others of note and notoriety. Like 
other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then 
talky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then 
unintelligible, then altogether}', then inarticulate, 
and then drunk. When we had reached the last 
step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get 
down again without stumbling ; — and, to crown all, 
Kinnaird and I had to conduct Sheridan down a 
d — d corkscrew staircase, which had certainly been 
constructed before the discovery of fermented 
liquors, and to which no legs, however crooked, 
could possibly accommodate themselves. We de- 
posited him safe at home, where his man, evidently 
used to the business, waited to receive him in the 
hall. 

105 



LETTER CCLXXXII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Nov. 4, 1815. 

"Had you not bewildered my head with the 
' stocks,' your letter would have been answered 
directly. Hadn't I to go to the city ? and hadn't I 
to remember what to ask when I got there ? and 
hadn't I forgotten it ? 

" I should be undoubtedly delighted to see you; 
but I don't like to urge against your reasons my 
own inclinations. Come you must soon, for stay 
you won't. I know you of old ; — you have been too 
much leavened with London to keep long out of it. 

" Lewis is going to Jamaica to suck his sugar- 
canes. He sails in two days ; I enclose you his 
farewell note. I saw him last night at D. L. T., for 
the last time previous to his voyage. Poor fellow ! 
he is really a good man — an excellent man — he left 
me his walking-stick, and a pot of preserved ginger. 
I shall never eat the last without tears in my eyes, 
it is so hot. We have had a devil of a row among 
our ballarinas : Miss Smith has been wronged about 
a hornpipe. The committee have interfered ; but 
Byrne, the d — d ballet-master, won't budge a step. 
/ am furious, so is George Lambe. Kinnaird is very 
glad, because — he don't know why ; and I am very 
sorry, for the same reason. To-day I dine with Kd. 
— we are to have Sheridan and Colman again ; and 
to-morrow, once more at Sir Gilbert Heathcote's. 
***** 

"Leigh Hunt has written a real good and very 
original poem, which I think will be a great hit. 
You can have no notion how very well it is written, 
nor should I, had I not redde it. As to us, Tom — 
eh, when art thou out ? If you think the verses 
worth it, I would rather they were embalmed in the 
Irish Melodies, than scattered abroad in a separate 
song ; much rather. But when are thy great things 
out ? I mean the Po of Pos ; thy Shah Nameh. 
It is very kind in Jeffrey to like the Hebrew Melo- 
dies. Some of the fellows here preferred Sternhold 
and Hopkins, and said so ; — ' the fiend receive their 
souls therefor ! ' 

"I must go and dress for dinner. Poor, dear 
Murat, — what an end! You know, I suppose, 
that his white plume used to be a rallying point in 
battle,* like Henry the Fourth's. He refused a 
confessor and a bandage ; so would neither suffer 
his soul or body to be bandaged. You shall have 
more to-morrow or next day. " Ever, &c." 



• See Poems, p. 552. 



834 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCLXXXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



'' "When yon have been enabled to form an opinion 
on Mr. Coleridge's MS., you will oblige me by re- 
turning it, as, in fact, I have no authority to let it 
out of my hands. I think most highly of it, and 
feel anxious that you should be the publisher ; but 
if you are not, I do not despair of finding those who 
will. 

"I have written to Leigh Hunt, stating your wil- 
lingness to treat with him, which, when I saw you, 
I understood you to be. Terms and time I leave to 
his pleasure and your discernment ; but this I will 
say, that I think it the safest thing you ever en- 
gaged in. I speak to you as a man of business ; 
were I to talk to you as a reader or a critic, I should 
say, it was a very wonderful and beautiful perform- 
ance, with just enough of fault to make its beauties 
more remarked and remarkable. 

"And now to the last: my own, which I feel 
ashamed of after the others : — publish or not, as you 
like, I don't care one damn. If you don't, no one 
else shall, and I never thought or dreamed of it, 
except as one in the collection. If it is worth being 
in the fourth volume, put it there and nowhere else ; 
and if not, put it in the fire. " Yours, 

"N." 



LETTER CCLXXXIV. 

TO Mil. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 14, 181a. 

"I return you your bills not accepted, but cer- 
tainly not unhonored. Your present offer is a favor 
which I would accept from you, if I accepted such 
from any man. Had such been my intention, I can 
assure you I would have asked you fairly, and as 
freely as you would give ; and I cannot say more of 
my confidence or your conduct. 

"The circumstances which induce me to part 
with my books,* though sufficiently, are not imme- 
diately, pressing. I have made up my mind to 
them, and there's an end. 

" Had I been disposed to trespass on your 
kindness in this way, it would have been before 
now ; but I am not sorry to have an opportunity of 
declining it, as it sets my opinion of you, and indeed 
of human nature, in a different light from that in 
which I have been accustomed to consider it. 

" Believe me very truly, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Dec. 25, 1815. 

" I send some lines, written some time ago, 
and intended as an opening to the ' Siege of Cor- 
inth.' I had forgotten them, and am not sure that 
they had not better be left out now : on that, you 
and your synod can determine. f " Yours, &c." 



have any, from you or yours , the suppression oc- 
curred (I am as sure as I can be of any thing) in 
the manner stated : I have never regretted that, 
but very often the composition, that is, the humeut 
of a great deal in it. As to the quotation you 
allude to, I have no right, nor indeed desire, to 
prevent it ; but, on the contrary, in common with 
all other writers, I do and ought to take it as a com- 
pliment. 

" The paper on the Methodists I redde, and 
agree with the writer on one point, in which you and 
he perhaps differ; that an addiction to poetry is 
very generally the result of ' an uneasy mind in an 
uneasy body;' disease or deformity have been the 
attendants of many of our best. Collins mad — 
Chatterton, 1 think, mad — Cowper mad — Pope 
crooked — Milton blind — Gray (I have heard that the 
last was afflicted by an incurable and very griev- 
ous distemper, though not generally known), and 
others — I have somewhere read, however, that poets 
rarely go mad. I suppose the writer means that 
their insanity effervesces and evaporates in verse- 
may be so. 

' I have not had time to attack your system, 
which ought to be done, were it only because it is a 
system. So, by-and-by, have at you. 

" Yours ever, 

" Byron." 

"Of 'Rimini,' Sir Henry Englefiekl, a mighty 
man in the blue circles, and a very clever -man any 
where, sent to Murray, in terms of the highest 
eulogy; and with regard to the common reader, my 
sister and cousin (who are now all my family, and 
the last since gone away to be married) were in 
fixed perusal and delight with it, and they are ' not 
critical,' but fair, natural, unaffected, and under- 
standing persons. Frere, and all the arch-literati, 
I hear, are also unanimous in a high opinion of the 
poem." 



FKAU.MJENTS OP LETTERS WRITTEN ABOUT THIS 
TIME TO MR. HUNT. 

" With regard to the English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers, I have no concealments, nor desire to 



In consequence of his pecuniary embarrassments at this time, he had ex- 
i intention of parting with his books. On hearing this, Mr. Murray 
instantly forwarded him 1500Z-, with an assurance that another sum of the 
lame amount should be at his service in a few weeks, and that if Buch as 
ance should not he sufficient, Mr. Murray was most ready to dispose of the 
copyrights of all his past works for his use. 
♦ See Poems, p. 569. 



LETTER CCLXXXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan. 5, 1816. 

" I hope Mrs. M. is quite reestablished. The 
little girl was born on the 10th of December last : 
her name is Augusta Ada, (the second a very 
antique family name, — I believe not used since the 
reign of King John.) She was, and is, very 
flourishing and fat, and reckoned very large for her 
days — squalls and sucks incessantly. Are you 
answered ? Her mother is doing Very well, and up 
again. 

" I have now been married a year on the second 
of this month — heigh-ho ! I have seen nobody 
lately much worth noting, except S * * and another 
general of the Gauls, once or twice at dinner out 
of doors. S * * is a fine, foreign, villainous-look- 
ing, intelligent, and very agreeable man ; his com- 
patriot is more of the petit-maitre, and younger, 
but I should think not at all of the same intellectual 
calibre with the Corsican — which S * *, you know, 
is, and a cousin of Napoleon's. 

" Are you never to be. expected in town again? 
To be sure, there is no one here of the fifteen hun- 
dred fillers of hot rooms, called the fashionable 
world. My approaching papa-ship detained us for 
advice, &c, &c, — though I would as soon be here 
as any where else on this side of the straits o! 
Gibraltar. 

" I would gladly — or, rather, sorrowfully — comply 
with your request of a dirge for the poor girl you 
mention.* But how can I write on one I have never 
seen or known ? Besides, you will do much better 



* 1 had mentioned to him, as a subject worthy of his best powers of pathos, 
a melancholy event which had just occurred in my neighborhood, and tc 
which I have myself made allusion iti one of the Sacred Melodies.—" Weep 
not for her."— Moore. 



LETTERS. 



83a 



yourself. I could not write upon any thing, with- 
out some personal experience and foundation ; far 
less on a theme so peculiar. Now, you have both 
in this case ; and, if you had neither, you have 
more imagination, and would never fail. 

" This is but a dull scrawl, and I am but a dull 
fellow. Just at present, I am absorbed in five 
hundred contradictory contemplations, though with 
but one object in view — which will probably end in 
nothing, as most things we wish do. But never 
mind — as somebody says, ' for the blue sky bends 
over all.' I only could be glad, if it bent over me 
where it is a little bluer; like the 'skyish top of 
blue Olympus,' which, by-the-way, looked very 
white when I last saw it. " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXXYII. 

TO* MR. HUNT. 

"Jan. 29, 18IS. 

" Dear Hunt, 

" I return your extract with thanks for the peru- 
sal, and hope you are by this time on the verge of 
publication. My pencil-marks on the margin of 
your former manuscripts I never thought worth the 
trouble of deciphering, but I had no such meaning 
as you imagine for their being withheld from Mur- 
ray, from whom I differ entirely as to the terms of 
your agreement ; nor do I think you asked a piastre 
too much for the poem. However, I doubt not he 
will deal fairly by you on the whole; he is really a 
very good fellow, and his faults are merely the 
leaven of his ' trade ' — ' the trade ! ' the slave-trade 
of many an unlucky writer. 

" The said Murray and I are just at present in no 
good humor with each other ; but he is not the 
worse for that : I feel sure that he will give your 
work as fair or a fairer chance in every way than, 
your late publishers ; and what he can"t do for it, 
it will do for itself. 

" Continual business and occasional indisposition 
have been the causes of my negligence (for I deny 
neglect) in not writing to you immediately. These 
are excuses ; I wish they may be more satisfactory 
to you than they are to me. I opened my eyes 
yesterday morning on your compliment of Sunday. 
If you knew what a hopeless and lethargic den of 
dufness and drawling our hospital is during a 
debate ; and what a mass of corruption in its 
patients, you would wonder, not that I very seldom 
speak, but that I ever attempted it, feeling, as I 
trust I do, independently. However, when a proper 
spirit is manifested ' without doors,' I will endeavor 
not to be idle within. Do you think such a time is 
coming ? Methinks there are gleams of it. My 
forefathers were of the other side of the question 
in Charles' days, and the fruit of it was a title and 
the loss of an enormous property. 

" If the old struggle comes on, I may lose the 
one, and shall never regain the other, but no mat- 
ter ; there are things, even in this world, better 
than cither. " Very truly, ever yours, 

" B." 



which have struck me from a quarter whence I did 
not indeed expect them. But no matter, 'there 
is a world elsewhere,' and I will cut my way through 
this as I can. 

" If you write to Moore, will you tell him that I 
shall answer his letter the moment I can mustor 
time and spirits ? << Ever yours, 

"Bn" 



LETTER CCLXXXVIII. 

'"> MR. ROGERS. 

" Feb. 8, 181S. 

" Do not mistake me — I really returned your 
book for the reason assigned, and no other. It is 
too good for so careless a fellow. I have parted 
with all my own books, and positively won't deprive 
j*du of so valuable ' a drop of that immortal man.' 

" I shall be very glad to see you, if you like to 
rail, though I am at present contending with ' the 
lings and. arrows of outrageous fortune,' some of 



LETTER CCLX2XIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Feb. 29, 181G. 

" I have not answered your letter for a time ; 
and, at present, the reply to part of it might 
extend to such a length, that I shall delay it till it 
can be made in person, and then I will shorten it as 
much as I can. 

"In the mean time, I am at war 'with all the 
world and his wife ; ' or rather, ' all the world and 
my wife ' are at war with me, and have not yet 
crushed me, whatever they may do. I doVt know 
that in the course of a hair-breadth existence I was 
ever, at home or abroad, in a situation so com- 
pletely uprooting of present pleasure, or rational 
hope for the future, as this same. I say this, 
because I think so, and feel it. But I shall not 
sink under it the more for that mode of considering 
the question. I have made up my mind. 

"By-the-way, however, you must not believe all 
you hear on the subject ; and don't attempt to 
defend me. If you succeeded in that, it would be a 
mortal, or an immortal, offence — who can bear 
refutation ? I have but a very short answer for 
those whom it concerns ; and all the activity of 
myself and some vigorous friends have not yet fixed 
on any tangible ground or personage, on which or 
with whom I can discuss matters, in a summary 
way, with a fair pretext, though I nearly had nailed 
one yesterday, but he evaded by — what was judged 
by others — a satisfactory explanation. I speak of 
circulators — against whom I have no enmity, though 
I must act according to the common code of usage, 
when I hit upon those of the serious order. 

" Now for other matters — Poesy, for instance. 
Leigh Hunt's poem is a devilish good one — quaint, 
here and there, but with the substratum of origi- 
nality, and with poetry about it that will stand the 
test. I do not say this because he has inscribed it 
to me, which I am sorry for, as I should otherwise 
have begged you to review it in the Edinburgh. It 
is really deserving of much praise, and a favorable 
critique in the E. R. would but do it justice, and 
set it up before the public eye where it ought to be. 

" How are you ? and where ? I have not the most 
distant idea what I am going to do myself, or with 
myself — or where — or what. I had, a few weeks 
ago, some things to say, that would have made you 
laugh ; but they tell me now that I must not laugh, 
and so I have been very serious — and am. 

"I have not been very well — with a liver com- 
plaint — but am much better within the last fort- 
night, though still under Iatrical advice. I have 
latterly seen a little of * * * * * 

" I must go and dress to dine. My little girl is 
in the country, and, they tell me, is a very fine 
child, and now nearly three months old. Lady 
Noel (my mother-in-law, or rather, at law) is at 
present overlooking it. Her daughter (Miss Mil- 
banke that was) is, I believe, in London with her 
father. A Mrs. Charlmont,* (now a kind of house 
keeper and spy of Lady N.'s,) who, in her bcttei 
days, was a washerwoman, is supposed to be — by 
the learned — very much the occult cause of our late 
domestic discrepancies. 

"In all this business, I am the sorriest for Sir 
Ralph. He and I are equally punished, though 

* See Fuems, p. 550. 



836 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



map is pares quern similes in our affliction. Yet it is 
hard for both to suffer for the fault of one, and so 
it is — I shall be separated from my wife ; he will 
retain his. " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXC. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

" Feb. 26, 1816. 

" Dear Hunt, 

" Your letter would have been answered before, 
had I not thought it probable that, as you were in 
town for a day or so, I should have seen you ; — 1 
don't mean this as a hint at reproach for not call- 
ing, but merely that of course I should have been 
very glad if you had called in your way, home or 
abroad, as I always would have been, and always 
shall be. "With regard to the circumstances to which 
you allude, there is no reason why you should not 
speak openly to me on a subject already sufficiently 
rife in the mouths and minds of what is called ' the 
world.' Of the ' fifty reports,' it follows that forty- 
nine must have more or less exaggeration ; but I 
am sorry to say, that on the main and essential 
point of an intended, and, it may be, an inevitable 
separation, I can contradict none. At present I 
shall say no more, but this is not from want of con- 
fidence y in the mean time I shall merely request a 
suspension of opinion. Your prefatory letter to 
' Rimini ' I accepted as it w,as meant, as a public 
compliment and a private kindness. I am only 
sorry that it may perhaps operate against you as an 
inducement, and, with some, a pretext for attack 
on the part of the political and personal enemies of 
both ; not that this can be of much consequence, 
for in the end the work must be judged by its 
merits, and, in that respect, you are well armed. 
Murray tells me it is going on well, and, you may 
depend upon it, there is a substratum of poetry, 
which is a foundation for solid and durable fame. 
The objections (if there be objections, for this is a 
presumption, and not an assumption) will be merely 
as to the mechanical part, and such, as I stated 
before, the usual consequences of either novelty or 
revival. I desired Murray to forward to you a 
pamphlet with two things of mine in it, the most 
part of both of them, and of one in particular, 
xoritten before others of my composing, which have 
preceded them in publication ; they are neither of 
them of much pretension, n«r intended for it. You 
will perhaps wonder at my dwelling so much and so 
frequently on former subjects and scenes ; but the 
fact is, that I found them fading fast from my 
memory ; and I was, at the same time, so partial to 
their place, (and events connected with it,) that I 
have stamped them while I could, in such colors as 
I could trust to now, but might have confused and 
misplaced hereafter, had I longer delayed the 
attempted delineation." 



LETTER CCXCI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" March 8, 1816. 

"I rejoice in your promotion as Chairman and 
Charitable Steward, &c, &c. These be dignities 
which await only the virtuous. But then, recollect, 
you are six-and-thirtij, (I speak this enviously — not 
of your age, but the ' honor — love — obedience — 
troops of friends,' which accompany it,) and I have 
eight years good to run before I arrive at such 
hoary perfection ; by which time, — if I am at all, — 
it will probably be in a state of grace or progressing 
merits. 

" I must set you right in one point, however. 
The fault was not — no, nor even the misfortune, — 



in my ' choice ' (unless in choosing at all) — for I do 
not believe, and I must say it, in the very dregs ol 
all this bitter business, that there ever was a better, 
or even a brighter, a kinder, or a more amiable and 
agreeable being than Lady B. I never had, nor can 
have, any reproach to make her, while with me. 
Where there is blame, it belongs to myself; and, it 
I cannot redeem, I must bear it. 

" Her nearest relatives are a * * * — my circum- 
stances have been and are in a state of great con- 
fusion — my health has been a good deal disordered, 
and my mind ill at ease for a considerable period. 
Such are the causes (I do not name them as excuses) 
which have frequently driven me into excess, and 
disqualified my temper for comfort. Something 
also may be attributed to the strange and desultory 
habits which, becoming my own master at an early 
age, and scrambling about, over and through the 
world, may have induced. I still, however, think 
that, if I had had a fair chance, by being placed in 
even a tolerable situation, I might have gone on 
fairly. But that seems hopeless, and there is noth- 
ing; more to be said. At present — except my health, 
which is better (it is odd, but agitation or contest of 
any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me 
up* for the time) — I have to battle with all kinds of 
unpleasantnesses, including private and pecuniary 
difficulties, &c, &c. 

" I believe I may have said this before to you,— 
but I risk repeating it. It is nothing to bear the 
prirations of adversity, or, more properly, ill for- 
tune ; but my pride recoils from its indignities. 
However, I have no quarrel with that same pride, 
which will, I think, buckler me through every 
thing. If my heart could have been broken, it 
would have been so years ago, and by events more 
afflicting than these. 

" I agree with you (to turn from this topic to our 
shop) that I have written too much. The last 
things were, however, published very reluctantly by 
me, and for reasons I will explain when me meet. 
I know not why I have dwelt so much on the same 
scenes, except that I find them fading, or confusing 
(if such a word may be) in my memory, in the 
midst of present turbulence and pressure, and I felt 
anxious to stamp before the die was worn out. I 
now break it. With those countries, and events 
connected with them, all my really, poetical feelings 
begin and end. Were I to try, I could make noth- 
ing of any other subject, and that I have apparently 
exhausted. ' Wo to him,' says Voltaire, 'who says 
all he could say on any subject.' There are some 
on which, perhaps, I could have said still more: 
but I leave them all, and not too soon. 

" Do you remember the lines I sent you early last 
year, which you still have ? I don't wish (like Mr. 
Fitzgerald, in the Morning Post) to claim the char- 
acter of ' Vates ' in all its translations ; lint were 
they not a little prophetic? 1 mean those begin- 
ning 'There's not a joy the world cart,'* &c, &c, 
on which I rather pique myself as being the truest, 
though the most melancholy, I ever wrote. 

" What a scrawl have I sent you ! You say noth- 
ing of yourself, except that you are a Lancasterian 
churchwarden, and an encourager of mendicants. 
When are you out ? and how is your family ? My 
child is very well and flourishing, I hear ; but I 
must see also. I feel no disposition to resign it to 
the contagion of its grandmother's society, though 
I am unwilling to take it from the mother's. It is 
weaned, however, and something about it must be 
decided. " Ever, &c." 



[The letter that follows was in answer to one 
received from Mr. Murray, in which he had enclosed 
him a draft for a thousand guineas for the copy- 
right of his two poems, the Siege of Corinth and 
Parisina.] 



• See Poems, p. 549 



LETTERS. 



837 



LETTER CCXCII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Jan. 2, 1S16. 

"Your offer is liberal in the extreme, (you see I 
use the word to you and o/"you, though I would not 
consent to your using it of yourself to Mr. * * * *,) 
and much more than the two poems can possibly be 
worth ; but I cannot accept it, nor will not. You 
are most welcome to them as additions to the col- 
lected volumes, without any demand or expectation 
on my part whatever. But I cannot consent to 
their separate publication. I do not like to risk 
any fame (whether merited or not) which I have 
been favored with, upon compositions which I do 
not feel to be at all equal to my own notions of 
what they should be, (and as I flatter myself some 
hare been, here and there,) though they may do 
very well as things without pretension, to add to 
the publication with the lighter pieces. 

"I am very glad that the handwriting was a fa- 
vorable omen of the morale of the piece : but you 
must not trust to that, for my copyist would write 
out any thing I desired in all the ignorance of inno- 
cence — I hope, however, in this instance, with no 
great peril to either. 

" P. S. I have enclosed your draft torn, for fear 
of accidents by the way — I wish you would not 
throw temptation in mine. It is not from a disdain 
of the universal idol, not from a present superfluity 
of his treasures, I can assure you, that I refuse to 
worship him ; but what is right is right, and must 
not yield to circumstances." 



LETTER CCXCIII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" Feb. 20, 1816. 

" I wrote to you hastily this morning by Murray, 
to say that I was glad to do as Mackintosh and you 
suggested about Mr. * *. It occurs to me now, 
that as I have never seen Mr. * * but once, and 
consequently have no claim to his acquaintance, 
that you or Sir J. had better arrange it with him in 
such a manner as may be least offensive to his 
feelings, and so as not to have the appearance of 
ofliciousness nor obtrusion on my part. I hope you 
will ije able to do this, as I should be very sorry to 
do any thing by him that may be deemed indelicate. 
The sum Murray offered and offers was and is one 
thousand and fifty pounds : this I refused before, 
because I thought it more than the two things were 
worth to Murray, and from other objections, which 
are of no consequence. I have, however, closed 
with M., in consequence of Sir J.'s and your sug- 
gestion, and propose the sum of six hundred pounds 
to be transferred to Mr. * * in such manner as may 
seem best to your friend, — the remainder I think of 
for other purposes. 

"As Murray has offered the money down for the 
copyrights, it may be done directly. I am ready to 
sign and seal immediately, and perhaps it had better 
not be delayed. I shall feel very glad if it can be 
of any use to * * ; only don't let him be plagued, 
nor think himself obliged and all that, which makes 
people hate one another, &c. 

" Yours, very truly, 
"B." 



it was large, I admitted and admit ; and that made 
part of my consideration in refusing it, till I knew 
better what you were likely to make of it. With 
regard to what is past, or is to pass, about Mr. * *, 
the case is in no respect different from the transfer 
of former copyrights to Mr. Dallas. Had I taken 
you at your word, that is, taken your money, I 
might have used it as I pleased ; and it could be in 
no respect different to you whether I paid it to a 
W] — 3 or a hospital, or assisted a man of talent in 
distress. The truth of the matter seems this : you 
offered more than the poems are worth. I said so. 
and I think so ; but you know, or at least ought to 
know, your own business best; and when you recol- 
lect what passed between you and me upon pecu- 
niary subjects before this occurred, you will acquit 
me of any wish to take advantage of your impru- 
dence. 

" The things in question shall not be published at 
all, and there is an end of the matter. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXCV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



' March 6, ISIS. 



LETTER CCXCIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"When the sum offered by you, and even pressed 
by you, was declined, it was with reference to a sep- 
arate publication, as you know and I know. That 



" I sent to you to-day for this reason — the books 
you purchased are again seized, and, as matters 
stand, had much better be sold at once by public 
auction. I wish to see you, to return your bill for 
them; which, thank God, is neither due nor paid. 
That part, as far as you are concerned, being set- 
tled, (which it can be, and shall be, when I see you 
to-morrow,) I have no further delicacy about the 
matter. This is about the tenth execution in as 
many months ; so I am pretty well hardened ; but 
it is fit I should pay the forfeit of my forefather's 
extravagance and my own ; and whatever my faults 
may be, I suppose they will be pretty well explained 
in time — or eternity. "Ever, &c. 

' P. S. I need hardly say that I knew nothing 
till this day of the new seizure. I had released 
them from former ones, and thought, when you 
took them, that they were yours. 

"You shall have your bill again to-morrow." 



LETTER CCXCVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Feb. 3, 1816. 

"I sent for 'Marmion,' which I return, because 
it occurred to me, there might be a resemblance 
between part of ' Parisina ' and a similar scene in 
canto II. of ' Marmion.' I fear there is, though I 
never thought of it before, and could hardly wish to 
imitate that which is inimitable. I wish you would 
ask Mr. Gifford whether I ought to say any thing 
upon it ; — I had completed the story on "the passage 
from Gibbon, which indeed leads to a like scene 
naturally, without a thought of the kind : but it 
comes upon me not very comfortably. 

"There are a few words and phrases I want to 
alter in the MS., and should like to do it before you 
print, and will return it in an hour. 

' ' Yours ever. 



LETTER CCXCVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



' Feb. 20, 1816. 



" To return to our business — your epistles are 
vastly agreeable. With regard to the observations 



838 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



on carelessness, &c.,«I think, with all humility, 
that the gentle reader has considered a rather un- 
common, and designedly irregular, versification for 
haste and negligence. The measure is not that of 
any of the other poems, which (I believe) were 
allowed to be tolerably correct, according to Bysshe 
and the fingers — or ears — by which bards write, and 
readers reckon. Great part of the 'Siege' is in 
(I think) what the learned called Anapests, (though 
I am not gure, being heinously forgetful of my 
metres and my 'Gradus,') and many of the lines 
intentionally longer or shorter than its rhyming 
companion ; and rhyme also occurring at greater or 
less intervals of caprice or convenience. 

" I mean not to say that this is right or good, but 
merely that I could have been smoother, had it 
appeared to me of advantage ; and that I was not 
otherwise without being aware of the deviation, 
though I now feel sorry for it, as I would undoubt- 
edly rather please than not. My wish has been to 
try at something different from my former efforts ; 
as I endeavored to make them differ from each 
other. The versification of the 'Corsair' is not 
that of ' Lara ; ' nor the ' Giaour ' that of the 
'Bride;' ' Childe Harold' is again varied from 
these ; and I strove to vary the last somewhat 
from all of the others. 

"Excuse all this d d nonsense and egotism. 

The fact is, that I am rather trying to think on the 
subject of this note, than really thinking on it. — I 
did not know you had called : you are always ad- 
mitted and welcome when you choose. 

"Yours, &c.,, &c. 

"P. S. You need not be in any apprehension or 
grief on my account : were I to be beaten down by 
the world and its inheritors, I should have suc- 
cumbed to many things years ago. You must not 
mistake my not bullying for dejection ; nor imagine 
that because I feel, I am too faint : — but enough for 
the present. 

" I am sorry for Sotheby's row. What the devil 
is it about ? I thought it all settled ; and if I can 
do any thing about him or Ivan still, I am ready 
and willing. I do not think it proper for me just 
now to be much behind the scenes, but I will see 
the committee and move upon it, if Sotheby likes. 

" If you see Mr. Sotheby, will you tell him that I 
wrote- to Mr. Coleridge, on getting Mr. Sotheby's 
note, and have, I hope, done what Mr. S. wished on 
that subject ? " 



LETTER CCXCVIII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" March 25, 1816. 

"You are one of the few persons with whom I 
have lived in what is called intimacy, and have 
heard me at times conversing on the untoward 
topic of my recent family disquietudes. Will you 
have the goodness to say to me at once, whether 
you ever heard me speak of her with disrespect, 
with unkindness, or defending myself at her ex- 
pense by any serious imputation of any description 
against her? Did you never hear me say, 'that 
when there was a right or a wrong, she had the 
right?' — The reason I put these questions to you or 
others of my friends is, because I am said, by her 
and hers, to have resorted to such means of excul- 
pation. " Ever very truly yours, 

" B." 



LETTER CCXCIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 



■I Ouchy, near Lausanne, June 27, 1816. 

" I ana thus far (kept by stress of weather) on my 
way back to Diodati, (near Geneva,) from a voyage 



in my boat round the lake ; and I enclose you a 
sprig of Gibbon's acacia and some rose leaves from 
his garden, which, with part of his house, I have 
just seen. You will find honorable mention, in his 
Life, made of this ' acacia,' when he walked out on 
the night of concluding his history. The garden 
and summer-house, where he composed, are ne- 
glected, and the last utterly decayed ; but they still 
show it as his ' cabinet,' and seem perfectly aware 
of his memory. 

" My route, through Flanders, and by the Rhine, 
to Switzerland, was all I expected and more. 

"I have traversed all Rousseau's ground, with 
the Heloise before me, and am struck to a degree 
that I cannot express with the force and accuracy 
of his descriptions, and the beauty of their reality. 
Meillerie, Clarens, and Vevay, and the Chateau de 
Chillon, are places of which I shall say little, be- 
cause all I 'could say must fall short of the impres- 
sions they stamp.* 

" Three days ago, we were nearly wrecked in a 
squall off Meillerie, and driven to shore. I ran no 
risk, being so near the rocks, and a good swimmer ; 
but our party were wet, and incommoded a good 
deal. The wind was strong enough to blow down 
some trees, as we found at landing ; however, all is 
righted and right, and we are thus far on our return. 

" Dr. Polidori is not here, but at Diodati, left 
behind in the hospital with a sprained ankle, which 
he acquired in tumbling from a wall — he can't jump. 

." I shall be glad to hear you are well, and have 
received for me certain helms and swords, sent from 
Waterloo which I rode over with pain and pleasure. 

" I have finished a third canto of Childe Harold, 
(consisting of one hundred and seventeen stanzas,) 
longer than either of the two former, and in some 
parts, it may be, better; but of course on that I 
cannot determine. I shall send it by the first safe- 
looking opportunity. "Ever, &c." 



/ 



LETTER CCC. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Diodati, near Geneva, July 22, 1816. 

" I wrote to you a few weeks ago, and Dr. Poli- 
dori received your letter ; but the packet has not 
made its appearance, nor the epistle, of which you 
gave notice therein. I enclose you an advertise- 
ment, f which was copied by Dr. Polidori, and 
which appears to be about the mo3t impudent 
imposition that ever issued from Grub street. I 
need hardly- say that I know nothing of all this 
trash, nor whence it may spring, — 'Odes to St. He- 
lena,' 'Farewells to England,' &c, &c, — and if it 
can be disavowed, or is worth disavowing, you have 
full authority to do so. I never wrote nor conceived 
a line on any thing of the kind, any more than of two 
other things with which I was saddled — something 
about ' Gaul,' and another about ' Mrs. La Valette ; ' 
and. as to the ' Lily of France,' I should as soon think 
of celebrating a turnip. ' On the morning of my 
daughter's birth,' I had other things to think of 
than verses ; and should never have dreamed of 
such an invention, till Mr. Johnston and his pamph- 
let's advertisement broke in upon me with a new 
light on the crafts and subtleties of the demon of 
printing, — or rather publishing. 

" I did hope that some succeeding lie would have 
superseded the thousand and one which were accu- 



* See notes to canto iii. of Childe Harold. 

t The following was the advertisement enclosed : — 

" Neatly printed and hot-pressed, '2s. 6d. 

" Lord Bycon's Farewell to England, with three other poems— Ode to St. 

Helena, To my Daughter on her Birthday, and To the Lily of France. 

" Printed by J. Johnston, Cheapside, 335 ; Oxford, 9. 
" The above beautiful poems will be read with the most lively interest, ai 
it is probable they will be the last of the author's that will appear in Enff 
land."— (They were written by a Mr. John Agg.) 



LETTERS. 



839 



mutated during last winter. I can forgive whatever 
may be said of or against me, but not what they 
make me say or sing for myself. It is enough to 
answer for what I have written ; but it were too 
much for Job himself to bear what one has not. I 
suspect that when the Arab patriarch wished that 
his ' enemy had written a book,' he did not antici- 
pate his own name on the title-page. I feel quite 
as much bored with this foolery as it deserves, and 
more than I should be if I had not a headache. 

" Of Glenarvon,* Madame de Stael told me (ten 
days ago at Copet) marvellous and grievous things ; 
but I have seen nothing of it but the motto, which 
promises amiably ' for us and for our tragedy.' If 
such be the posy, what should the ring be ? — ' a 
name to all succeeding, 'f &c. The generous mo- 
ment selected for the publication is probably its 
kindest accompaniment, and — truth to say — the 
time loas well chosen. I have not even a guess at 
the contents, except from the very vague accounts 
I have heard. 

****** 

"I ought to be ashamed of the egotism of this 
letter. It is not my fault altogether, and I shall be 
but too happy to drop the subject, when others will 
allow me. 

" I am in tolerable plight, and in my last letter 
told you what I had done in the. way of all rhyme. 
I trust that you prosper, and that your authors are 
in good condition. I should suppose your stud has 
received some increase by what I hear. Bertram j 
must be a good horse ; does he run next meeting ? 
I hope you will beat the Row. 

"Yours alway, &c." 



consistent with the consequences of not being in 
love, which is perhaps as disagreeable as any thing, 
except being so. I doubt, however, whether all such 
liens (as he calls them) terminate so wretchedly as 
his hero and heroine's. 

" There is a third canto (a longer than either of 
the former) of Childe Harold finished, and some 
smaller things, — among them a story on the Chat- 
eau de Chillon. I only wait a good opportunity to 
transmit them to the grand Murray, who, I hope, 
flourishes. Where is Moore ? Why is he not out ? 
My love to him, and my perfect consideration and 
remembrances to all, particularly to Lord and Lady 
Holland, and to your Duchess of Somerset. 

" Ever, &c. 

" P. S. I send you a fac simile, a note of Bon- 
stetten's, thinking you might like to see the hand of 
Gray's correspondent." 



LETTER CCCI. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



" Diodati, near Geneva, July 29, 1816. 

' " Do you recollect a book, Mathieson's Letters, 
which you lent me, which I have still, and yet hope 
to return to your library ? Well, I have encoun- 
tered at Copet and elsewhere Gray's correspondent, 
that same Bonstetten, to whom I lent the transla- 
tion of his co-respondent's epistles for a few days ; 
but all he could remember of Gray amounts to lit- 
tle, except that he was the most ' melancholy and 
gentlemanlike ' of all possible poets. Bonstetten 
himself is a fine and very lively old man, and much 
esteemed by his compatriots : he is also a littera- 
teur of good repute, and all his friends have a ma- 
nia of addressing to him volumes of letters — Mathie- 
son, Muller the historian, &c, &c. He is a good 
deal at Copet, where I have met him a few times. 
All there are well, except Rocca, who, I am sorry 
to say, looks in a very bad state of health. Schlegel 
is in high force, and Madame as brilliant as ever. 

" I came here by the Netherlands and the Rhine 
route, and Basle, Berne, Morat, and Lausanne. I 
have circumnavigated the Lake, and go to Chamou- 
ni with the first fair weather ; but really we have 
had lately such stupid mists, fogs, and perpetual 
density, that one would think Castlereagh had the 
foreign affairs of the kingdom of Heaven also on 
his hands. I need say nothing to you of these parts, 
you having traversed them already. I do not think 
of Italy before September. I have read Glenarvon, 
and have also seen Ben. Constant's Adolphe, and 
his preface, denying the real people. It is a work 
which leaves an unpleasant impression, but very 



* A novel, by Lady Caroline Lamb : Lord Byron, under another i 
:?£ one of its principal characters. 
t The motto is— 

" He left a name to all succeeding times, 
Liuk'd w:'th one virtue and a thousand crimes." 
I Maturiu's tragedy. 



LETTER CCCII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Diodati, Sept. 29, 1316. 

" I am very much flattered by Mr. Gifford's good 
opinion of the MSS.* and shall be still more so, if 
it answers your expectations and justifies his kind- 
ness. I liked it myself, but that must go for no- 
thing. The feelings with which most of it was writ- 
ten need not be envied me. With regard to the 
price, / fixed none, but left it to Mr. Kinnaird, Mr. 
Shelley, and yourself, to arrange. Of course, they 
would do their best ; and as to yourself, I knew 
you would make no difficulties. But I agree with 
Mr. Kinnaird perfectly, that the concluding Jive 
hundred should be only conditional ; and for my own 
sake, I wish it to be added, only in case of your 
selling a certain number, that number to be fixed by 
yourself. I hope this is fair. In every thing of 
this kind there must be risk ; and till that be past, 
in one way or the other, I would not willingly add 
to it, particularly in times like the present. And 
pray always recollect that nothing could mortify me 
more — no failure on my own part — than having 
made you lose by any purchase from me. 

"The Monodyf was written by request of Mr. 
Kinnaird for the theatre. I did as well as I could ; 
but where I have not my choice, I pretend to an- 
swer for nothing. Mr. Hobhouse and myself are 
just returned from a journey of lakes and moun- 
tains. We have been to the Grindelwald, and the 
Jungfrau, and stood on the summit of the Wengen 
Alp ; and seen torrents of nine hundred feet in fall, 
and glaciers of all dimensions ; we have heard shep- 
herd's pipes, and avalanches, and looked on the 
clouds foaming up from the valleys below us, like 
the spray of the ocean of hell, j Chamouni, and 
that which it inherits, we saw a month ago ; b«t, 
though Mont Blanc is higher, it is not equal in 
wildness to the Jungfrau, the Eighers, the Shreck- 
horn, and the Rose Glaciers. 

" We set off for Italy next week. The road is 
within this month infested wit'n bandits, but we 
must take our chance and such precautions as are 
requsite. "Ever, &c. 

" P. S. My best remembrances to Mr. Gifford. 
Pray say all that can be said from me to him. 

" I am sorry that Mr. Maturin did not like Phil- 
lips' picture. I thought it was reckoned a good one. 
If he had made the speech on the original, perhaps 
he would have been more readily forgiven by the 
proprietor and the painter of the portrait." * * 



* Childe Harold, canto iii. 

t On the death of Sheridan, poems, p. 525. 

J See Journal in Switzerland, Sept. 23. 



340 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Diodali, Sept. 30, 1816. 

" I answered your obliging letters yesterday : to- 
day the Monody* arrived with its title-page, which 
is, I presume, a separate publication, ' The request 
of a friend : — 

( Obliged by hunger and request of friends.' 

I will request you to expunge that same, unless 
you please to add, ' by a person of quality,' or ' of 
wit and humor about town.' Merely say, ' written 
to be spoken at Drury Lane.' To-morrow I dine at 
Copet. Saturday I strike tents for Italy. This 
evening, on the lake in my bftat with Mr. Hob- 
house, the pole which sustains the mainsail, slipped 
in tacking, and struck me so violently on one of my 
legs, (the worst, luckily,) as to make me do a foolish 
thing, viz., to faint — a downright swoon ; thethin^ 
must have jarred some nerve or other, for the bone 
is not injured, and hardly painful, (it is six hours 
since,) and cost Mr. Hobhouse some apprehension 
and much sprinkling of water to recover me. The 
sensation was a very odd one : I never had but two 
such before, once from a cut on the head from a 
stone, several years ago, and once (long ago also) 
in falling into a great wreath of snow ; — a sort of 
gray giddiness first, then nothingness and a total 
loss of memory on beginning to recover. The last 
part is not disagreeable, if one did not find it again. 

" You want the original MSS. Mr. Davies has 
the first fair copy in my own hand, and I have the 
rough composition here, and will send or save it for 
you, since you wish it. 

" With regard to your new literary- project, if any 
thing falls in the way which will, to the best of my 
judgment, suit you, I will send you what I can. At 
present I must lay by a little, having pretty well 
exhausted myself in what I have sent you. Italy 
or Dalmatia and another summer may, or may not, 
set me off again. I have no plans, and am nearly 
as indifferent what may come as where I go. I shall 
take Felicia Hemans' Restoration, &c, with me ; 
it is a good poem — very. 

" Pray repeat my best thanks and remembrances 
to Mr. Gilford for all his trouble and good nature 
towards me. 

" Do not fancy me laid up, from the beginning of 
this scrawl. I tell you the accident for want of bet- 
ter to say ; but it is over, and I am only wondering 
what the deuce was the matter with me. 

" I have lately" been over all the Bernese Alps and 
their lakes. I think many of the scenes (some of 
which were not those usually frequented by the 
English) finer than Chamouni, which 1 visited some 
time before. I have been to Clarens again, and 
crossed the mountains behind it ; of this tour I kept 
a short journal for my sister, which I sent yester- 
yay in three letters. It is not all for perusal ; but 
if you like to hear about the romantic part, she 
will, I dare say, show you what touches upon the 
rocks, &c. 

" Christabcl — I wont have any one sneer at Chris- 
tabel : it is a fine, wild poem. * * 



" Madame de Stael wishes to see the Antiquary, 
and I am going to take it to her to-morrow. She 
nas made Copet as agreeable as society and talent 
;an make any place on earth. " Yours ever, 

"N." 



LETTER CCCIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



On the death of Sheridan. See Letter ccxclx. 



" Diodati, Oct. 5, 1816. 
****** 

" Save me a copy of ' Buck's Richard III.' repub- 
lished by Longman ; but do not send out more books 
— I have too many. 

" The ' Monody ' is in too many paragraphs, which 
makes it unintelligible to me ; if any one else under- 
stands it in the present form, they are wiser ; how- 
ever, as it cannot be rectified till my return, and 
has been already published, even publish it on in 
the collection — it will fill up the place of the omitted 
epistle. 

" Strike out ' by request of a friend,' which is sad 
trash, and must have been done to make it ridicu- 
lous. 

" Be careful in the printing the stanzas beginning, 

" Though the day of my destiny's, &c* 

which I think well of as a composition. 

" ' The Antiquary ' is not the best of the three, 
but much above all the last twenty years, .saving its 
elder brothers. Holcroft's Memoirs are valuable, 
as showing the strength of endurance in the man, 
which is worth more than all the talent in the world. 

"And so you have been publishing ' Margaret of 
Anjou ' and an Assyrian tale, and refusing W. W.'s 
Waterloo, and the ' Hue and Cry.' I know not 
which most to admire, your rejections or accept- 
ances. I believe that jjrose is, after all, the most re- 
putable ; for certes, if one could foresee — but I won't 
go on — that is, with this sentence ; but poetry is, 
I fear, incurable. God help me ! if I proceed in 
this scribbling, I shall have frittered away my mind 
before I am thirty ; but it is at times a real relief to 
me. For the present — good evening." 



LETTER CCCV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Mardgny, Oct. 9, 1816. 

" Thus far on my way to Italy. We have just 
passed the ' Pisse Vache ' (one of the first torrents 
in Switzerland) in time to view the iris which the 
sun flings along it before noon. 

" I have written to you twice lately. Mr. Davies, 
I hear, is arrived. He brings the original MS. which 
you wished to see. Recollect that the printing is 
to be from that which Mr. Shelley brought ; and 
recollect also that the concluding stanzas of Childe 
Harold (those to my daughter) which I had not 
made up my mind w r hether to publish or not when 
they were first written, (as you will see marked on 
the margin of the first copy,) I had (and have) fully 
determined to publish with the rest of the canto, as 
in the copy which you received by Mr. Shelley, be- 
fore I sent it to England. 

" Our weather is very fine, which is more than the 
summer has been. — At Milan I shall expect to hear 
from you Address either to Milan, poste restunte, ■ 
or by way of Geneva, to the care of Monsr. Hentsch, 
Ranquier. I write these few lines in case my other 
letter should not reach you ; I trust one of them 
will. 

' P. S. My best respects and regards to Mr. Gif- 
ford. Will you tell him, it may perhaps be as well 
to put a short note to that part relating to Clarens, 
merely to say, that of course the description does 
not refer to that particular spot so much as to the 



See Poems, p. 554. 



LETTERS. 



841 



command of scenery around it ? I do not know that 
this is necessary, and leave it to Mr. G.'s choice, as 
my editor, — if he will allow me to call him so at this 
distance. 



LETTER CCCVI. 



TO ME. MURRAY. 



" Milan, Oct. 15, 1S16. 

" I hear that Mr. Davies has arrived in England, 
—but that of some letters, &c, committed to his 
care, by Mr. Hobhouse, only half have been deliv- 
ered. This intelligence naturally makes me feel a 
little anxious for mine, and among them for the MS. 
which I wished to have compared with the one sent 
by me through the hands of Mr. Shelley. I trust 
that it has arrived safely, — and indeed not less so, 
that some little crystals, &c, from Mont Blanc, for 
my daughter and my nieces, have reached their ad- 
dress Pray have the goodness to ascertain from 
Mr. Davies that no accident (by custom house or 
loss) has befallen them, and satisfy me on this point 
at your earliest convenience. 

" If I recollect rightly, you told me that Mr. Gif- 
ford had kindly undertaken to correct the press (at 
my request) during my absence — at least I hope 
so. It will add to my many obligations to that gen- 
tleman. 

" I wrote to you, on my way here, a short note, 
dated Martigny. Mr. Hobhouse and myself ar- 
rived here a few days ago, by the Simplon and Lago 
Maggiore route. Of course we visited the Borro- 
mean Islands, which are fine, but too artificial. 
The Simplon is magnificent in its nature and its 
art, — both God and man have done wonders, — to 
say nothing of the devil, who must certainly have 
had a hand (or a hoof) in some of the rocks and 
ravines through and over which the works are car- 
ried. 

" Milan is striking — the cathedral superb. The 
city altogethfer reminds me of Seville, but a little 
inferior. We had heard divers bruits, and took pre- 
cautions on the road, near the frontier, against some 
' many worthy fellows (;'. e. felons) that were out,' 
and had ransacked some preceding travellers, a few 
weeks ago, near Sesto, — or Cesto, I forget which, — 
of cash and raiment, besides putting them in bodily 
fear, and lodging about twenty slugs in the retreat- 
ing part of a courier belonging to Mr. Hope. But 
we were not molested, and, I do not think, in any 
danger, except of making mistakes in the way of 
cocking and priming whenever we saw an old house, 
or an ill-looking thicket, and now and then sus- 
pecting the ' true men,' who have very much the ap- 
pearance of the thieves of other countries. What 
the thieves may look like, I know not, nor desire to 
know, for it seems they come upon you in bodies of 
thirty ('in buckram and Kendal green') at a time, 
so that voyagers have no great chance. It is some- 
thing like poor dear Turkey in that respect, but not 
so good, for there you can have as great a body of 
rogues to match the regular banditti ; but here the 
gens d'armes are said to be no great things, and as 
for one's own people, one can't carry them about, 
like Robinson Crusoe, with a gun on each shoulder. 

" I have been to the Ambrosian library — it is a fine 
collection — full of MSS. edited and unedited. I en- 
close you a list of the former recently published ; 
these are matters for your literati. For me, in my 
simple way, I have been most delighted with a cor- 
respondence of letters, all original and amatory, 
between Lucretia Borgia and Cardinal Bembo, pre- 
served there. I have pored over them and a lock of 
hair, the prettiest and fairest imaginable — I never 
saw fairer — and shall go repeatedly to read the 
epistles over and over ; and if I can obtain some of 
the hair by fair means, I shall try. I have already 
persuaded the librarian to promise me copies of the 
106 



letters, and I hope he will not disappoint me. They 
are short, but very simple, sweet, and to the pur- 
pose ; there are some copies of verses in Spanish 
also by her ; the tress of her hair is long, and as I 
said before, beautiful. The Brera gallery of paint- 
ings has some fine pictures, but nothing of a col- 
lection. Of painting I know nothing ; but I like a 
Guercino — a picture of Abraham putting away Ha- 
gar and Ishmael — which seems 'to me natural and 
goodly. The Flemish school, such as I saw it in 
Flanders, I utterly detested, despised, and ab- 
horred ; it might be painting, but it was not nature ; 
the Italian is pleasing, and'their ideal very noble. 

" The Italians I have encountered here are very 
intelligent and agreeable. In a few days I am to 
meet Monti. By the way, I have just heard an an- 
ecdote of Beccaria, who published such admirable 
things against the punishment of death. As soon 
as his book was out, his servant (having read it, I 
presume) stole his patch, and his master, while cor- 
recting the press of a second edition, did all he 
could to have him hanged by way of advertise- 
ment. 

"I forgot to mention the triumphal arch begun 
by Napoleon, as a gate to this city. It is unfinished, 
but the part completed worthy of another age and 
the same country. The society here is very oddly 
carried on, — at the theatre, and the theatre only, — 
which answers to our opera. People meet there as 
at a rout, but in very small circles. From Milan I 
shall go to Venice. If you write, write to Geneva, 
as before — the letter will be forwarded. 

" Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCVII. 



TO Mil. MURRAY. 



" Milan, Nov. 1, 1S16. 

" I have recently written to you rather frequently, 
but without any late answer. Mr. Hobhouse and 
myself set out for Venice in a few days ; but you 
had better still address to me at Mr. Hentsch's, 
Banquier, Geneva ; he will forward your letters. 

" I do not know whether I mentioned to you, 
some time ago, that I had parted with the Dr. Poli- 
dori a few weeks previous to my leaving Diodati. I 
know no great harm of him ; but he had an alacrity 
of getting into scrapes, and was too young and heed- 
less ; and having enough to attend to in my own 
concerns, and without time to become his tutor, I 
thought it much better to give him his conge. He 
arrived at Milan some weeks before Mr. Hobhouse 
and myself. About a week ago, in consequence of 
a quarrel at the theatre with an Austrian officer, in 
which he was exceedingly in the wrong, he has con- 
trived to get sent out of the territory, and is gone 
to Florence. I was not present, the pit having been 
the scene of altercation ; but on being sent for from 
the Cavalier Breme's box where I was quietly 
staring at the ballet, I found the man of medicine 
begirt with grenadiers, arrested by the guard, con- 
veyed into the guard-room, where there was much 
swearing in several languages. They were going 
to keep him there for the night ; but on giving my 
name, and answering for his apparition next morn- 
ing, he was permitted egress. Next day he had an 
order from the government to be gone in twenty- 
four hours, and accordingly gene he is, some days 
ago. We did what we could for him, but to no pur- 
pose ; and indeed he brought it upon himself, as far 
as I could learn, for I was not present at the squab- 
ble itself. I believe this was the real state of his 
case ; and I tell you it because I believe things 
sometimes reach you in England in a false or exag- 
gerated form. We found Milan very polite and hos- 
pitable, and have the same hopes of Verona and 
Venice. I have filled my paper. 

"Ever yours, &c." 



842 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCVIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



Verona, Not. S, 1816. 

"My Dear Moore, 

" Your letter, written before my departure from 
England and addressed to me in London, only 
reached me recently. Since that period, I have 
been over a portion of that part of Europe which I 
had not really seen. About a month since, I crossed 
the Alps from Switzerland to Milan, which I left a 
few days ago, and am thus far on my way to Venice, 
where I shall probably winter. Yesterday I was on 
the shores of the Benacus, with his fiuctibus et 
fremitu. Catullus's Sirmium has still its name and 
site, and is remembered for his sake; but the very 
heavy autumnal rains and mists prevented our quit- 
ting our route (that is, Hobhouse and myself, who 
are at present voyaging together,) as it was better 
not to see it all than to a great disadvantage. 

" I found on the Benacus the same tradition of a 
city still visible in calm weather below the waters, 
which you have preserved of Lough Neagh, 'When 
the clear, cold eve's declining.' I do not know that 
it is authorized by records ; but they tell you such a 
story, and say that the city was swallowed up by an 
earthquake. We moved to-day over the frontier to 
Verona, by a road suspected of thieves — ' the wise 
convey it call,' — but without molestation. I shall 
remain here a day or two to gape at the usual mar- 
vels — amphitheatre, paintings, and all that time-tax 
of travel — though Catullus, Claudian, and Shaks- 
peare have done more for Verona than it ever did 
for itself. They still pretend to show, I believe, 
the ' tomb of all the Capulets ' — we shall see. 

" Among many things at Milan, one pleased me 
particularly, viz., the correspondence (in the pret- 
tiest love-letters in the world) of Lucretia Borgia 
with Cardinal Bembo, (who, you say, made a very 
good cardinal,) and a lock of her hair, and some 
Spanish verses of hers, — the lock very fair and 
beautiful. I took one single hair of it as a relic, 
and wished sorely to get a copy of one or two of the 
letters; but it is prohibited : that I don't mind ; but 
it was impracticable ; and so I only got some of them 
by heart. They are kept in the Ambrosian Library, 
which I often visited to look them over — to the 
scandal of the librarian, who wanted to enlighten me 
with sundry valuable MSS., classical, philosophical, 
and pious. But I stick to the Pope's daughter, and 
wish myself a cardinal. 

" I have seen the finest parts of Switzerland, the 
Rhine, the Rhone, and the Swiss and Italian lakes; 
for the beauties of which I refer you to the guide- 
book. The north of Italy is tolerably free from the 
English ; but the south swarms with them, I am 
told. Madame de Stael I saw frequently at Copet, 
which she renders remarkably pleasant. She has 
been particularly kind to me. I was for some 
months her neighbor, in a country-house called 
Diodati, which I had on the Lake of Geneva. My 
plans are very uncertain ; but it is probable that 
you will see me in England in the spring. I have 
some business there. If you write to me, will you 
address to the care of Mons. Hentsch, Banquier, 
Geneva, who receives and forwards my letters. 
Remember me to Rogers, who wrote to me lately, 
with a short account of your poem, which, I trust, 
is near the light. He speaks of it most highly. 

" My health is very endurable, except that I am 
subject to casual giokdiness and faintnesses, which 
is so like a fine lady, that I am rather ashamed of 
the disorder. When I sailed, I had a physician with 
me, whom, after some months of patience, I found 
it expedient to part with, before I left Geneva some 
time. On arriving at Milan, I found this gentleman 
in very good society, where he prospered for some 
weeks ; but, at length, at the theatre, he quarrelled 
with an Austrian officer, and was sent out by the 
government in twenty-four hours. I was not present 
it his squabble ; but on hearing that he was put 



under arrest, I went and got him out of his confine 
ment, but could not prevent his being sent off, 
which, indeed, he partly deserved, being quite in 
the wrong, and having begun a row for row's sake. 
I had preceded the Austrian government some 
weeks myself, in giving him his conge from Geneva. 
He is not a bad fellow, but very young and hot- 
headed, and more likely to incur diseases than to 
cure them. Hobhouse and myself found it useless 
to intercede for him. This happened some time 
before we left Milan. He is gone to Florence. 

"At Milan I saw, and was visited by, Monti, the 
most celebrated of the living Italian poets. He 
seems near sixty: in face he is like the late Cooke 
the actor. His frequent changes in politics havo 
made him very unpopular as a man. I saw many 
more of their literati ; but none whose names arc- 
well known in England, except Acerbi. I lived 
much with the Italians, particularly with the Mar- 
quis of Breme's family, who are very able and 
intelligent men, especially the Abate. There was a 
famous improvisatore who held forth while I was 
there. His fluency astonished me ; but although I 
understand Italian, and speak it, (with more readi- 
ness than accuracy,) I could only carry off a few 
very common-place mythological images, and one 
line about Artemisia, and another about Algiers, 
with sixty words of an entire tragedy about Etiocles 
and Polynices. Some of the Italians liked him — 
others called his performance 'seccatura' (a devilish 
good word, by-the-way) — and all Milan was in con- 
troversy about him. 

" The state of morals in these parts is in some 
sort lax. A mother and son were pointed out at 
the theatre, as being pronounced by the Milanese 
world to be of the Theban dynasty — but this was 
all. The narrator (one of the first men in Milan) 
seemed to be not sufficiently scandalized by the 
taste or the tie. All society in Milan is carried on 
at the opera : they have private boxes, where they 
play at cards, or talk, or any thing else ; but 
(except at the cassino) there are no open houses, 
or balls, &c, &c. ****** 



" The peasant girls have all very fine dark eyes, 
and many of them are beautiful. There are also 
two dead bodies in fine preservation — one Saint 
Carlo Boromeo, at Milan ; the other not a saint, 
but a chief, named Visconti, at Monza — both of 
which appeared very agreeable. In one of the 
Baromcan isles, (the Isola bella,) there is a large 
laurel — the largest known — on which Bonaparte, 
staying there just before the battle of Marengo, 
carved with his knife the word ' Battaglia.' I saw 
the letters, now half worn out and partly erased. 

" Excuse this tedious letter. To be tiresome is 
the privilege of old age and absence : I avail myself 
of the latter, and the former I have anticipated. If 
I do not speak to you of my own affairs, it is not 
from want of confidence, but to spare you and myself. 
My day is over — what then ? — I have had it. To be 
sure, I have shortened it ; * and if I had done as 
much by this letter, it would have been as well. 
But you will forgive that, if not the other faults of 
" Yours, ever and most affectionately, 

""B." 



" P. S. I have been over Verona. The amphi- 
theatre is wonderful — beats even Greece. Of the 
truth of Juliet's story, they seem tenacious to a 
degree, insisting on the fact — giving a date, (1303,) 
and showing a tomb. It is a plain, open, and partly 
decayed sarcophagus, with withered leaves in it, in 
a wild and desolate conventual garden, once a cem- 
etery, now ruined to the very graves. The situation 
struck me as very appropriate to the legend, being 
blighted as their love. I have brought away a 



See Don Juan, canto i., stanza ccxiii., &c. 



LETTERS. 



843 



few pieces of the granite, to give my daughter 
and my nieces. Of the other marvels of this 
city, paintings, antiquities, &c, excepting the 
tombs of the Scaliger princes, I have no pretensions 
to judge. The Gothic monuments of the Scaligers 
pleased me, but ' a poor virtuoso am I,' and 

" Ever yours." 



LETTER CCCIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Venice, Nov. 17, 1816. 

*I wrote to you from Verona the other day in my 
progress hither, which letter I hope you will receive. 
Some three years ago, or it may be more, I recollect 
your telling me that you had received a letter from 
our friend Sam, dated ' On board his gondola.' My 
gondola is, at this present, waiting for me on the 
canal ; but I prefer writing to you in the house, it 
being autumn — and rather an English autumn than 
otherwise. It is my intention to remain at Venice 
during the winter, probably, as it has always been 
(next to the East) the greenest island of my 
imagination. It has not disappointed me ; though 
its evident decay would, perhaps, have that effect 
upon others. But I have been familiar with ruins 
too long to dislike desolation. Besides, I have 
fallen in love, which, next to falling into the canal, 
(which would be of no use, as I can swim,) is the 
best or the worst thing I could do. I have got 
some extremely good apartments in the house of a 
' Merchant of Venice,' who is a good deal occupied 
with business, and has a wife in her twenty-second 
year. Marianna (that is her name) is in her ap- 
pearance altogether like an antelope. She has 
large, black, oriental eyes, with that peculiar ex- 
pression in them which is seen rarely among Euro- 
mans — even the Italians — and which many of the 
Turkish women give themselves by tinging the 
eye-lid, — an art not known out of the country, I 
believfi. This expression she has naturally — and 
something more than this. In short, I cannot 
describe the effect of this kind of eye, — at least 
upon me. Her features are regular, and rather 
acquiline — mouth small — skin clear and soft, with a 
kind of hectic color — forehead remarkably good ; 
her hair is of the dark gloss, curl, and color of Lady 
Jersey's : her figure is light and pretty, and she is a 
famous songstress — scientifically so : her natural 
voice (in conversation, I mean) is very sweet; and 
the naivete of the Venetian dialect is always pleasing 
in the mouth of a woman. 

"Nov. 23. 

"You will perceive that my description, which 
was proceeding with the minuteness of a passport, 
has been interrupted for several days. In the mean 
time, * * * * * 



"Since my former dates, I do not know that I 
have much to add on the subject, and, luckily, 
nothing to take away ; for I am more pleased than 
ever with my Venetian, and begin to feel very seri- 
ous on that point, — so much so, that I shall be 
silent. * * * * 

" By way of divertisement, I am studying daily, 
at an Armenian monastery, the Armenian language. 
I found that my mind wanted something craggy to 
break upon ; and this — as the most difficult thing I 
could discover here for an amusement — I have 
chosen, to torture me ^nto attention. It is a rich 
language, however, and would amply repay any one 
the trouble of learning it. I try, and shall go on ; 
but I answer for nothing, least of all for my inten- 
tions or my success. There are some very curious 
MSS. in the monastery, as well as books ; transla- 
tions also from Greek originals, now lost, and from 



Persian and Syriac, &c. ; besides works of their 
own people. Four years ago the French instituted 
an Armenian professorship. Twenty pupils pre- 
sented themselves on Monday morning, full of noble 
ardor, ingenuous youth, and impregnable industry. 
They persevered, with a courage worthy of the 
nation, and of universal conquest, till Thursday ; 
when fifteen of the twenty succumbed to the six- 
and-twentieth letter of the alphabet. It is, to be 
sure, a "Waterloo of an alphabet — that must be said 
for them. But it is so like these fellows, to do by 
it as they did by their sovereigns — abandon both; 
to parody the old rhymes, ' Take a thing and give a 
thing ' — ' Take a king and give a king!' They are 
the worst of animals, except their conquerors. 

" I hear that Hodgson is your neighbor, having 
a living in Derbyshire. You will find him an excel- 
lent-hearted fellow, as well as one of the cleverest ; 
a little, perhaps too much, japanned by preferment 
in the church, and the tuition of youth, as well as 
inoculated with the disease of domestic felicity, 
besides being overrun with fine feelings about 
woman and constancy, (that small change of love, 
which people exact so rigidly, receive in such coun- 
terfeit coin, and repay in baser metal;) but, other- 
wise, a very worthy man, who has lately got a pretty 
wife, and (I suppose) a child by this time. Pray 
remember me to him, and say that I know not which 
to envy most — his neighborhood, him, or you. 

" Of Venice I shall say little. You must have 
seen many descriptions ; and they are most of them 
like. It is a poetical place ; and classical, to us, 
from Shakspeare and Otway.* I have not yet 
sinned against it in verse, nor do I know that I 
shall do so, having been tuneless since I crossed the 
Alps, and feeling, as yet, no renewal of the 'estro. 
By-the-way, I suppose you have seen ' Glenar- 
von.' Madame de Stael lent it to me to read frorr 
Copet last autumn. It seems to me, that if the 
authoress had written the truth, and nothing but 
the truth — the whole truth — the romance would not 
only have been more romantic, but more entertain- 
ing. As for the likeness, the picture can't be good 
— I did not sit long enough. "When you have lei- 
sure, let me hear from and of you, believing me 
ever and truly yours, most affectionately, " B. 

" P. S. Oh ! your poem — is it out ? I hope Long- 
man has paid his thousands : but don't you do as 
Horace Twiss' father did, who, having made money 
by a quarto tour, became a vinegar merchant ; when 
lo ! his vinegar turned sweet (and be d — d to it) and 
ruined him. My last letter to you (from Verona) 
was enclosed to Murray — have you got it ? Direct 
to me here, poste restante. There are no English 
here at present. There were several in Switzerland 
— some women ; but, except Lady Dalrymple Ham- 
ilton, most of them as ugly as virtue — at least, those 
that I saw." 



LETTER CCCX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Venice, Dec. 2|, 1316. 

" I have taken a fit of writing to you, which por- 
tends postage — once from Verona — once from Ve- 
nice, and again from Venice — thrice that is. For 
this you may thank yourself, for I heard that you 
complained of my silence — so, here. goes for a gar- 
rulity. 

" I trust that you received my other twain of let- 
ters. My ' way of life ' (or ' May of life,' which is 
it, according to the commentators ?) — my ' way of 
life ' is fallen into great regularity. In the morn- 
ings I go over in my gondola to nobble Armenian 
with the friars of the convent of St. Lazarus, and 
to help one of them in correcting the English of an 



See Childe Harold, canto iv., stanzas iv. and xviii. 



344 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



English and Armenian grammar which he is pub- 
lishing. In the evenings I do one of many nothings 
— either at the theatres, or some of the conversa- 
ziones, which are like our routs, or rather worse, for 
the women sit in a semicircle by the lady of the 
mansion, and the men stand about the room. To 
be sure, there is one improvement upon ours — instead 
of lemonade with their ices, they hand about stiff 
rum-punch — punch, by my palate! and this they 
think English. I would not disabuse them of so 
agreeable an error, — ' no, not for Venice.' ,- 

"Last night I was at the Count Governor's, 
..which, of course, comprises the best society, and is 
very much like other gregarious meetings in every 
country, — as in ours, — except that, instead of the 
bishop of Winchester, you have the patriarch of 
Venice ; and a motley crew of Austrians, Germans, 
noble Venetians, foreigners, and, if you see a quiz, 
you may be sure he is a consul. Oh, by-the-way, I 
forgot, when I wrote from Verona, to tell you that at 
Milan I met with a countryman of yours — a Colonel 
*•***, a very excellent, good-natured fellow, who 
knows and shows all about Milan, and is, as it were, 
a native there. He is particularly civil to strangers, 
and this is his history, — at least, an episode 
of it. 

" Six-and-twenty years ago Col. * * * *, then an 
ensign, being in Italv, fell in love with the Marchesa 
* * * *, and she with him. The lady must be, at 
least, twenty years his senior. The war broke out ; 
he returned 'to England, to serve — not his country, 
for that's Ireland — but England, which is a different 
thing ; and she — heaven knows what she did. In 
the year 1814, the first annunciation of the defini- 
tive treaty of peace (and tyranny) was developed to 
the astonished Milanese by the arrival of Col. * * * *, 
who, flinging himself fiill length at the feet of 
Madame * * * *, murmured forth, in half-forgotten 
Irish Italian, eternal vows of indelible constancy. 
The lady screamed and exclaimed, ' Who are you ? ' 
The Colonel cried, ' What, don't you know me ? I 
am so and so,' &c, &c, &c. ; till, at length, the 
Marchesa, mounting from reminiscence to remi- 
niscence, through the lovers of the intermediate 
twenty-five years, arrived at last at the recollection 
of her povero sub-lieutenant. She then said, \ Was 
there ever such virtue ? ' (that was her very word,) 
and, being now a widow-, gave him apartments in 
her palace, reinstated him in all the rights of wrong 
and held him up to the admiring world, as a mira 
cle of incontinent fidelity, and the unshaken Abdiel 
of absence. 

" Methinks this is as pretty a moral tale as any of 
Marmontel's. Here is another. The same lady 
several years ago, made an escapade with a Swede, 
Count Fersen,"(the same whom the Stockholm mob 
quartered and lapidated not very long since,) and 
they arrived at an osteria on the road to Rome, or 
thereabouts. It was a summer evening, and, while 
they were at supper, they were suddenly regaled by 
a symphony of fiddles in an adjacent apartment, so 
prettily played, that, wishing to hear them more 
distinctly, the Count rose, and going into the mu 
sical society, said, 'Gentlemen, I am sure that, as 
a company of gallant cavaliers, you will be delighted 
to show your skill to a lady, who feels anxious " 
&c, &c. The men of harmony were all acquies- 
cence — every instrument was tuned and toned, and, 
striking up one of their most ambrosial airs, the 
whole band followed the Count to the lady's apart 
ment. At their head was the first fiddler, who, 
bowing and fiddling at the same moment, headed 
his troop and advanced up the room. Death and 
discoid ! — it was the Marquis himself, who was on a 
serenading party in the country, while his spouse 
had run away from town. The rest may be im- 
agined — but, first of all, the lady tried to persuade 
him that she was there on purpose to meet him, 
and had chosen this method for an harmonic sur- 
prise. So much for this gossip, which amused me 
when I heard it, and I send it to you, in the hope it 



may have the like effect. Now we'll return to 
Venice. 

"The day after to-morrow (to-morrow being 
Christmas day) the Carnival begins. I dine with 
the Countess Albrizzi and a party, and go to the 
opera.* On that day the Phenix (not the insurance 
office but the theatre of that name) opens: I have 
got me a box there forthe season, for two reasons, 
one of vvhich is, that the music is remarkably good. 
The Contessa Albrizzi, of whom I have made men- 
tion, is the De Stael of Venice, not young, but a 
very learned, unaffected, good-natured woman, very 
polite to strangers, and, I believe, not at all disso- 
lute, as most of the women are. She has written 
very well on the works of Canova, and also a volume 
of characters, besides other printed matter. She is 
of Corfu, but married a dead Venetian — that is, 
dead since he married. 

" My flame (my ' Donna ') whom I spoke of in my 
former epistle, my Marianna, and I her — what she 
pleases. She is by far the prettiest woman I have 
seen here, and the most loveable I have met with 
any where — as well as one of the most singular. I 
believe I told you the rise and progress of our liaison 
in my former letter. Lest that should not have 
reached you, I will merely repeat that she is a Vene- 
tian, two-and twenty years old, married to a mer- 
chant well to do in the world, and that she has great 
black oriental eyes, and all the qualities which her 
eyes promise. Whether being in love with her has 
steeled me or not, I do not know ; but I have not 
seen many other women who seem pretty. The 
nobility, in particular, are a sad-looking race — the 
gentry rather better. And now, what art thou 
doing ? 

" What are you doing now, 

Oh, Thomas Moore ? 
Wbai are y loing now, 

Oh, Thomas Moore ? 
Sighing or suing now, 
Rhyming or wooing now, 
Billing or cuuing- now, 

Which, Thomas Moore ? 

Are you not near the Luddites ? By the Lord ! if 
there's a row, but I'll be among ye ! How go on 
the weavers — the breakers of frames — the Lutherans 
of politics — the reformers ? 

" As the liberty lads o'ei the Bfta 
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, 
So we, buys, we, 
Will die lighting, or live free, 
And down with all kings but king Ludd ! 

11 When the web that we weave is complete, 
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 

We will fling the winding-sheet 

O'er the despot at our feet, 
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 

11 Though black as his heart is its hue, 
Since his veins are corrupted to mud, 

Yet this is the dew 

Which the tree shall renew 
Of liberty, planted by Ludd I 

There's an amiable chanson for you — all impromptu. 
1 have written it principally to shock your neighbor 
Hodgson, who is all clergy and loyalty — mirth and 
innocence — milk and water. 

11 But the Carnival's coming, 

Oh, Thomas Moore 
The Carnival's coming, 

Oh, Thomas Moore, 
Masking and humming, 
Filing and drumming, 
Guitarring and strumming, 

Oh, Thomas Moore. 

The other night I saw a new play, — and the author. 
The subject was the sacrifice of Isaac. The play 



See Letter exxvii. 



LETTERS. 



845 



succeeded, and they called for the author — according 
to continental custom — and he presented himself, a 
noble Venetian Mali, or Malapiero, by name. Mala 
was his name, and pessima his production, — at least, 
I thought so, and I ought to know, having read 
more or less of five hunched Drury-Lane offerings, 
during my coadjutorship with the sub-and-super 
committee. 

" When does your poem of poems come out? I 
hear that the Edinburgh Review has cut up Cole- 
ridge's Christabel, and declared against me for prais- 
ing it.* I praised it, firstly, because I thought well 
of it ; secondly, because Coleridge was in great dis- 
tress, and, after doing what little I could for him in 
essentials, I thought that the public avowal of my 
good opinion might help him farther, at least with 
the booksellers. I am very sorry that Jeffrey has 
attacked him, because, poor fellow ! it will hurt him 
in mind and pocket. As for me, he's welcome — I 
shall never think less of Jeffrey for any thing he 
may sayaginst me or mine in future. f 

" I suppose Murray has sent you, or will send 
(for I do not know whether they are oat or no,) the 
poem, or poesies of mine, of last summer. By the 
mass ! they're sublime — ' Ganion Coheriza ' — gainsay 
who dares ! Pray, let me hear from you, and of 
you, and at least, let me know that you have received 
these three letters. Direct, right here, poste restante. 
"Ever and ever, &c. 

" P. S. I heard the other day of a pretty trick of 
a bookseller, who has published some d — d nonsense, 
swearing the bastards to me, and saying he gave me 
five hundred guineas for them. He lies — I never 
wrote such stuff, never saw the poems, nor the pub- 
lisher of them, in my life, nor had any communica- 
tion, directly or indirectly, with the fellow. Pray 
say as much for me, if need be. I have written to 
Murray, to make him contradict the impostor. 



LETTER CCCXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Nov. 25, 1816. 

" It is some months since I have heard from or of 
you — I think, not since I left Diodati. From Milan 
I wrote once or twice ; but have been here some 
little time, and intend to pass the winter without 
removing. I was much pleased with the Lago di 
Garda, and with Verona, particularly the amphi- 
theatre, and a sarcophagus in a convent garden, 
which they show as Juliet's ; they insist on the truth 
of her history. Since my arrival at Venice, the lady 
of the Austrian governor told me that, between 
Verona and Vicenza there are still ruins of the 
castle of the Montecchi, and a chapel once apper- 
taining to the Capulets. Romeo seems to have 
been of Vicenza, by the tradition ; but I was a good 
deal surprised to find so firm a faith in Bandello's 
novel, which seems really to have been founded on a 
fact. 

" Venice pleases me as much as I expected, and I 
expected much. It is one of those places which I 
know before I see them, and has always haunted me 
the most after the East. I like the gloomy gayety 
of their gondolas, and the silence of their canals. I 
do not even dislike the evident decay of the city, 
though I regret the singularity of its vanished cos- 
tume : however, there is much left still , the Carni- 
val, too, is coming. 

" St. Mark's, and indeed Venice, is most alive 
at night. The theatres are not open till nine, 
and the society is proportionably late. All this is 
to my taste, but most of your countrymen miss 



* See note 6 to the Siege of Corinth. 
t See Don Juan, canto x., stanza xvi. 



and regret the rattle of hackney-coaches, without 
which they can't sleep. 

" I have got remarkably good apartments in a 
private house ; I see something of the inhabitants, 
(having had a good many letters to some of them ;) 
I have got my gondola ; I read a little, and luckily 
could speak Italian (more fluently than correctly) 
long ago. I am studying, out of curiosity, the 
Venetian dialect, which is very natve, and soft, and 
peculiar, though not at all classical ; I go out fre- 
quently, and am in very good contentment. 

" The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the 
house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi, whom I 
know), is without exception, to any mind, the most 
perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far 
beyond my ideas of human execution. 

' In this beloved maTble view,' &c* 

Talking of the ' heart ' reminds me that I have 
fallen in love, which, except falling into the canal, 
(and that would be useless, as I swim,) is the best 
(or worst) thing I could do. I am therefore in love 
— fathomless love ; but lest you should make some 
splendid mistake, and envy me the possession of 
some of those princesses or countesses with whose 
affections your English voyagers are apt to invest 
themselves, I beg leave to tell you that my goddess 
is only the wife of a ' Merchant of Venice ; ' but 
then she is pretty as an antelope, is but two-and- 
twenty years old, has the large, black, oriental eyes, 
with the Italian countenance, and dark glossy hair, 
of the curl and color of Lady Jersey's. Then she 
has the voice of a lute, and the song of a seraph, 
(though not quite so sacred,) besides a long post- 
script of graces, virtues, and accomplishments, 
enough to furnish out a new chapter of Solomon's 
Song. But her great merit is in finding out mine, — 
there is nothing so amiable as discernment. Our little 
arrangement is completed, the usual oaths having 
been taken, and every thing fulfilled according to 
the ' understood relations ' of such liaisons. 

" The general race of women appear to be hand- 
some : but in Italy, as on almost all the continent, 
The highest orders are by no means a well-looking 
generation, and indeed reckoned by their country- 
men very much otherwise. Some are exceptions, 
but most of them are as ugly as Virtue herself. 

" If you write, address to me here, poste restante, 
as I shall probably stay the winter over. I never see 
a newspaper and know nothing about England, ex- 
cept in a letter now and then from my sister. Of 
the MS. sent you, I know nothing, except yon have 
received it, and are to publish it, &c, &c. ; but when, 
where, and how, you leave me to guess ; but it don't 
much matter. 

" I suppose you have a world of works passing 
through your process for next year ? When does 
Moore's Poem appear ? 1 sent a letter for him, 
addressed to your care the other day." 



LETTER CCCXI1. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, Dec. 4, 1816. 

" I have written to you so frequently of late, that 
you will think me a bore ; as I think you a very im- 
polite person for not answering my letters from 
Switzerland, Milan, Verona, and Venice. There are 
some things I wanted, and want to know ; viz. 
whether Mr. Davies, of inaccurate memory, had or 
had not delivered the MS. as delivered to him ; be- 
cause, if he has not, you will find that he will boun- 
tifully bestow transcriptions on all the curious of his 
acquaintance, in which case you may probably find 

* See Poems, p. *7I. 



S46 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



your publication anticipated by the 'Cambridge,' or 
other Chronicles. In the next place — I forget what 
was next ; but, in the third place, I want to hear 
whether you have yet published, or when you mean 
to do so, or why you have not done so, because in 
your lust, (Sept. 20, — you, may be ashamed of the 
date,) you talked of this being done immediately. 

" From England I hear nothing, and know no- 
thing of any thing or any body. I have but one cor- 
respondent, (except Mr. Kinnaird on business now 
and then,) and her a female ; so that I know no 
more of your island, or city, than the Italian version 
of the French papers chooses to tell me, or the ad- 
vertisements of Mr. Colburn tagged to the end of 
your Quarterly Review for the year ago. I wrote to 
you at some length last week, and have little to add, 
except that I have begun, and am proceeding in, a 
study of the Armenian language, which I acquire, 
as well as I can, at the Armenian convent, where I 
go every day to take lessons of a learned friar, and 
have gained some singular and not useless informa- 
tion with regard to the literature and customs of that 
oriental people. They have an establishment here 
— a church and a convent of ninety monks — very 
learned and accomplished men, some of them. They 
have also a press, and make great efforts for the en- 
lightening of their nation. I find the language 
(which is twin, the literal and the vulgar) difficult, 
but not invincible, (at least, I hope not.) I shall go 
on. I found it necessary to twist my mind round 
some severe study, and this, as being the hardest I 
could devise here, will be a file for the serpen,t. 

" I mean to remain here till the spring, so address 
to me directly to Venice, poste restante. — Mr. Hob- 
house, for the present has gone to Rome, with his 
brother, brother's wife, and sister, who overtook 
him here ; he returns in two months. I should 
have gone too, but I fell in love, and must stay that 
over. I should think that and the Armenian alpha- 
bet will last the winter. The lady has, luckily for 
me, been less obdurate than the language, or, be- 
tween the Ijwo, I should have lost my remains of 
sanity. By-the-way she is not an Armenian but a 
Venetian, as I believe I told you in my last. As 
for Italian, I am fluent enough, even in its Venetian 
modification, which is something like the Somerset- 
shire version of English ; and as for the more clas- 
sical dialects, I had not forgot my former practice 
much during my voyaging. 

" Yours, ever and truly, 
"B. 

" P. S. Remember me to Mr. Gifford." 



LETTER CCCXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, Dec. 9, ISIS. 

" In a letter from England, I am informed that a 
man named Johnson has taken upon himself to 
publish some poems called a ' Pilgrimage to Jeru- 
salem, a Tempest, and an Address to my Daughter,' 
&c, and to attribute them to me, adding that he 
had paid five hundred guineas for them. The an- 
swer to this is short : I never icrote suck poems, nev- 
er received the sum he 7nentions, nor any other inthe 
same quarter, nor (as far as moral or mortal certainty 
can be sure), ever had, directly or indirectly, the 
slightest communication with Johnson in my life; 
not being aware that the person existed till this 
intelligence gave me to understand that there were 
such people. Nothing surprises me, or this perhaps 
would, and most things amuse me, or this probably 
would not. With regard to myself, the man has 
merely lied; that's natural — his betters have set 
him the example : but with regard to you, his asser- 
tion may perhaps inuire you in your publications ; 



and I desire that it may receive the most public and 
unqualified contradiction. I do not know that there 
is any punishment for a thing of this kind, and it 
there were, I should not feel disposed to pursue this 
ingenious mountebank farther than was necessary 
for his confutation ; but thus far it may be necessa- 
ry to proceed. 

" You will make what use you please of this let- 
ter ; and Mr.. Kinnaird, who has power to act for 
me in my absence, will, I am sure, readily join you 
in any steps which it may be proper to take with re- 
gard to the absurd falsehood of this poor creature. 
As you will have recently received several letters 
from me on my way to Venice, as well as two writ- 
ten since my arrival, I will not at present trouble 
you farther. " Ever, &c. 

" P. S. Pray let me hear that you have received 
this letter. Address to Venice, poste restante. 

" To prevent the recurrence of similar fabrica- 
tions, you may state, that I consider myself respon- 
sible for no publication from the year 1812 up to the 
present date, which is not from your press. I speak 
of course from that period, because, previously, 
Cawthorne and Ridge had both printed compositions 
of mine. ' A Pilgrimage to Jerusalem ! ' how the 
devil should I write -about Jerusalem, never having 
yet been there ? As for ' A Tempest,' it was not a 
tempest when I left England, but a very fresh breeze : 
and as to an ' Address to Little Ada,' (who, by-the- 
way, is a year old to-morrow,) I never wrote a line 
about her, except in ' Farewell,' and the third canto 
of Childe Harold." 



LETTER CCCX-IV. 



TO Mil. MTTRKA.Y. 



" Venice, Dec. 27, 1916. 

" As the demon of silence seems to have pos- 
sessed you, I am determined to have my revenge in 
postage : this is my sixth or seventh letter since 
summer and Switzerland. My last was an injunc- 
tion to contradict and consign to confusion that 
Cheapside impostor, who (I heard by a letter from 
your island) had thought proper to append my name 
to his spurious poesy, of which I know nothing, nor 
of his pretended purchase of copyright. I hope 
you have, at least, received that letter. 

"As the news of Venice must be very interesting 
to you, I will regale you with it. 

" Yesterday, being the feast of St. Stephen, every 
mouth was put in motion. There was nothing but 
fiddling and playing on the virginals, and all kinds 
of conceits and divertisements, on every canal of 
this aquatic city. I dined with the Countess Albriz- 
za and a Paduan and Venetian party, and afterward 
went to the opera, at the Fenice theatre (which 
opens for the Carnival on that day,) — the finest, by- 
the-way, I have ever seen : it beats our theatres 
hollow in beauty and scenery, and those of Milan 
and Brescia bow before it. The opera and its sirens 
were much like other operas and women, but the 
subject of the said opera was something edifying ; it 
turned — the plot and conduct thereof — upon a fact 
narrated by Livy of a hundred and fifty married la- 
dies having poisioned a hundred and fifty husbands 
in go»d old times. The bachelors of Rome believed 
this extraordinary mortality to be merely the com- 
mon effect of matrimony or a pestilence ; but the 
surviving Benedicts, being all seized with the colic, 
examined into the matter, and found that ' their 
possets had been drugged •, ' the consequence of 
which was, much scandal and several suits at law. 
This is really and truly the subject of the musical 
piece at the Fenice ; and you can't conceive what 
pretty things are sung and recitativoed about the 
horrenda strage. The conclusicTn was a lady's head 
about to be chopped off by a lictor, but (I am sorry 



LETTERS. 



847 



io say) he left it on, and she got up and sung a trio &c, on the day of the date of the ' Corsair; ' and 
with the two Consuls, the Senate in the back ground I also received one from ray sister, written on the 



being chorus. The ballet was distinguished by 
nothing remarkable, except that the principal she- 
dancer went into convulsions because she was not 
applauded on her first appearance ; and the man- 
ager came forward to ask if there was ' ever a physi- 
cian in the theatre.^ There was a Greek one in my 
box, whom I wished very much to volunteer his 
services, being sure that in this case these would 
have been the last convulsions which would have 
troubled the ballarina ; but he would not. The 



10th of December, my daughter's birth-day, (and 
relative chiefly to my daughter,) and arriving on 
the day of the date of my marriage, this present 
2d of January, the month of my birth, — and various 
other astrologous matters, which I have no time to 
enumerate. 

" By the way, you might as well write to Hentsch, 
my Geneva banker, and inquire whether the two 
•ackets consigned to his care were or were not de- 
ed to Mr. St. Aubyn, or if they are still in his 



fmcfi 
iver 



wd was enormous, and in coming out, having a keeping. One contains papers, letters, and all the 



lady under my arm, I was obliged, in making way, 
almost to 'beat a Venetian, and traduce the state,' 
being compelled to regale a person with an English 
punch in the guts, which sent him as far back as the 
squeeze and the passage would admit. He did not 
ask for another, but with great signs of disapproba- 
tion and dismay, appealed to his compatriots, who 
laughed at him. 

" I am going on with my Armenian studies in a 
morning, and assisting and stimulating in the Eng- 
lish portion of an English and Armenian grammar, 
now publishing at the convent of St. Lazarus. 

" The superior of the friars is a bishop, and a fine 
old fellow, with the beard of a meteor. Father 
Paschal is also a learned and pious soul. He was 
two years in England. 

" 1 am still dreadfully in love with the Adriatic 
lady whom I spake of in a former letter (and not in 
this — I add, for fear of mistakes, for the only one 
mentioned in the firsUpart of this epistle is elderly 
and bookish, two things which I have ceased to 
admire,) and love in this part of the world is no 
sinecure. This is also the season when every body 
make up their intrigues for the ensuing year, and 
cut for partners for the next deal. 

" And now, if you don't write, I don't know what 
I won't say or do, nor what I will. Send me some 
news — good news. 

" Yours, very truly, &c, &c, &c, 
"B. 

"P. S. Remember me to Mr. Gifford, with all 
duty. 

" I hear that the Edinburgh Review has cut up 
Coleridge's Christabel, and me for praising it, which 
jnnen, I think, bodes no great good to your forth- 
come or coming canto and Castle (of Chillon.) My 
run of luck within the last year seems to have taken 
a turn every way ; but never mind, I will bring my- 
self through in the end — if not, I can be but where I 
began. In the mean time, I am not displeased to 
be where I am — I mean at Venice. My Adriatic 
nymph is this moment here, and I must therefore 
repose from this letter." 



LETTER CCCXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, Jan. 2, 1817. 

" Your letter has arrived. Pray, in publishing 
the third canto, have you omitted any passages ? I 
hope not ; and indeed wrote to you on my way over 
the Alps to prevent such an incident. Say in your 
next whether or not the lohole of the canto (as sent 
to you) has been published. I wrote to you again 
the other day, (twice I think,) and shall be glad to 
hear of the reception of those letters. 

" To-day is the 2d of January. On this day three 
years ago the Corsair's publication is dated, I think, 
in my letter to Moore. On this day two years I 
married (' Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth,' — 
I shan't forget the day in a hurry,) and it is odd 
enough that I this day received a letter from you 
announcing the publication of Childe Harold, &c., 



original MS.* of your third canto, as first conceived ; 
and the other some bones from the field of Morat. 
Many thanks for your news, and the good spirits in 
which your letter is written. 

"Venice and I agree very well; but I do not 
know that I have any thing new to say except of 
the last new opera, which I sent in my late letter. 
The Carnival is commencing, and there is a good 
deal of fun Aere and there — besides business ; for 
all the world are making up their intrigues for the 
season, changing, or going on upon a renewed 
lease. I am very well off with Marianna, who is 
not at all a nerson to tire me ; firstly, because I do 
not tire of a woman personally, but because they 
are generally bores in their disposition ; and, se- 
condly, because she is amiable, and has a tact which 
is not always the portion of the fair creation ; and, 
thirdly, she is very pretty ; and, fourthly, — there is 
no occasion for farther specification. * * * 
So far we have gone on very well ; as to the future, 
I never anticipate, — earpe diem — the past at least is 
one's own, which is one reason for making sure of 
the present. So much for my proper liaison. 

"The general state of morals here is much the 
same as in the Doges' time : a woman is virtuous 
(according to the code) who limits herself to her 
husband and one lover; those who have two. three, 
or more, are a little wild ; but it is only those who 
are indiscriminately diffuse, and form a low connex- 
ion, such as the Princess of Wales with her courier, 
(who, by the way, is made a knight of Malta,) who 
are considered as overstepping the modesty of mar- 
riage. In Venice, the nobility have a trick of mar- 
rying with dancers and singers ; and, truth to say, 
the women of their own order are by no means 
handsome ; but the general race, the women of the 
second and other orders, the wives of the mer- 
chants, and proprietors, and untitled gentry, are 
mostly bel' sangue, and it is with these that the 
more amatory connexions are usually formed. There 
are also instances of stupendous constancy. I knew 
a woman of fifty who never had but one lover, who 
dying early, she became devout, renouncing all 
but her husband. She piques herself, as may be 
presumed, upon this miraculous fidelity, talking of 
it occasionally with a species of misplaced moral- 
ity, which is rather amusing. There is no convinc- 
ing a woman here that she is in the smallest degree 
deviating from the rule of right or the fitness of 
things in having an amoroso. The great sin seems 
to lie in concealing it, or having more than one, 
that is, unless such an extension of the prerogative 
is understood and approved of by-the prior claimant. 
In my case, I do not know that I had any prede- 
cessor, and am pretty sure that there is no partici- 
pator; and am inclined to think, from the youth of 
the party, and from the frank, undisguised way in 
which every body avows every thing in this part of 
the world, when there is any thing to avow, as well 
as from some other circumstances, such as the mar- 
riage being recent, &c., &c, &c, that this is the 
premier pas. It does not much signify. 

"In another sheet, I send you some sheets of.a 
grammar, English and Armenian, for the use of 
the Armenians, of which I promoted, and indeed 
induced, the publication. (It cost me but a thou- 



See Childe Harold, cauto iii., sianza lxiii., and note. 



848 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



sand francs — French livres.) I still pursue my 
lessons in the language without any rapid progress, 
but advancing a little daily. Padre Paschal, with 
some little help from me, as translator of his Italian 
into English, is also proceeding in a MS. grammar 
far the English acquisition of Armenian, which will 
be printed also when finished. 

" We want to know if there are any Armenian 
types and letter-press in England, at Oxford, Cam- 
bridge, or elsewhere ? You know, I suppose, that, 
many years ago, the two Whistons published in 
England an original text of a history of Armenia, 
with their own Latin translation ? Do those types 
still exist ? and where ? Pray inquire among your 
learned acquaintance. 

" When this grammar (I mean the one now print- 
ing) is done, will you have any objection to take 
forty or fifty copies, which will not cost in all above 
five or ten guineas, and try the curiosity of the 
learned with a sale of them ? Say yes or no, as you 
like. I can assure you that they have some very 
curious books and MSS., chiefly translations from 
Greek originals now lost. They are, besides, a 
much-respected and learned community, and the 
study of their language was taken up with great 
ardor by some literary Frenchmen in ^Bonaparte's 
time. 

"I have not done a stitch of poetry since I left 
Switzerland, and have not at present the estro upon 
me. The truth is, that you are afraid of having a 
fourth canto before September, and of another copy- 
right, but I have at present no thoughts of resum- 
ing that posm, nor of beginning any other. If I 
write, I think of trying prose, but I dread intro- 
ducing living people, or applications which might 
be made to living people. Perhaps one day or other 
I may attempt some work of fancy in prose, descrip- 
tive of Italian manners and of" human passions ; 
but at present I am preoccupied. As for poesy, 
mine is the dream of the sleeping passions ; when 
they are awake, I cannot speak their language, 
only in their somnambulism, and just now they are 
not dormant. 

" If Mr. Gifford wants carte blanche as to the Siege 
of Corinth, he has it, and may do as he likes with 
it. 
_ " I sent you a letter contradictory of the Cheap- 
side man (who invented the story you speak of) the 
other day. My best respects to "Mr. Gifford, and 
such of my friends as you may see at your house. 
I wish you all prosperity and new year's gratula- 
tion, and am, "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXYI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Venice, Jan. 2Si, 1817. 

" Your letter of the 8th is before me. The reme- 
dy for your plethora is simple — abstinence. I was 
obliged to have recourse to the like some years ago, 
I mean in point of diet, and, with the exception of 
some convivial weeks and days, (it might be months 
now and then,) have kept to Pythagoras ever since. 
For all this, let me hear that you are better. You 
must not indulge in ' filthy beer,' nor m porter, nor 
eat suppers— the last are the devil to those who 
swallow dinner. * * * * 

" I am truly sorry to hear of your father's mis- 
fortune—cruel at any time, but doubly cruel in 
advanced life. However, you will, at least, have 
the satisfaction of doing your part by him, and, 
depend upon it, it will not be in vain. Fortune, to 
be sure, is a female, but not such a b — h as the rest 
(always excepting your wife and my sister from 
such sweeping terms ;) for she generally has some 
justice in the long run. I have no spite against 
her, though, between her and Nemesis, I have had 
some sore gauntlets to run — but then I have done 



my best to deserve no better. But to you, she is a 
good deal in arrear, and she will come round — mind 
if she don't : you have the vigor of life, of inde- 
pendence, of talent, spirit, and character, all with 
you. What you can do for yourself, you have done 
and will do ; and surely there are some others in 
the world who would not be sorry to be of use, if 
you would allow them to be useful, or at least 
attempt it. 

"I think of being in England in the spring. If 
there is a row, by the sceptre of King Ludd, but 
I'll be one; and if there is none, and only a con- 
tinuance of ' this weak, piping time of peace,' I 
will take a cottage a hundred yards to the south of 
your abode, and become your neighbor ; and we 
will compose such canticles, and hold such dia- 
logues, as shall be the terror of .the times, (includ- 
ing the newspaper of that name,) and the wonder, 
and honor, and praise of the Morning Chronicle 
and posterity. 

" I rejoice to hear of your forthcoming in Febru- 
ary — though I tremble for the magnificence which 
you attribute to the new Childe Harold. I am glad 
you like it; it is a fine, indistinct piece of poetical 
desolation, and my favorite. I was half mad during 
the time of its composition, between mataphysics, 
mountains, lakes, love unextinguishable, thoughts 
unutterable, and the nightmare of my own delin- 
quences. I should, many a good day, have blown 
my brains out, but for the recollection that it would 
have given pleasure to my mother-in-law ; and, 
even then, if I could have been certain to haunt 
her, and fling the shattered -scalp of my sinciput 
and occiput in her frightful face — but I won't dwell 
upon these trifling family matters. 

" Yenice is in the estro of her Carnival, and I 
have been up these last two nights at the ridotto 
and the opera, and all that kind of thing. Now 
for an adventure. A few days ago a gondolier 
brought me a billet without a subscription, intimat- 
ing a wish on the part of the writer to meet me 
either in gondola, or at the island of San Lazaro, or 
at a third rendezvous indicated in the note. ' I 
know the country's disposition well,' — in Venice 
' they do let heaven see those tricks they dare not 
show,' &c, &c. ; so for all response, I said that 
neither of the three places suited me ; but that I 
would either be at home at teu at night alone, or 
be at the ridotto at midnight, where the writer 
might meet me masked. At ten o'clock I was at 
home and alone, (Marianna was gone with her hus- 
band to a conversazione,) when the door of my 
apartment opened, and in walked a well-looking 
and (for an Italian) bionda girl of about nineteen, 
who informed me that she was married to the bro- 
ther of my amoroso, and wished to have some 
conversation with me. I made a decent reply, 
and we had some talk in Italian and Romaic, (her 
mother being a Greek of Corfu;) when, lo ! in a 
very few minutes in marches, to my very great 
astonishment, Marianna S * *, in propria persona, 
and, after making a most polite curtsey to her 
sister-in-law and to me, without a single word, 
seizes her said sister-in-law by the hair, and be- 
stows upon her some sixteen slaps, which would 
have made your ear ache only to hear their echo. 
I need not describe the screaming which ensued. 
The luckless visiter took flight. I seized Marianna, 
who, after several vain efforts to get away in pursuit 
of the enemy, fairly went into fits in my arms ; and, 
in spite of reasoning, eau de Cologne, vinegar, half 
a pint of water, and God knows what other water 
besides, continued so till past midnight. 

' After damning my servants for letting people 
in without apprizing me, I found that Marianna in 
the morning had seen her sister-in-law's gondolier 
on the stairs ; and, suspecting that his apparition 
boded her no good, had either returned of her own 
accord, or been followed by her maids or some other 
spy of her people to the conversazione, from whence 
she returned to perpetrate this piece of pugilism. 



LETTERS. 



849 



I had seen fits before, and also some small scenery 
of the same genus in and out of our island ; but 
this was not all. After about an hour, in comes — 
who ? why, Signor S * *, her lord and husband, 
and finds me with his wife fainting upon a sofa, 
and all the apparatus of confusion, dishevelled hair, 
hats, handkerchiefs, salts, smelling bottles — and 
the lady as pale as ashes, without sense or motion. 
His first question was, 'What is all this?' The 
lady could not reply — so I did. I told him the 
explanation was the easiest thing in the world ; but 
in the mean time^it would be as well to recover his 
wife — at least her senses. This came about in due 
time of suspiration and respiration. 

" You need not be alarmed — jealousy is not the 
order of the day in Venice, and daggers are out of 
fashion, while duels on love matters, are unknown 
— at least, with the husbands. But, for all this, it 
was an awkward affair , and though he must have 
known that I made love to Mari tuna, yet I believe 
he was not, till that evening, aware of the extent 
to which it had gone. — It is very well known that 
almost all the married women have a lover ; but it 
is usual to keep up the forms, as in other nations. 
I did not, therefore, know what the devil to say. I 
could not out with the truth, out of regard to her, 
arid I did not choose to lie for my sake; — besides, 
the thing told itself. I thought the best way would 
be to let her explain it as she chose, (a woman 
being never at a loss — the Devil always sticks by 
them) — only determining to protect and carry her 
oft', in case of any ferocity on the part of the Signor. 
I saw that he was quite calm. She went to bed, and 
next day — how they settled it, I know not, but settle 
it they did. Well— then I had to explain to Mari- 
anna about this never-to-be-sufficiently-confounded 
sister-in-law ; which I did by swearing innocence, 
eternal constancy, &c, &c. * * " * 

* * ' * * * * 

But the sister-in-law, very much discomposed with 
being treated in such wise, has (not having her own 
shame before her eyes), told the affair to half Ve- 
nice, and the servants (who were summoned by the 
fight and the fainting), to the other half. But here, 
nobody minds such trifles, except to be amused by 
them. I don't know whether you will be so, but I 
have scrawled a long letter out of these follies. 

" Believe me ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, Jan. 24, 1817. 
****** 

" I have been reqviested by the Countess Albrizzi 
here to present her with ' the Works : ' and wish 
you therefore to send me a copy, that I may comply 
with her requisition. You may include the last 
published, of which I have seen and know nothing, 
but from your letter of the 13th of December. 

" Mrs. Leigh 'tells me that most of her friends 
prefer the first two cantos. I do not know whether 
this be the general opinion or not, (it is not hers;) 
but it is natural it should be so. I, however, think 
differently, which is natural also ; but who is right, 
or who is wrong, is of very little consequence. 

"Dr. Polidori, as I hear from him by letter from 
Pisa, is about to return to England, to go to the 
Brazils on a medical speculation with the Danish 
consul. As you are in the favor of the powers 
that be, could you not get him some letters of 
recommendation from some of your government 
friends to some of the Portuguese settlers ? he 
understands his profession well, and has no want 
of general talents ; his faults are the faults of a 
pardonable vanity and youth. His remaining with 
me was out of the question : I have enough to do 
107 



to manage my own scrapes ; and as precepts with- 
out example are not the most gracious homilies, I 
thought it better to give him his conge : but I know 
no great harm of him, and some good. He is clever 
and accomplished ; knows his profession, by all 
accounts, well; and is honorable in his dealings, 
and not at all malevolent. I think, with luck, he 
will turn out a useful member of society, (from 
which he will lop the diseased members,) and the 
College of Physicians. If you can be of any use 
to him, or know any one who can, pray be so, as he 
has his fortune to make. He^has kept a medical 
journal under the eye of Vacca, (the first surgeon 
on the continent,) at Pisa: Vacca has corrected it, 
and it must contain some valuable hints or informa- 
tion on the practice of this country. If you can 
aid him in publishing this also, by your influence 
with your brethren, do ; I do not ask you to publish 
it yourself, because that sort of request is too per- 
sonal and embarrassing. He has also a tragedy, of 
which, having seen nothing, I say nothing: but the 
very circumstance of his having "made these efforts 
(if they are only efforts), at one-and-twenty, is in 
his favor, and proves him to have good dispositions 
for his own improvement. So if, in the way of 
commendation or recommendation, you can aid his 
objects with your government friends, I wish you 
would. I should think some of your Admiralty 
Board might be likely to have it in their power." 



LETTER CCCXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, Feb. 15, 1817. 

" I have received your two letters, but not the 
parcel you mention. As the Waterloo spoils are 
arrfved, I will make you a present of them, if you 
choose to accept of them ; pray do. 

" I do not exactly understand from your letter 
what has been omitted, or what not, in the publi- 
cation ; but I shall see probably stame day or other. 
I could not attribute any but a good motive to Mr. 
Gifford or yourself in such omission ; but as our poli- 
tics are so very opposite, we should probably differ 
as to the passages. However, if it is only a note or 
notes, or a line or so, it cannot signify, You say ' a 
poem ,-' what poem ? You can tell me in your 
next. 

"Of Mr. Hobhouse's quarrel with the Quarterly 
Review, I know very little except * *'s article itself, 
which was certainly harsh enough : but I quite agree 
that it would have been better not to answer — par- 
ticularly after Mr. TT r . W. who never more will trouble 
you, trouble you. I have been uneasy, because Mr. H. 
told me that his letter or preface was to be addressed 
to me. Now, he and I are friends of many years ; 
I have many obligations to him, and he none to me, 
which have not been cancelled and more than re- 
paid ; but Mr. Gifford and I are friends also, and he 
has moreover been literally so through thick and . 
thin, in despite of difference of years, morals, 
habits, and even politics ; and therefore I feel in a 
very awkward situation between the two, Mr. Gif- 
ford and my friend Hobhouse, and can only wish 
that they had no difference, or that such as they 
have were acommodated. The answer I have not 
seen, for — it is odd enough for people so intimate — 
but Mr. Hobhouse and I are very sparing of our lit- 
erary confidences. For example, the other day he 
wished to have a MS. of the third canto to read over 
to his brother, &c, which was refused ; — and I have 
never seen his journals, nor he mine — (I only kept 
the short one of the mountains for my sister) — nor 
do I think that hardly ever he or I saw any of the 
other's productions previous to their publication. 

" The article in the Edingburgh Review on Cole- 
ridge I have not seen ; but whether I am attacked 



850 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



in it or not, or in any other of the same journal, I 
shall never think ill of Mr. Jeffrey on that account, 
nor forget that his conduct towards me has been 
certainly most handsome during the last four or 

more years. ,.'•,« 

" I forgot to mention to you that a kind oi poem 
in dialogue* (in blank verse) or drama, from which 
' The Incantation' is an extract, begun last summer 
in Switzerland, is finished ; it is in three acts ; but oi 
a very wild, metaphysical, and inexplicable kind. 
Almost all the persons— but two or three— are 
spirits of the earl^i and air, or the waters ; the 
scene is in the Alps ; the hero a kind of magician, 
who is tormented by a species of remorse, the cause 
of which is left half unexplained. He wanders 
about invoking these spirits, which appear to him, 
and are of no use ; he at last goes to the very abode 
of the Evil Principle, in propria persona, to evocate 
a ghost, which appears, and gives him an ambiguous 
and disagreeable answer ; and in tbe third act he is 
found bv his attendants dying in a tower where he 
had studied his art. Yon may perceive by this out- 
line that I have no great opinion of this piece of 
phantasy ; but I have at least rendered it quite im- 
possible for the stage, for which my intercourse with 
jDrury Lane has given me the greatest contempt. 

" I have not even copied it off, and feel too lazy 
at present to attempt the whole ; but when I have, 
I will send it you, and you may either throw it into 
the fire or not." 



LETTER CCCXIX. 



TO Mil. MUEKAY. 



a good deal ; but I have at present the quiet and 
temperance of Lent before mo. 

' P. S. Remember me to Mr. Gifford. I have 
not received your parcel or parcels. Look into 
Moore's (Dr. Moore's) View of Italy' for me ; in 
one of the volumes you will find an account of the 
Doge Valiere (it ought to be Falieri) and his con- 
spiracy, or the motives of it. Get it transcribed for 
me, and send it in a letter to me soon. I want it, 
and cannot find so good an account of that business 
here ; though the veiled patriot, and the place 
where he was crowned, and afterwards decapitated, 
still exist, and are shown. I have searched all their 
histories ; but the policy of the old aristocracy made 
their writers silent on his motives, which were a pri- 
vate grievance against one of the patricians. 

" I mean to write a tragedy on the subject, which 
appears to me very dramatic; an old man, jealous, 
and conspiring against the state, of which he was 
the actually reigning chief. The last circumstance 
makes it the most remarkable and only fact of the 
kind in all history of all nations. 



" Venice, Feb. 25, 1817. 

" I wrote to you the other day in answer to your 
letter ; at present, I would trouble you with a com- 
mission, if you would be kind enough to under- 
take it. 

"You perhaps know Mr. Love, the jeweller, of 
Old Bond street. In 1813, when in the intention of 
returning to Turkey, I purchased of him, and paid 
(argent comptant) about a dozen snuff-boxes, of 
more or less value, as presents for some of my Mus- 
sulman acquaintance. These I have now with me. 
The other day, having occasion to make an altera- 
tion in the lid of one, (to place a portrait in it,) it 
has turned out to be silver-gilt instead of gold, for 
which last it was sold and paid for. This was dis- 
covered by the workman in trying it, before taking 
oil the hinges and working upon the lid. I 
have of course recalled and preserved the box in 
statu quo. What I wish you to do is, to see the 
said Mr. Love, and inform him of this circum- 
stance, adding from me, that I will take care he 
shall not have done this with impunity. 

"If there is no remedy in law, there is at least 
the equitable one of making known his guilt, — that 
is, his silver gilt, and be d — d to him. 

" I shall carefully preserve all the purchases I 
made of him on that occasion for my return, as the 
plague in Turkey is a barrier to travelling there at 
present, or rather the endless quarantine which 
would be the consequence before one could land in 
coming back. Pray state the matter to him with 
due ferocity. 

" I sent you the other day some extracts from a 
kind of drama which I had* begun in Switzerland 
and finished here ; you will tell me if they are re- 
ceived. They were only in a letter. I have not yet 
had energy to copy it out, or I would send you the 
whole in different covers. 

" The carnival closed this day last week. 

" Mr. Hobhouse is still at Rome, I believe. I am 
at present a little unwell ; sitting up too late and 
some subsidiary dissipations have lowered my blood 



LETTER CCCXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. , 

" Venice, Feb. 2t), 1?17. 

" You will, perhaps, complain as much of the 
frequency of my letters now, as you were wont to 
do of their rarity. I think this is the fourth within 
as many moons. I feel anxious to hear from you, 
even more than usual, because your last indicated 
that you were unwell. At present, I am on the in- 
valid regimen myself. The Carnival — that is, the 
latter part of it — and sitting up late o' nights, had 
knocked me up a little. But it is over, — and it 
is now Lent, with all its abstinence and sacred 
music. » 

" The mumming closed with a masked ball at the 
Fenice, where I went, as also to most of the 
ridottas, &c, &c. ; and though I did not dissipate 
much upon the whole, yet I find ' the sword wearing 
out the scabbard,' though I have but just turned the 
corner of twenty-nine. 



; Sol 



■'11 : 



So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving-, 

And the moon be still as bright. 
For the sword outwears its sheath, 

And the soul wears out the breast, 
And the heart must pause to breathe, 

And love itself have rest. 
Though the night was made for loving-, 

And the day returns too soon, 
Vet we'll go no more a roving 

By the light of the moun. 

I have lately had some news of litteratoor, as I 
heard the editor of the Monthly pronounce it once 
upon a time. I heard that W. W. has been pub- 
lishing and responding to the attacks of the Quar- 
terly, in the learned Perry's Chronicle. I read his 
poesies last autumn, and, among them, found an 
epitaph on his bull-dog, and another on myself. 
But I beg leave to assure him (like the astrologer 
Partridge) that I am not only alive now, but was 
alive also at the time he wrote it. * 

****** 
Hobhouse has (I hear, also) expectorated a letter 
against the Quarterly, addressed to me. I feel 
awkwardly situated between him and Gifford, both 
being my friends. 

"And this is your month of going to press — by 
the body of Diana ! (a Venetian oath,) I feel as 
anxious— but not fearful for you— as if it were my- 
self coming out in a work of humor, which would, 
you know, be the antipodes of all my previous 



LETTERS. 



851 



publications. I don't think you have any thing to 
dread but your own reputation. You must keep 
up to that. As you never showed me a line of your 
work, I do not even know your measure; but you 
must send me a copy by Murray forthwith, and then 
you shall hear what I think. I dare say you are in 
a pucker. Of all authors, you are the only really 
modest one I ever met with, which would sound 
oddly enough to those who recollect your morals 
when you were young — that is, when you were ex- 
tremely young — I don't mean to stigmatize you 
either with years or morality. 

" I believe I told you that the Edinburgh Review 
had atttacked me, in an article on Coleridge (I have 
not seen it) — ' Et tu, Jeffrey?' — 'there is nothing 
but roguery in villanous man.' But I absolve him 
of all attacks, present and future ; for I think he 
had already pushed his clemency in my behoof to 
the utmost, and I shall always think well of him. 
I only wonder he did not begin before, as my domes- 
tic destruction was a fine opening for all the world, 
of which all, who could, did well to avail themselves. 

" If I live ten years longer, you will see, however, 
that it is not over with me — I don't mean in litera- 
ture, for that is nothing ; and it may seem odd 
enough to say, I do not think it my vocation. But 
you will see that I shall do something or other — 
the times and fortune permitting — that ' like the 
cosmogony, or creation of the world, will puzzle 
the philosophers of all ages.' But I doubt whether 
my constitution will hold out. I have, at intervals, 
exorcised it most devilishly. 

"I have not yet fixed a time of return, but I 
think of the spring. I shall have been away a year 
in April next. You never mention Rogers, nor 
Hodgson, your clerical neighbor, who has lately got 
a living near jtpu. Has he also got a child yet ? — 
his desideratum when I saw him last. 

" Pray, let me hear from you, at your time and 
leisure, believing me ever and truly, and affection 
ately, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXI. 



TO Mil. MURRAY. 



" Venice, March », 1317. 

" In acknowledging the arrival of the article from 
the ' Quarterly,'* which I received two days ago, I 
cannot express myself better than in the words of 
my sister Augusta, who (speaking of it) says, that 
it is written in a spirit ' of the most feeling and 
kind nature.' It is, however, something more: it 
seems to me (as far as the subject of it may be 
permitted to judge) to be very well written as a 
composition, and I think will do the journal no 
discredit, because even those who condemn its 
partiality must praise its generosity. The temp- 
tations to take another and a less favorable view 
of the question have been so great and numerous, 
that, what with public opinion, politics, &c, he 
must be a gallant as well as a good man, who has 
ventured in that place, and at this time, to write 
such an article even anonymously. Such things 
are, however, their own reward, and I even flatter 
myself that the writer, whoever he may be, (and I 
have no guess,) will not regret that the perusal of 
this has given me as much gratification as any 
composition of that nature could give, and more 
than any other has given, — and I have had a good 
many in my time of one kind or the other. It is 
not the mere praise, but there is a tact and a deli- 
cacy throughout, not only with regard to me, but 
to others, which, as it had not been observed else- 



* An article in number xxxi. of this Review, written, as Lord Byron after- 
Ward discovered, by Sir Walter Scott. 



where, I had till now doubted whether it could be 
observed any where. 

" Perhaps some day or other you will know or 
tell me the writer's name. Be assured, had the 
article been a harsh one, I should not have asked it. 

" I have lately written to you frequently, with 
extracts, &c, which I hope you have received, or 
will receive, with or before this letter. — Ever since 
the conclusion of the Carnival I have been unwell, 
(do not mention this, on any account, to Mrs. 
Leigh : for if I grow worse, she will know it too 
soon, and if I get better, there is no occasion that 
she should know it at all,) and' have hardly stirred 
out of the -house. However, I don't want a physi- 
cian, and if I did, very luckily those of Italy are 
the worst in the world, so that I should still have a 
chance. They have, I believe, one famous surgeon, 
Vacca, who lives at Pisa, who might be useful in 
case of dissection : — but he is some hundred miles 
off. My malady is a sort of slowish fever, originat- 
ing from what my 'pastor and master,' Jackson, 
would call ' taking too much out of one's self.' 
However, I am better within this day or two. 

"I missed seeing the new Patriarch's procession 
to St. Mark's the other day, (owing to my indispo- 
sition,) with six hundred and fifty priests in his 
rear — a 'goodly army.' The admirable government 
of Vienna, in its edict from thence, authorizing his 
installation, prescribed, as part of the pageant ' a 
coach and four horses.' To show how very ' ger- 
?nqn to the matter' this was, you have only to 
suppose our parliament commanding the Archbishop 
of Canterbury to proceed from Hyde Park Corner 
to St. Paul's Cathedral in the Lord Mayor's barge, 
or the Margate hoy. There is' but "St. Mark's 
Place in all Venice broad enough for a carriage to 
move, and it is paved with large smooth flag stones, 
so that the chariot and horses of Elijah himself 
would be puzzled to manoeuvre upon it. Those of 
Pharaoh might do better ; for the canals, — and 
particularly the Grand Canal, are sufficiently ca- 
pacious and extensive for his whole host. Of 
course, no coach could be attempted ; but. the 
Venetians who are very naive as well as arch, 
were much amused wth the ordinance. 

"The Armenian Grammar is published ; but my 
Armenian studies are suspended for the present till 
my head aches a little less. I sent you the other 
day, in two covers, the first act of ' Manfred,' a 
drama as mad as Nat. Lee's Bedlam tragedy, which 
was in twenty-five acts, and some odd scenes : — 
mine is but in three acts. 

" I find I have begun this letter at the wrong end : 
never mind ; I must end it, then, at the right. 

"Yours ever, very truly and obligedly, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, March 9, IS17. 

" In remitting the third act* of the sort of dra- 
matic poem, of which you will by this time have 
received the first two, (at^least I hope so,) which 
were sent within the last three weeks, I have little 
to observe, except that you must not publish it (if it 
ever is published) without giving me previous notice. 
I have really and truly no notion whether it is good 
or bad ; and as this was not the case with the prin- 
cipal of my former publications, I am, therefore, 
inclined to rank it very humbly. You will submit 
it to Mr. Girford, and to whomsoever you please 
besides. With regard to the question of copyright, 
(if it ever comes to publication,) I do not know 
whether you would think three hundred guineas an 
over-estimate ; if you do, you may diminish it ■ I 

• See Poems, p. 5S8. 



852 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



do not think it worth more ; so you may see I make 
some difference between it and the others. 

" I have received your two reviews, (but not the 
' Tales of My Landlord ; ') the Quarterly I acknow- 
ledged particularly to you, on its arrival, ten days 
ago. What you tell ine of Perry petrifies me ; it is 
a rank imposition. In or about February or March, 
1816, I was given to understand that Mr. Croker 
was not only a coadjutor in the attacks of the 
Courier in 1814, but the author of some lines tolera- 
bly ferocious, then recently published in a morning 
paper. Upon this I wrote a reprisal. The whole of 
the lines I have forgotten, and even the purport of 
them I scarcely remember ; for on your assuring me 
that he was not, &c, &c, I put them into the fire 
before your face, and there never was but that one 
rough copy. Mr. Davies, the only person who ever 
heard them read, wanted a copy, which I refused. 
If, however, by some impossibility, which I cannot 
divine, the ghosts of these rhymes should walk into 
the world, 1 never will deny what I have really 
written, but hold myself personally responsible for 
satisfaction, though I reserve to myself the right of 
disavowing all or 'Any fabrications. To the previous 
facts you are a witness, and best know how far my 
recapitulation is correct ; and I request that you 
will inform Mr. Perry from me, that I wonder he 
should permit such an abuse of my name in his 
paper ; I say an abuse, because my absence, at least, 
demands some respect, and my presence and posi- 
tive sanction could alone justify him in such a pro- 
ceeding, even were the lines mine ; and if false, 
there are no words for him. I repeat to you that 
the original was burnt before you on your assurance, 
and there never was a copy, nor even a verbal repeti- 
tion, — very much to the discomfort of some zealous 
Whigs, who bored me for them (having heard it 
bruited by Mr. Davies that there were such matters) 
to no purpose ; for, having written them solely with 
the notion that Mr. Croker was the aggressor, and 
for my own and not party reprisals, I would not lend 
me to the zeal of any sect when I was made aware 
that he was not the writer of the offensive passages. 
You know, if there was such a thing, I would not 
deny it. I mentioned it openly at the time to you, 
and you will remember why and where I destroyed 
it ; and no power nor wheedling on earth should 
have made, or could make me, (if I recollected 
them,) give a copy after that, unless I was well 
assured that Mr. Croker was really the author of 
that which you assured me he was not. 

" I intend for England this spring, where I have 
some affairs to adjust ; but the post hurries m'e. 
For this nlonth past I have been unwell, but am 
getting better, and thinking of moving homewards 
towards May, without going to Rome, as the un- 
healthy season comes on soon, and I can return 
when I have settled the business I go upon, which 
need not be long. * * * * I should have thought 
the Assyrian tales very succeedable. 

"I saw, in Mr. W. W.'s poetry, that he had writ- 
ten my epitaph : I would rather have written his. 

"The thing I have sent you, you will see at a 
glimpse, could never be attempted or thought of for 
the stage ; I much doubt it for publication even. It 
is too much in my old style; but I composed it 
actually with a horror of the stage, and with a view 
to render the thought of it impracticable, knowing 
the zeal of my friends that I should try that for 
which I have an invincible repugnance, viz., a repre- 
sentation. 

" I certainly am a devil of a mannerist, and must 
leave off; but what could I do ? Without exertion 
of some kind, I should have sunk under my imagi- 
nation and reality. My best respects to Mr. Gif 
fcrd, to Walter Scott, and to all friends. 

" Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCXXIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Venice, March \0, 1817. 

"I wrote again to j'ou lately, but I hope you 
won't be sorry to have another epistle. I have been 
unwell this last month, with a kind of slow and low 
fever, which fixes upon me at night, and goes off in 
the morning; but, however, I am now better. In 
spring it is probable we may meet ; at least I intend 
for England, where I have business, and hope to 
meet you in your restored health and additional 
laurels. 

' Murray Has sent me the Quarterly and the Edin- 
burgh. When I tell you that AValter Scott is the 
mthor of the article in the former, you will agree 
with me that such an article is still more honorable 
to him than to myself. I am perfectly pleased with 
Jeffrey's also, which I wish you to tell him, with my 
remembrances — not that I suppose it is of any eon- 
sequence to him, or ever could have been, whether 
I am pleased or not, — but simply in my private rela- 
tion to him, as his well-wisher, and it may be, one 
day, as his acquaintance. I wish you would also 
add, — what you know, — that I was not, and, indeed, 
am not even now, the misanthropical and gloomy 
entleman he takes me for, but a facetious com- 
panion, well to do witli those with whom I am inti- 
mate, and as loquacious and laughing as if I were 
a much cleverer fellow. 

' I suppose now I shall never be able to shake off 
my sables in public imagination, more particularly 
since my moral * * clove down my fame. However, 
nor that, nor more than that, has yet extinguished 
my spirit, which always rises with the rebound. 

' At Venice we are in Lent, and I have not lately 
moved out of doors, — my feverishness requiring 
quiet, — and — by way of being more quiet — here is 
the Signora Marianna just come in and seated at my 
elbow. 

'Have you seen * * *'s book of poesy? and, if 
you have seen it, are you not delighted with it ? 
And have you — I really cannot go on. There is a 
pair of great black eyes looking over my shoulder, 
like the angel leaning over St. Matthew's in the old 
frontispiece to the Evangelists, — so that I must 
turn and answer them instead of you. 

" Ever, &c." 



LETT 



ER CCCXXIV. 

TO Mil. MOORE. 



" Venicf, March 25, 1S17. 

"I have at last learned, in default of your own 
writing, (or not writing — which should it be ? for I 
am not very clear as to the application of the word 
default,) from Murray, two particulars of (are belong- 
ing to) you; one, that you are removing to Hornsey, 
which is^ I presume, to be nearer London ; and the 
other, that your poem is announced by the name of 
Lalla Itookh. I am glad of it, — first, that we are 
to have it at last, and next, I like a tough title my- 
self — witness the Giaour and Childe Harold, which 
choked half the Blues at starting. Besides, it is the 
talk of Alcibiades's dog, — not that I suppose you 
want either dog or tail. Talking of tail, I wish you 
had not called it a '■Persian Tale.'' Say a 'poem' 
or ' romance,' but not ' tale.' I am very sorry that 
I called some of my own things tales, because I 
think that they are something better. Besides, we 
have had Arabian, and Hindoo, and Turkish, and 
Assyrian Tales. But, after all, this is frivolous in 
me ; you won't, however, mind my nonsense. 

" Really and truly, I want you to make a great 
hit, if only out of self-love, because we happen to be 
old cronies, and I have no doubt you will — I am 
sure you can. - But you are, I'll be sworn, in a devij 



LETTERS. 



853 



of a pucker ; and I am not at your elbow, and 
Rogers is. I envy him ; which is not fair, because 
he does not envy any body. Mind you send to me 
— that is, make Murray send — the moment you are 
forth. 

" I have been very ill with a slow fever, which at 
last took to Hying, and became as quick as need be. 
But, at length, after a week of half delirium, burn- 
ing skin, thirst, hot headache, horrible pulsation, 
and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and 
refusing to see any physician, I recovered. It is an 
epidemic of the place, which is annual, and visits 
strangers. Here follow 'some versicles, which I 
made one sleepless night : 

11 I read the ' Christabel : ' \ 
* Very well : 

I read the ' Missionary ; ' 

Pretty — very : 
Itriedafllderim;' 

Ahe.n ! 
I read a sheet of ' Marg'ret otAnjou ; ' 

Can you ? 
I turnM a p;ije of ' * * 's Waterloo ; ' 

Pooh I Pooh I 
I looked at Wordsworth's millc-white ' Rylstone Doe ; r 

Hillo ! 
J read ' Glenarvon ' too, by * " * • 

God d— n I " 



" I have not the least idea where I am going, 
nor what I am to do. I wished to have gone to 
Rome ; but at present it is pestilent with English, 
—a parcel of staring boobies, who go about gaping 
and wishing to be at once cheap and magnificent. 
A man is a fool who travels now in France or Italy, 
till this tribe of wretches is swept home again. In 
two or three years the first rush will be over, and 
the Continent will be roomy and agreeable. 

" I stayed at Venice chiefly because it is not one 
of their ' dens of thieves ; ' and here they but pause 
and pass. In Switzerland it was really noxious. 
Luckily, I was early, and had got the prettiest place 
on all the lake before they were quickened into 
motion with the rest of reptiles. But they crossed 
me every where. I met a family of children and 
old women half way up the Wengen Alp (by the 
Jungfrau) upon mules, some of them too old and 
others too young to be the least aware of what they 
saw. 

" By-the-way, I think the Jungfrau, and all that 
region of Alps, which I traversed in September — 
going to the \ery top of the Wengen, which is not 
the highest, (the Jungfrau itself is inaccessible,) 
but the best point of view — much finer than Mont 
Blanc and Chamouni, or the Simplon. I kept a 
journal of the whole for my sister Augusta, part of 
which she copied and let Murray see. 

" I wrote a sort of mad drama, for the sake of 
introducing the Alpine scenery in description ; and 
this I sent lately to Murray. Almost all the dram. 
pers. are spirits, ghosts, or magicians, and the scene 
is in the Alps and the other world ; so you may sup- 
pose what a bedlam tragedy it must be : make him 
show it you. I sent him all three acts piecemeal, 
by the post, and suppose they have arrived. 

" I have now written to you at least six letters, or 
lettered, and all I have received in return is a note 
about the length you used to write from Bury street 
to St. James's street, when we used to dine with 
Rogers, and talk laxly, and go to parties, and hear 
poor Sheridan now and then. Do you remember 
one night he was so tipsy that I was forced to put 
his cocked hat on for him, — for he could not, — and 
I let him down at Brookes's, much a3 he must since 
have been let down into his grave. Heigh ho ! I 
wish I was drunk — but I have nothing but this d — d 
barley water before me. 

" I am still in love — which is a dreadful drawback 
in quitting a place, and I can't stay at Venice much 
longer. What I shall do on this point I don't 



know. The girl means to go with me, but I do not 
like this for her own sake. I have had so many 
conflicts in my own mind on this subject, that I am 
not at all sure they did not help me to the fever I 
mentioned above. I am certainly very much at- 
tached to her, and I have cause to be so, if you 
knew all. But she has a child; and though, like 
all the 'children of the sun,' she consults nothing 
but passion, it is necessary I should think for both ; 
and it is only the virtuous, like * * * *, who can 
aiFord to give up husband and child, and live happy 
ever after. 

"The Italian ethics are the most singular ever 
met with. The perversion, not only of action, but 
of reasoning, is singular in the women. It is not 
that they do not consider the thing itself as wrong, 
and very wrong, but lore (the sentiment of love) is 
not merely an excuse for it, but makes it an actual 
virtue, provided it is disinterested, and not ncajir/cc, 
and is confined to one object. They have awful no- 
tions of constancy; for I have seen some ancient 
figures 1 of eighty pointed out as amorosi of forty, 
fifty, and sixty years' standing. I can't say I have 
ever seen a husband and wife so coupled. 

" Ever, &c. 

" P. S. Marianna, to whom I have just translated 
what I have written on our subject to you, says — 
' If you loved me thoroughly, you would not make 
so many fine reflections, which are only good for- 
birsi i scarpi,' — that is, 'to clean shoes withal,' — a 
Venetian proverb of appreciation, which is applica- 
cable to reasoning of all kinds." 



LETTBR CCCXXV. 



TO HE. MURRAY. 



"Venice. March 25, 1617. 

"Your letter and enclosure are safe; but 'Eng- 
lish gentlemen ' are very rare — at least in Venice. I 
doubt whether there are at present any save the 
consul and vice-consul, with neither of whom I have 
the slightest acquaintance. The moment I can 
pounce upon a witness, I will send the deed properly 
signed : but must he necessarily be genteel ? Venice 
is not a place where the English are gregarious ; 
their pigeon-houses are Florence, Naples, Rome, 
&c. ; and to tell you the truth, this was one reason 
why I stayed here till the season of the purgation 
of Rome from these people, which is infected with 
them at this time, should arrive. Besides, I abhor 
the nation, and the nation me ; it is impossible for 
me to describe my own sensation on that point, but 
it may suffice to say, that, if I met with any of the 
race in the beautiful parts of Switzerland, the most 
distant glimpse or aspect of them poisoned the 
whole scene; and I do not choose to have the Pan- 
theon, and St. Peter's, and the Capitol, spoiled for 
me too. This feeling may be probably owing to 
recent events ; but it does not exist the less, and 
while it exists, I shall conceal it as little as any 
other. 

" I have been seriously ill with a fever, but it is 
gone. I believe or suppose it was the indigenous 
fever of the place, which comes every year at this 
time, and of which the physicians change the name 
annually, to despatch the people sooner. It is a 
kind of typhus, and kills occasionally. It was pret 
ty smart, but nething particular, and has left me 
some debility and a great appetite. There are a 
good many ill at present, I suppose of the same._ 

"I feel sorry for Horner, if there was any thing 
in the world to make him like it : and still more 
sorry for his friends, as there was much to make 
them regret him. I had not heard of his death till 
by your letter. 

"Some weeks ago I wrote to you my acknow 
ledgments of Walter Scott's article. Now I knov 



854 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



it to be his, it cannot add to my good opinion of 
him, but it adds to that of myself. He, and Gifford, 
and Moore are the only regulars I ever knew who 
had nothing of the garrison about their manner : 
no nonsense, nor affectations, look you ! As for 
the rest whom I have known, there was always 
more or less of the author about them — the pen 
peeping from behind the ear, and the rhumbs a little 
inky or so. 

" ' Lalla Rookh ' — you must recollect that in the 
way of title, the ' Giaour ' has never been pro- 
nounced to this day ;-and both it and Childe Harold 
sounded very facetious to the blue-bottles of wit 
and humor about town, till they were taught and 
startled into a proper deportment ; and therefore 
Lalla Rookh, which is very orthodox and oriental, 
is as good a title as need be, if not better. I could 
wish rather that he had not called it ' a Persian 
Tale ; ' firstly, because we have had Turkish Tales, 
and Hindoo Tales, and Assyrian Tales already ; and 
(ale is a word of which it repents me to have nick- 
named poesy. ' Fable' would be better ; and, sec- 
ondly, ' Persian Tale ' reminds one of the lines of 
Pope on Ambrose Phillips ; though no one can say, 
to be sure, that this tale has been ' turned for half- 
i-crown ; ' still it is as well to avoid such clashings. 
' Persian Story ' — why not ? — or Romance ? I feel 
as anxious for Moore as I could do for myself, for 
the soul of me, and I would not have him succeed 
otherwise than splendidly, which I trust he will do. 

" With regard to the ' Witch Drama,' I sent all 
the three acts by post, week after week, within this 
last month. I repeat that I have not an idea if it 
is good or bad. If bad, it must, on no account, be 
risked in publication ; if good, it is at your service. 
I value it at three hundred guineas, or less, if you 
like it. Perhaps, if published? the best way will be 
to add it to your winter volume, and not publish 
separately. The price will show you I don't pique 
myself upon it ; so speak out. You may put it in 
the fire, if you like, and Gifford don't like. 

" The Armenian Grammar is published — that is, 
one; the other is still in MS. My illness has pre- 
vented me from moving this month past, and I have 
done nothing more with the Armenian. 

" Of Italian or rather Lombard manners, I could 
tell you little or nothing : I went two or three times 
to the governor's conversazione, (and if you go 
once, you are free to go always,) at which, as I only 
saw very plain women, a formal circle, in short, a 
worst sort of rout, I did not go again. I went to 
Academie and to Madame Albrizzi's, where I saw 
pretty much the same thing, with the addition of 

some literati, who are the same blue,* by , all 

the world over. I fell in love the first week with 
Madame * *, and I have continued so ever since, 
because she is very pretty and pleasing, and talks 
Venetian, which amuses me, and is naive. I have 
seen all their spectacles and sights ; but I do not 
know any thing very worthy of observation, except 
that the women kiss better than those of any other 
nation, which is notorious, and attributed to the 
worship of images, and the early habit of osculation 
induced thereby. "Very truly, &c. 

" P. S. Pray send the red tooth-powder by a safe 
hand, and speedily. 

* * " * * * * + 

" To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 

Have published ' Anjou's Margaret,' 
Which won't be sold oft' in a hurry, 

(At least, it has not been as yet ;) 
And then, still farther to bewilder 'em, 
Without remorse you set up ' Uderim ; ' 

So mind you don't get into debt, 
Because as how, if you should fail, 
These books would be but baddish bail. 



'' And mind you do not let escape 

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry. 
Which would be very treacherous — very, 
Anil get me into such a scrape I 
For, firstly, 1 should have to sally, 
All in my little boat, against a Galley ;* 
And should 1 chance to slay the Assyrian wight, 
Have next to combat with the female knight, 
And, prick'd to death, expire upon her needle — 
A sort of end which 1 should take indeed ill 1 

" You may show these matters to Moore and the 
select, but not to the profane ; and tell Moore, that 
I wonder he don't write to one now and then." 



LETTER CCCXXVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



* Whenever a word or passage occurs, (as in this instance,) which Lord 
Byron would have pronounced emphatically in speaking, it appears, in his 
handwriting, as if written with something of the same vehemence. — Moore. 

t Here follows the same rhymes (" I read the Christabel," &c.) which 
Uto alieady been given in one of his letters to myself.— Moore. 



"Venice, March 31,1817. 

" You will begin to think my epistolary offerings 
(to whatever altar you please to devote them) rather 
prodigal. But until you answer I shall not abate, 
because you deserve no better. I know you are well, 
because I hear of your voyaging to London and the 
environs, which I rejoice to learn, because your note 
alarmed me by the purgation and phlebotomy there- 
in prognosticated. I also hear of your being in 
the press ; all which, methinks, might have fur- 
nished you with subject matter for a middle-sized 
letter, considering that I am in foreign parts, and 
that the last month's advertisements and obituary 
would be absolute news to me from your Tramontane 
country. 

" I told you, in my last, I have had a smart fever. 
There is an epidemic in the place ; but I suspect, 
from the symptoms, that mine was a fever of my 
own, and had nothing in common with the low, vul- 
gar typhus, which is at this moment deceminating 
Venice, and which has half-unpeopled Milan, if the 
accounts be true. This malady has sorely discom- 
fited my serving men, who want sadly to be gone 
away, and get me to remove. But, besides my 
nutural perversity, I was seasoned in Turkey, by 
the continual whispers of the plague, against appre- 
hensions of contagion. Besides which, apprehen- 
sion would not prevent it : and then I am still in 
love, and ' forty thousand ' fevers should not make 
me stir before my minute, while under the influence 
of that paramount delirium. Seriously speaking, 
there is a malady rife in the city — a dangerous one, 
they say. However, mine did not appear so, though 
it was not pleasant. 

" This is passion-week — and twilight — and all the 
world are at vespers. They have an eternal church- 
ing, as in all Catholic countries, but are not so big- 
oted as they seemed to be in Spain. 

"I don't know whether to be glad or sorry that 
you are leaving Mayfield. Had I ever been at New- 
stead during your stay there, (except during the 
winter of 1813-14, when the roads were impractica- 
ble,) we should have been within hail, and I should 
like to have made a giro of the Peak with you. I 
know that country well having been all over it when 
a boy. Was you ever in Dovedale ? I can assure you 
there are things in Derbyshire as noble as Greece or 
Switzerland. But you had always a lingering after 
London, and I don't wonder at it. I liked it as well 
as any body myself, now and then. 

"Will you remember me to Rogers? whom I 
presume to be flourishing, and whom I regard as our 
poetical papa. You are his lawful son, and I the 
illegitimate. Has he begun yet upon Sheridan ? 
If you see our republican friend, Leigh Hunt, pray 
present my remembrances. I saw about nine months 
ago that he was in a row (like my friend Hobhouse), 
with the Quarterly Reviewers. For my part I never 



' Mr. Galley Knight, the author of ' Ildeiim.' 



LETTERS. 



855 



lould understand these quarrels of authors with 
critics and with one another. ' For God's sake, 
gentlemen, what do they mean ? ' 

" What think you of your countryman, Maturin ? 
I take some credit to myself for having done my 
best to bring out Bertram ; but I must say my col- 
leagues were quite as ready and willing. Walter 
Scott, however, was the first who mentioned him, 
which he did to me, with great commendation, in 
1815 ; and it is to this casualty, and two or three 
other accidents, that this very clever fellow owed his 
first and well-merited public success. What a 
chance is fame ! 

" Did I tell you that I have translated two Epis- 
tles ? — a correspondence between St. Paul and the 
Corinthians, not to be found in our version, but the 
Armenian — but which seems to me very orthodox, 
and I have done it into scriptural prose English. 

"Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, April 2, 1817. 

" I sent you the whole of the drama at three sev- 
eral times, act by act, in separate covers. I hope 
that you have, or will receive, some or the whole 
of it. 

" So Love has a conscience.* By Diana ! I shall 
make him take back the box, though it were Pando- 
ra's. The discovery of its intrinsic silver occurred 
on sending it to have the lid adapted to admit Mari- 
anna's portrait. Of course I had the box remitted 
in statu quo, and had the picture set in another, 
which suits it (the picture) very well. The default- 
ing box is not touched, hardly, and was not in the 
man's hands above an hour. 

" 1 am aware of what you say of Otway ; and am 
a very great admirer of his, — all except of that maud- 
lin b — h of chaste lewdness and blubbering curiosi- 
ty, Belvidera, whom I utterly despise, abhor, and 
detest. But the story of Marino Faliero is different, 
and, I think, so much finer, that I wish Otway had 
taken it instead : the head conspiring against the 
body for refusal of redress for a real injury,— jeal- 
ousy, — treason, — with the more fixed and inveterate 
passions (mixed with policy), of an old or elderly 
man — the devil himself could not have a finer sub- 
ject, and he is your only tragic dramatist. * 

" There is still, in the Doge's palace, the black 
veil painted over Faliero's picture, and the staircase 
whereon he was first crowned Doge, and subsequent 
ly decapitated. f This was the thing that most 
struck my imagination in Venice — more than the 
Rialto, which I. visited for the sake of Shylock ; 
and more, too, than Schiller's 'Armenian,' 1 a novel 
which took a great hold of me when a boy. It is 
also called the 'Ghost Seer,' and I never walked 
down St. Mark's by moonlight without thinking of 
it, and ' at nine o'clock, he died ! ' — But I hate 
things all fiction; and therefore the Merchant and 
Othello have no great associations to me : but Pierre 
has. There should always be some foundation of 
fact for the most airy fabric, and pure invention is 
but the talent of a liar. 

" Maturin's tragedy. — By your account of him 
last year to me, he seemed a bit of a coxcomb, per- 
sonally. Poor fellow ! to be sure, he had had a long 
seasoning of adversity which is not so hard to bear 
as t'other thing. I hope this wont throw him back 
into the ' slough of despond.' 

"You talk of 'marriage;' — ever since my own 
funeral, the word makes me giddy, and throws me 
into a cold sweat. Pray, don't repeat it. 

" You should close with Madame de Stack This 



will be her best work, and permanently historical ; 
it is on her father, the Revolution, and Bonaparte, 
&c. Bonstetten told me in Switzerland it was very 
great. I have not seen it myself, but the author 
often. She was very kind to me at Copet. * * 
" There have been two articles in the Venice pa- 
pers, one a review of Glenarvon * * * *, and the 
other a review of Childe Harold, in which it pro- 
claims me the most rebellious and contumacious 
admirer of Bonaparte now surviving in Europe. 
Both these articles are translations from the Literary 
Gazette of German Jean. 

* * * * *- * 

' Tell me that Walter Scott is better. I would 
not have him ill for the world. I suppose it was by 
sympathy that I had my fever at the same time. 

" I joy in the success of your Quarterly, but I 
must still stick by the Edinburgh ; Jeffrey has done 
so by me, I must say, through everything, and this 
is more than I deserve from him. — I have more than 
once acknowledged to you by letter the ' Article ' 
(and articles ;) say that you have received the said 
letters, as I do not otherwise know what letters ar- 
rive. — Both Reviews came, but nothing more. M.'s 
play and the extract not yet come. 

* * * ' * * * 

" Write to say whether my Magician has arrived, 
with all his scenes, spells, &c. 

" Yours ever, &c. 

"It is useless to send to the Foreign Office: no- 
thing arrives to me by that conveyance. I suppose 
some zealous clerk thinks it a tory duty to prevent 
it." 



LETTER CCCXXVIII. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



* See Letter ccexvi., to Mr. Murray. 
f See Childe Harold, canto iv., stanza : 



" Venice, April 4, 1817. 

" It is a considerable time since I wrote to you 
last, and I hardly know why I should trouble you 
now, except that I think you will not be sorry to 
hear from me now and then. You and I were never 
correspondents, but always some thing better, which 
is, very good friends. 

" I saw your friend Sharp in Switzerland, or 
rather in the German territory, (which is and is not 
Switzerland,) and he gave Hobhouse and me a very 
good route for the Bernese Alps ; however, we took 
another from a German, and went by Clarens, the 
Dent de Jaman to Montbovon and through Sim- 
menthal to Thoun, and so on to Lauterbrounn ; 
except that from thence to the Grindelwald instead 
of round about, we went right over the Wengen 
Alps' very summit, and being close under the Jung- 
frau saw it, its glaciers, and heard the avalanches in 
all their glory, having famous weather there/or. 
We of course went from the Grindelwald over the 
Sheidech to Bricntz and its lake ; past the Reich- 
enbach and all that mountain road, which reminded 
me of Albania, and iEtolia, and Greece, except 
that the people here were more civilized and rascal- 
ly. 1 did not think so very much of Chamouni 
(except the source of the Arveron, to which we 
went up to the teeth of the ice, so as to look into 
and touch the cavity, against the warning of the 
guides, only one of whom would go with us so 
close), as of the Jungfrau, and the Pissevache, and 
Simplon, which are quite out of all mortal compe- 
tition. 

" I was at Milan a*bout a moon, and saw Monti 
and some other living curiosities, and thence on to 
Verona, where I did not forget your story of the 
assassination during your sojourn there, and brought 
away with me some fragments of Juliet's tomb, 
and a lively recollection of the amphitheatre. The 
Countess Goetz (the governor's wife here), told me 
that there is still a ruined castle of the Montecchi 
between Verona and Vicenza. I have been at 



856 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Venice since November, but shall proceed to Rome 
shortly. For my deeds here, are they not written 
in my letters to the unreplying Thomas Moore ? to 
him I refer you: he has received them all, and not 
answered one. 

" Will you remember me to Lord and Lady Hol- 
land ? I have to thank the former for a book which 
I have not yet received, but expect to reperuse 
with great pleasure on my return, viz., the second 
edition of Lope de Vega. I have heard of Moore's 
forthcoming poem : he cannot wish himself more 
success than I wish and augur for him. I have 
also heard great things of ' Tales of my Landlord,' 
but I have not yet received them; by all accounts 
they beat even Waverly, &c, and are by the same 
author. Maturin's second tragedy has, it seems, 
failed, for which I should think any body would be 
sorry. My health was very victorious till within 
the last month, when I had a fever. There is a 
typhus in these parts, but I don't think it was 
that. However, I got well without a physician or 
drugs. 

" I forgot to tell you that, last autumn, I fur- 
nished Lewis with ' bread and salt ' for some days 
at Diodati, in reward for which (besides his con- 
versation) he translated ' Goethe's Faust' to me by 
word of mouth, and I set him by the ears with 
Madame de Sta.il about the slave trade. I am 
indebted for many^and kind courtesies to our Lady 
of Copet, and I now love her as much as I always 
did her works, of which I was and am a great 
admirer. When are you to begin with Sheridan ? 
what are you doing, and how do you do ? 

" Ever very truly, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXIX. 



TO MIL MURRAY. 



" V nice, April 9, 1S17. 

" Your letters of the 18th and 20th are arrived. 
In my own I have given you the rise, progress, 
decline, and fall of my recent malady. It is gone 
to the devil ; I won't pay so bad a compliment as 
to say it came from him : — he is too much of a 
gentleman. It was nothing but a slow fever, which 
quickened its pace towards the end of its journey. 
I had been bored with it some weeks — with noc- 
turnal burnings and morning perspirations ; but I 
am quite well again, which I attribute to having 
had neither medicine nor doctor therefor. 

" In a few days I set off for Rome: such is my 
purpose. I shall change it very often before Mon- 
day next, but do you continue to direct and address 
to Venice, as heretofore. If I go, letters will be 
forwarded : I say ' If because I never know what I 
shall do till it is done ; and as I mean most firmly 
to set out for Rome, it is not unlikely I may find 
myself at St. Petersburg. 

"You tell me to ' take care of myself;' — faith, 
and I will. I won't be posthumus yet, if I can help 
it. Nowithstanding, only think what a ' Life and 
Adventures,' while I am in full scandal, would be 
worth, together with the remembra' of my writing- 
desk, the sixteen beginnings of poems never to be 
finished! Do you think I would not have shot 
myself last year, had I not luckily recollected that 
Mrs. Chairmont, and Lady Noel, and all the old 
women jn England would' have been delighted ;— 
besides the agreeable ' Lunacy ' of the ' Crowner's 
Quest,' and the regrets of two or three or half a 
dozen? * * * * * Be assured that I would 
live for two reasons, or more ;— there are one or two 
people whom I have to put out of the world, and as 
many \nto it, before I can ' depart in peace ; ' if I 
do si before, I have not fulfilled my mission. 
Besides, when I turn thirty, I will turn devout- I 
f«el a great vocation that way in Catholic churches, 
and when I hear the organ. 



"So * * is writing again! Is there no bedlam 
in Scotland ? nor thumb-screw ? nor gag ? nor 
handcuff? Invent upon my knees to him almost 
some years ago, to prevent him from publishing a 
political pamphlet, which would have given him a 
livelier idea of 'Habeas Corpus' than the world 
will derive from his present production upon that 
suspended subject, which will doubtless be followed 
by the suspension of other of his majesty's sub- 
jects. 

" I condole with Drury Lane and rejoice with 
* *, — that is, in a modest way, — on the tragical 
end of the new tragedy. 

" You and Leigh Hunt have quarrelled then, it 
seems ? ***** I introduce him and his 
poem to you, in the hope that (malgre politics), 
the union would be beneficial to both, and the end 
is eternal enmity ; and yet I did this with the best 
intentions : I introduce * * *, and * * * runs away 
with your money : my friend Hobhouse quarrels, 
too, with the Quarterly: and (except the last), I 
am the innocent istmhus (damn the word ! I can't 
spell it, though I have crossed that of Corinth a 
dozen times), of these enmities. 

" I will tell you something about Chillon. — A Mr. 
De Luc, ninety years old, a Swiss, had it read to 
him, and is pleased with it, — so my sister writes. 
He said that he was with Rousseau at Chillon, and 
that the description is perfectly correct. But thi« 
is not all : I recollect something of the name and 
find the following passage in ' The Confessions,' 
vol. 3. page 217, liv. 8. 

" ' De tous ces amusemens celui qui me plut 
davantage fut une promenade autour du Lac, que 
je fis en bateau avec De Luc pere, sa bru, ses deux 
Jtls, et ma Thercse. Nous mimes sept jours a cette 
tournce par le plus beau temps du monde. J'en 
gardai le vif souvenir des sites qui m'avoient frappe 
a l'autre extremite du Lac, et dont je fis la de- 
scription, quelques annees aprts, dans la Nouvelle 
Heloise.' 

" This nonagenarian, De Luc, must be one of the 
' deux fils.' He is in England — infirm, but still in • 
faculty. It is odd that he should have lived so 
long, and not wanting in oddness, that he should 
have made this voyage with Jean Jacques, and 
afterward, at such an interval, read a poem by an 
Englishman (who had made precisely the same cir- 
cumnavigation), upon the same scenery. 

" As for ' Manfred,' it is of no use sending proofs; 
nothing of that kind comes. I sent the whole at 
different times. The two first acts are the best ; 
the third so so; but I was blown with the first and 
second heats. You must call it a ' Poem,' for it is 
no Drama, and I do not choose to have it called by 
so * * a name — a ' Poem in Dialogue,' or Pan- 
tomime, if you will; any thing but a green-room 
synonyme, and this is your motto — 

' There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 1 

" Yours ever, &c. 
' My love and thanks to Mr. Gifford." 



LETTER CCCXXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Venice, April 11, 1817. 

" I shall continue to write to you while the fit is 
on me, by way of penance upon you for your former 
complaints of long silence. I dare say you would 
blush, if you could, for not answering. Next week 
I set out for Rome. Having seen Constantinople, 
I should like to look at t' other fellow. Besides 
I want to see the Pope, and shall take care to tell 
him that I vote for the Catholics and no Veto. 

' I shan't go to Naples. It is but the second- 
best seajview, and I have seen the first and thud, 



LETTERS. 



857 



viz., Constantinople and Lisbon, (by-the-way, the 
last is but a review ; however, they reckon it after 
Stamboul and Naples, and before Genoa,) and 
Vesuvius is silent, and I have passed by Etna. So 
I shall e'en return to Venice in July ; and if you 
write, I pray you address to Venice which is my 
head, or rather my heart-quarters. 

" My late physician, Dr. Polidori, is here, on his 
way to England, with the present Lord Guilford 
and the widow of the late earl. Doctor Polidori 
has, just now, no more patients, because his patients 
are no more. He had lately three, who are now all 
dead — one embalmed. Horner and a child of 
Thomas Hope's are interred at Pisa and Rome. 
Lord Guilford died of an inflammation of the 
bowels ; so they took them out, and sent them (on 
account of their discrepancies), separately from the 
carcass, to England. Conceive a man going one 
way, and his intestines another, and his immortal 
soul a third ! — was there ever such a distribution ? 
One certainly has a soul ; but how it came to allow 
itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can 
imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll 
have a bit of a tustle before I let it get in again to 
that or any other. 

" And so poor dear Mr. Maturin's second tragedy 
has been neglected by the discerning public. * * * 
will be d — d glad of this, and d — d without being 
glad, if ever his own plays come upon ' any stage.' 

" I wrote to Rogers the other day, with a mes- 
sage for you. I hope that he flourishes. He is the 
Tithonus of poetry — immortal already. You and I 
must wait for it. 

" I hear nothing — know nothing. You may 
easily suppose that the English don't seek me, and 
I avoid them. To be sure, there are but a few or 
none here, save passengers. Florence and Naples 
are their Margate and Ramsgate, and much the 
same sort of company too, by all accounts, which 
hurts us among the Italians. 

" I want to hear of Lalla Rookh — are you out ? 
Death and fiends ! why don't you tell me where you 
are, what you are, and how you are ? I shall go to 
Bologna by Ferrara, instead of Mantua; because I 
would rather see the cell where they caged Tasso, 
and where he became mad and * *, than his own 
MSS. at Modena, or the Mantuan birthplace of that 
harmonious plagiary and miserable flatterer, whose 
cursed hexameters were drilled into me at Harrow. 
I saw Verona and Vicenza on rny way here — Padua 
too. 

" I go alone — but alone, because I mean to return 
here. I only want to see Rome. I have not the 
least curiosity about Florence, though I must see it 
for the sake of the Venus, &c, &c. ; and I wish 
also to see the Fall of Terni. I think to return to 
Venice by Ravenna and Rimini of both of which I 
mean to take notes for Leigh Hunt, who will be 
glad to hear of the sceneVy of his Poem. There 
was a devil of a review of him in the Quarterly, a 
year ago, which he answered. All answers are 
imprudent ; but, to be sure, poetical flesh and blood 
must have the last word — that's certain. I thought, 
and think, very highly of his Poem; but I warned 
fiira of the row his favorite antique phraseology 
would bring him into. 

"You have taken a house at Hornsey;"I had 
much rather you had taken one in the Apenines. 
If you think of coming out for a summer or so, 
tell me, that I may be upon the hover for you. 

" Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXI. 

TO ME. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Aprii 14, 1816. 

" By the favor of Dr. Polidori, who is here on 
his way to England, with the present Lord Guilford, 
(the late earl having gone to England, by another 
108 



road, accompanied by his bowels in a separate 
coffer,) I remit to you, to deliver to Mrs. Leigh, 
two miniatures ; but previously you will have the 
goodness to desire Mr. Love (as a peace-offering 
between him and me) to set them in plain gold, 
with my arms complete, and ' Painted by Prcpiani, 
—Venice, 1817,' on the back. I wish also that you 
would desire Holmes to make a copy of each — that 
is, both— for myself, and that you will retain the 
said copies till my return. One was done while I 
was very unwell; the other in my health, which 
may account for their dissimilitude. I trust that 
they will reach their destination in safety. 

" I recommend the doctor to your good offices 
with your government friends ; and if you can be 
of any use to him in a literary point of view, pray 
be so. 

" To-day, or rather yesterday, for it is past mid- 
night, I have been up to the battlements of the 
highest tower in Venice, and seen its view, in all 
the glory of a clear Italian sky. I also went over 
the Manfrini Palace, famous for its pictures. Among 
them, there is a portrait of Ariosto by Titian, sur- 
passing all my anticipation of the power of painting 
or human expression : it is the poetry of portrait, 
and the portrait of poetry. There was also one of 
some learned lady, centuries old, whose name I 
forget, but whose features must always be re 
membered. I never saw greater beauty, or sweet- 
ness, or wisdom : — it is a kind of face to go mad 
for, because it cannot walk out of its frame. There 
is also a famous dead Christ and live Apostles, for 
which Bonaparte offered in vain five thousand 
louis ; and of which, though it is a capo d'opera of 
Titian, as I am no connoisseur, I say little, and 
thought less, except of one figure in it. There are 
ten thousand others, and some very fine Giorgiones 
among them, &c, &c. There is an original Laura 
and Petrarch, very hideous both. Petrarch has not 
only the dress, but the features and air of an old 
woman, and Laura looks by no means like a young 
one, or a pretty one. What struck me most in 
the general collection was the extreme resem- 
blance of the style of the female faces in the 
mass of pictures, so many centuries or generations 
old, to those you see and meet every day among 
the existing Italians. The queen of Cyprus and 
Giorgione's wife,* particularly the latter, are Vene- 
tians as it were of yesterday ; the same eyes and 
expression, and, to my mind, there is none finer. 

" You must recollect, however, that I know 
nothing of painting ; and that I detest it, unless 
it reminds me of something I have seen, or think 
it possible to see, for which reason I spit upon and 
abhor all the saints and subjects of one half the 
impostures I see in the churches and palaces ; and 
when in Flanders, I never was so disgusted in my 
life, as with Rubens and his eternal wives and 
infernal glare of colors, as they appeared to me ; 
and in Spain I did not think much of Murillo and 
Velasquez. Depend upon it, of all the arts, it is 
the most artificial and unnatural, and that by 
which the nonsense of mankind is most imposed 
upon. I never yet saw the picture or the statue 
•which came a league within my conception or ex- 
pectation ; but I have seen many mountains, and 
seas, and rivers, and views, and two or three 
women, who went as far beyond it, — besides some 
horses, and a lion (at Veli Pacha's) in the Morea ; 
and a tiger at supper in Exeter 'Change. 

" When you write, continue to address to me at 
Venice. Where do you suppose the books you 
sent me are ? At Turin ! This comes of ' the 
Foreign Office,' which is foreign enough, God 
knows, for any good it can be of to me, or any 
one else, and be d — d to it, to its last clerk and 
first charlatan, Castlereagh. 

" This makes my hundreth letter at least. 

" Yours, &c." 



£si:e Beppo, stanza : 



858 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCXXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, April 14, 1817. 

" The present proofs * (of the whole) begins only 
at the 17th page ; but as I had corrected and sent 
back the first act, it does not signify. 

" The third act is certainly d d bad, and, like 

the Archbishop of Grenada's homily, (which savor- 
ed of the palsy,) has the dregs of my fever, during 
which it was written. It must on no account be pub- 
lished in its present state. I will try and reform it, 
or rewrite it altogether ; but the impulse is gone, 
and I have no chance of making any thing out of it. 
I would not have it published as it is on any ac- 
count. The speech of Manfred to the sun is the 
only part of this act I thought good myself; the rest 
is as bad as bad can be, and I wonder what the devil 
possessed me. 

" I am very glad indeed that you sent me Mr. Gif- 
ford's opinion without deduction. Do you suppose 
me such a booby as not to be very much obliged to 
him ? or that in fact I was not, and am not, con- 
vinced and convicted in my conscience of this same 
overt act of nonsense ? 

" I shall try at it again ; in the mean time lay it 
upon the shelf, (the whole drama, I mean ;) but pray 
correct your copies of the first and second act from 
the original MS. 

" I am not coming to England ; but going to Rome 
in a few days. I return to Venice in June • so, pray, 
address all letters, &c, to me here, as usual, that is, 
to Venice. Dr. Polidori this day left this city with 
Lord Guilford for England. He is charged with 
some books to your care (from me), and two minia- 
tures also to the same address, both for my sister. 

" Recollect not to publish, upon pain of I know 
not what, until I have tried again at the third act. 
I am not sure that I shall try, and still less that I 
shall succeed if I do ; but I am very sure, that (as it 
is) it is unfit for publication or perusal ; and unless 
I can make it out to my own satisfaction, I won't 
have any part published. 

" I write in haste, and after having lately written 
very often. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Folingo, April 26, 1817. 

" I wrote to you the other day from Florence, in- 
closing a MS. entitled ' The Lament of Tasso.' It 
was written in consequence of my having been lately 
at Ferrara. In the last section of this MS. but one 
(that is, the penultimate), I think that I have omitted 
a line in the copy sent you from Florence, viz., after 
the line — 

11 And woo compassion to a blighted name, 

insert, 

11 Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 

The context will show you the sense, which is not 
clear in this quotation. Remember, I write this in 
the supposition that you have received my Florentine 
packet. 

"At Florence I remained but a day, having a 
hurry for Rome, to which I am thus far advanced. 
However, I went to the two galleries, from which one 
returns drunk with beauty. The Venus is more for 
admiration than love : but there are sculpture and 
painting, which for the first time at all gave me an 
idea of what people mean by their cant and what 
Mr. Braham calls ' entusimusy ' (i. e. enthusiasm,) 
about those two most artificial of the arts. What 
struck me most were, the mistress of Raphael, a 



portrait ; the mistress of Titian, a portrait ; a Venus 
of Titian in the Medici gallery — the Venus ; Canova's 
Venus also, in the other gallery: Titian's mistress 
is also in the other gallery (that is, in the Pitti 
Palace gallery:) the Parcae of Michael Angelo, a 
picture ; and the Antinous, the Alexander, and one 
or two not very decent groups in marble ; the Genius 
of Death, a sleeping figure, &c, &c. 

" I also went to the Medici chapel — fine frippery, 
in great slabs of various expensive stones, to com- 
memorate fifty rotten and forgotten carcasses. It is 
unfinished and will remain so. 

" The church of ' Santa Croce ' contains much 
illustrious nothing. The tombs * of Machiavelli, 
Michael Angelo, Galileo Galilei, and Alfieri, make it 
the Westminster Abbey of Italy. I did not admire any 
of these tombs — beyond their contents. That of 
Alfieri is heavy, and all of them seem to me over- 
loaded. What is necessary but a bust and a name ? 
and perhaps a date ? the last for the nnchronological, 
of whom I am one. But all your allegory and eu- 
logy is infernal, and worse than the long wigs of 
English numskulls upon Roman bodies in the statu- 
ary of the reign of Charles II., William, and Anne. 

" When you write, write to Venice, as usual ; I 
mean to return there in a fortnight. I shall not be 
in England for a long time. This afternoon I met 
Lord and Lady Jersey, and saw them for some time : 
all well; children grown and healthy ; she very pretty, 
but sunburnt ; he very sick of travelling ; bound for 
Paris. There are not many English on the move, 
and those who are, mostly homewards. I shall not 
return till business makes me, being much better 
where I am in health, &c, &c. 

" For the sake of my personal comfort, I pray you 
send me immediately to Venice — mind, Venice — viz., 
Waites's tooth-potcder, red, a quantity ; calcined 
magnesia, of the best quality, a quantity ; and all this 
by safe, sure, and speedy means ; and, by the Lord ! 
doit. 

" I have done nothing at Manfred's third act. 
You must wait ; I'll have at it in a week or two, or 
so. "Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Rome, Mayo. 1817. 

" By this post (or next at farthest) I send you in 
two other covers, the new third act of 'Manfred.' 
I have re-written the greater part, and returned 
what is not altered in the proof you sent me. The 
Abbot is become a good man, and the Spirits are 
brought in at the death. You will find, I think, 
some good poetry in this new act, here and there ; 
and if so, print it, without sending me farther proofs, 
under Mr. Gijford's correction, if he will have the 
goodness to overlook it. Address all answers to 
Venice, as usual ; I mean to return there in ten 
days. 

" ' The Lament of Tasso,' which I sent from Flo- 
rence, has, I trust, arrived : I look upon it as 
' these be good rhymes,' as Pope's papa said to him 
when he was a boy. For the two — it and the Drama 
— you will disburse to me (via. Kinnaird) six hundred 
guineas. You will perhaps be surprised that I set 
the same price upon this as upon the drama ; but, 
besides that I look upon it as good, I won't take less 
than three hundred guineas for any thing. The 
two together will make you a larger publication 
than the ' Siege ' and ' Parisina ; ' so you may think 
yourself let off very easy : that is to say, if these 
poems are good for any thing, which I hope and 
believe. 

" I have been some days in Rome the Wonderful. 
I am seeing sights, and have done nothing else, ex- 



See Childe Harold, canto iii., stanza liv 



LETTERS. 



859 



eept the new third act for you. I have this morning 
seen a live pope and a dead cardinal : Pius "VII. has 
been burying Cardinal Bracchi, whose body I saw 
in state at the Chiesa Nuova. Koine has de- 
lighted me beyond every thing, since Athens and 
Constantinople. But I shall not remain long this 
visit. Address to Venice. 

"Ever, &c. 
" P. S. I have got my saddle-horses here, and 
have ridden, and am riding, all about the country." 



LETTER CCCXXXV. 



TO KB. MURRAY. 



" Rome, May 9, 1S17. 

" Address all answers to Venice ; for there I shall 
return in fifteen days, God willing. 

"I sent you from Florence ' The Lament of Tasso,' 
and from Rome, the third act of Manfred, both of 
which, I trust, will duly arrive. The terms of these 
two I mentioned in my last, and will repeat in this : 
it is three hundred for each, or six hundred guineas 
for the two — that is, if you like, and they are good 
for any thing. 

"At last one of the parcels is arrived. In the 
notes to Childe Harold there is a blunder of yours 
or mine : you talk of arrival at St. Ginr/o, and im- 
mediately after, add — ' on the height is the chateau 
of Clarens.'* This is sad work : Clarens is on the 
other side of the lake, and it is quite impossible that 
I should have so bungled. Look at the MS. ; and, 
at any rate, rectify. 

"The 'Tales of my Landlord' I have read with 
great pleasure, and perfectly understand now why 
my sister and aunt are so very positive in the very 
erroneous persuasion that they must have been 
written by me. If you knew me as well as they do, 
you would have fallen, perhaps, into the same mis- 
take. Some day or other, I will explain to you why 
— when I have time ; at present it does not much 
matter ; but you must have thought this blunder of 
theirs very odd, and so did I, till I had read the 
book. Croker's letter to you is a very great compli- 
ment ; I shall return it to you in my next. 

" I perceive you arc publishing a life of Raffael 
d'Urbino : it may perhaps interest you to hear that 
a set of German artists here allow their hair to grow, 
and trim it into his fashion thereby drinking the 
cummin of the disciples of the old philosopher ; if 
they would cut their hair, convert it into brushes, 
and paint like him, it would be more ' german to the 
matter.' 

" I'll tell you a story : the other day, a man here 
— an English — mistaking the statues of Charle- 
magne and Constantine, which are equestrian, for 
those of Peter and Paul, asked another which was 
Paul of these same horsemen ? — to which the reply 
was — ' I thought, sir, that St. Paul had never got 
on horseback since his accident?' 

"I'll tell you another: Henry Fox, writing to 
some one from Naples the other day, after an ill— 
\ness, adds — ' and I am so changed, that my oldest 
creditors would hardly know me.' 

■' I am delighted with Rome — as I would be with 
a bandbox — that is, it is a fine thing to see, finer than 
Greece ; but I have not been here long enough to 
affect it as a residence, and I must go back to Lom- 
bard)', because I am wretched at being away from 
Marianna. I have. been riding my saddle-horses 
every day, and been to Albano, its lakes, and to the 
top of the Alban Mount, and to Frescati, Aricia, 
&c, &c, with an &c, &c, &c, about the city, and 
in the city : for all of which — vide guide-book. As 
a whole, ancient and modern, it beats Greece, Con- 
stantinople, every thing — at least that I have ever 



Since corrected. 



seen. But I can't describe, because my first impres- 
sions are always strong and confused, and my 
memory selects and reduces them to order, like dis- 
tance in the landscape, and blends them better, 
although they may be less distinct. There must be 
a sense or two more than we have, us mortals ; for 
* * * * * vvhere there is much to be grasped we are 
always at a loss, and yet feel, that we ought to have 
a higher and more extended comprehension. 

" 1 have had a letter from Moore, who is in some 
alarm about his poem. I don't see why. 

" I have had another from my poor dear Augusta, 
who is in a sad fuss about my late illness ; do, pray, 
tell her, (the truth,) that I am better than ever, and 
in importunate health, growing (if not grown) large 
and ruddy, and congratulated by impertinent per- 
sons on my robustious appearance, when I ought to 
be pale and interesting. 

""You tell me that George Byron has got a son, 
and Augusta says, a daughter ; which is it ? — it is 
no great matter : the father is a good man, an ex- 
cellent officer, and has married a very nice little 
woman, who will bring him more babes than in- 
come : howbeit she had a handsome dowry, and is a 
very charming girl ; — but he may as well get a ship. 

" I have no thoughts of coming among you yet 
awhile, so that I can fight off business. If I could 
but make a tolerable sale of Newstead, there would 
be no occasion for my return ; and I can assure you 
very sincerely, that I am much happier (or, at. least, 
have been so), out of your island than in it. 

" Yours ever. 

" P. S. There are few English here, but several of 
my acquaintance: among others, the Marquis of 
Lansdowne, with whom I dine to-morrow. I met 
the Jerseys on the road at Foligno — all well. 

" Oh — I forgot — the Italians have printed Chil- 
lon, &c, a piracy, — a pretty little edition, prettier 
than yours — and published, as I found to n\y great 
astonishment on arriving here ; and what is odd, is, 
that the English is quite correctly printed. Why 
they did it, or who did it, I know not ; but so it is : 
— I suppose, for the English people. I will send 
you ■& copy." 



LETTER CCCXXXVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Rome, May 12, 1817. 

"I have received your letter here, where I have 
taken a cruise lately ; but I shall return back to 
Venice in a few days, so that if you write again, 
address there, as usual. I am not for returning to 
England so soon as you imagine ; and by no means 
at all as a residence. If you cross the Alps in your 
projected expedition, you will find me somewhere in 
Lombardy, and very glad to see you. Only give me 
a word or two beforehand, for I would really diverge 
some leagues to meet you. 

" Of Rome I say nothing : it is quite indescriba- 
ble, and the guide-book is as good as any other. I 
dined yesterday with Lord Lansdowne, who is on 
his return. But there are few English here at pres- 
ent : the winter is their time. I have been on 
horseback most of the day, all days since my ar- 
rival, and have taken it as I did Constantinople. 
But Rome is the elder sister, and the finer. I went 
some days ago to the top of the Alban Mount, which 
is superb. As for the Coliseum, Pantheon, St. Pe- 
ter's, the Vatican, Palatine, &c, &c. — as I said, 
vide guide-book. They are quite inconceivable, and 
must be seen. The Apollo Belvidere is the image of 
Lady Adelaide Forbes — I think I never saw such a 
likeness. 

" I have seen the Pope alive, and a cardinal dead, 
— both of whom looked very well indeed. The lat- 
ter was rn state in the Chiesa Nuova, previous t« 
his interment. 



«60 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"Your poetical alarms are groundless; go on 
and prosper. Here is Hobhouse just come in, and 
my horses at the door, so that 1 must mount and 
take the field in the Campus Martius, which, by- 
the-way, is all built over by modern Rome. 

" Yours very and ever, &c. 

" P. S. Hobhouse presents his remembrances, and 
is eager, with all the world, for your new poem." 



LETTER CCCXXXYII. 



TO Mil. MURRAY. 



" Venice, May 30, 1817. 

" I returned from Rome two days ago, and have 
received your letter ; but no sign nor tidings of the 
parcel sent through Sir C. Stuart, which you men- 
tion. After an interval of months, a packet of 
' Tales,' &c, found me at Rome ; but this is all, and 
may be all that ever will find me. The post seems 
to be the only sure conveyance, and that only for 
letters. From Florence I sent you a poem on Tasso, 
and from Rome the new third act of ' Manfred,' and 
by Dr. Polidori two portraits for my sister. I left 
Rome and made a rapid journey home. You will 
continue to direct here, as usual. Mr. Hobhouse is 
gone to Naples : I should have run down there too 
for a week, but for the quantity of English whom I 
heard of there. I prefer hating them at a distance ; 
unless an earthquake, or a good real eruption of 
Vesuvius, were ensured to reconcile me to their 
vicinity. 

****** 

" The day before I left Rome, I saw three robbers 
guilotined. The ceremony — including the masked 
priests ; the half-naked executioners ; the bandaged 
criminals ; the black Christ and his banner, the 
scaffold ; the soldiery ; the slow procession, and. the 
quick rattle and heavy 7 fall of the axe ; the splash 
of the blood, and the ghastliness of the exposed 
heads — is altogether more impressive than the vul- 
gar and ungentlemanly dirty ' new drop,' and dog- 
like agony^of infliction upon the sufferers of the 
English sentence. Two of these men behaved 
calmly enough, but the first of the three died with 
great terror or reluctance. What was very horrible, 
he would not lie down ; then his neck was too large 
for the aperture, and the priest was obliged to 
drown his exclamations by still louder exhortations. 
The head was off before the eye could trace the 
blow ; but from an attempt to draw back the head, 
notwithstanding it was held forward by the hair, 
the first head was cut off close to the ears : the 
other two were taken off more cleanly. It is better 
than the oriental way, and (I should think) than 
the axe of our ancestors. The pain seems little, 
and yet the effect to the spectator, and the prepa- 
ration to the criminal, is very striking and chilling. 
The firsttumed me quite hot and thirsty, and made 
me shake so that I could hardly hold the opera 
glass ; (I was close, but was determined to see, as 
as one should see every thing, once, with attention;) 
the second and third, (which shows how dreadfully 
soon things grow indifferent,) I am ashamed to say, 
had no effect on me as a horror, though I would 
have saved them if I could. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, June 4, 1817. 

" I have received the proofs of the ' Lament of 
Tasso,' which makes me hope that you have also 
received the reformed third act of Manfred, from 



Rome, which I sent soon after my arrival there. 
My date will apprize you of my return home within 
these few days. For me, I have received none of 
your packets, except, after long delay, the 'Tales 
of my Landlord,' which I before acknowledged. I 
do not at all understand the why nots, but so it is ; 
— no Manuel, no letters, no tooth-powder, no extract 
from Moore's Italy concerning Marino Faliero, no 
nothing — as a man hallooed out at one of Bur- 
dett's elections, after a long ululatus of ' No Bas- 
tille ! No governorities ! No — ' God knows who 
or what ; — but his ne plus ultra was ' No nothing ! ' 
— and my receipts of your packages amount to about 
his meaning. I want the extract from Moore's Italy 
very much, and the tooth-powder, and the magne- 
sia ; I don't care so much about the poetry, or the 
letters, or Mr. Maturin's by-Jasus tragedy. Most 
of the things sent by the post have come — I mean 
proofs and letters ; therefore, send me Marino Fali- 
ero by the post, in a letter. 

" I was delighted with Rome, and was on horse- 
back all round it many hours daily, besides in it the 
rest of my time, bothering over its marvels. I 
excursed and skirred the country round to Alba, 
Tivoli, Frescari, Licenza, &c, &c. ; besides I visit- 
ed twice the Fall of Terni, which beats every thing.* 
On my way back, close to the temple by its banks, 
I got some famous trout of the river Clitumnus — 
the prettiest little stream in all poesy, near the first 
post from Foligno and Spoletto.f — I did not stay at 
Florence, being anxious to get home to Venice, and 
having already seen the galleries and other sights. 
I left my commendatory letters the evening before I 
went ; so I saw nobody. 

"To-day, Pindemonte, the celebrated poet of 
Verona, called on me ; he is a little, thin man, 
with acute and pleasing features ; his address 
good and gentle; his appearance altogether very 
philosophical : his age about sixty, or more. He 
is one of their best going. I gave him Forsyth, 
as he speaks, or reads rather, a little English, and 
will find there a favorable account of himself. He 
inquired after his old Cruscan friends, Parsons, 
Greathead, Mrs. Piozzi, and Merry, all of whom he 
had known in his youth. I gave him as bad an 
account of them as I could, answering, as the false 
' Solomon Lob ' does to ' Totterton ' in the farce, 
'all gone dead,' and, damned by a satire more than 
twenty years ago ; that the name of their extin- 
guisher was Gifford ; that they were but a sad set of 
cribes after all, and no great things irt any other 
way. He seemed, as was natural, very much 
pleased with this account of his old acquaintances, 
and went away greatly gratified with that and Mr. 
Forsyth's sententious paragraph of applause in his 
own (Pindemonte's) favor. After having been a 
little libertine in his youth, he is grown devout, 
and takes prayers, and talks to himself, to keep off 
the devil ; but for all that, he is a very nice little 
old gentleman. 

" I am sorry to hear of your row with Hunt ; but 
suppose him to be exasperated by the Quarterly 
and your refusal to deal ; and when one is angry 
and edits a paper, I should think the temptation 
too strong for literary nature, which is not always 
human. I can't conceive in what, and for what, he 
abuses you : what have you done ? you are not an 
author, nor a politician, nor a public character ; I 
know no scrape you have tumbled into. I am the 
more sorry for this because I introduced you to 
Hunt, and because I believe him to be a good man ; 
but till I know the particulars, I can give no opin- 
ion. 

" Let me know about Lalla Rookh, which must 
be out by this time. 

"I restore the proofs, but the punctuation should 
be corrected. I feel too lazy to have at it myself; 
so beg and pray Mr. Gifford for me. — Address to 



* Childe Harold, canto i»., stanza Ixx. to lxxii., and note, 
t Childe Harold, canto iv., sLiuia lxvi., and note. 



LETTERS. 



861 



Venice. In a few days I go to my viUeggiatura,.h\ 
a casino near the Brenta, a few miles only on the 
main land. I have determined on another year, and 
many years of residence, if I can compass them. 
Marianna is with me, hardly recovered of the fever, 
which has been attacking all Italy last winter. I 
am afraid she is a little hectic ; but I hope the best. 

" Ever, &c. 

" P. S. Thowaldsen has done a bust of me at 
Rome for Mr. Hobhouse, which is reckoned very 
good. He is their best after Canova, and by some 
preferred to him. 

"I have had a letter from Mr. Hodges. He is 
very happy, has got a living, but not a child : if he 
had stuck to a curacy, babes would have come of 
course, because he could not have maintained them. 

" Remember me to all friends, &c., &c. 

" An Austrian officer, the other day, being in love 
with a Venetian, was ordered, with his regiment, 
into Hungary. Distracted between love and duty, 
he purchased a deadly drug, which, dividing with 
his mistress, both swallowed. The ensuing pains 
were jterrific, but the pills were purgative, and not 
poisonous, by the contrivance of the unsentimental 
apothecary ; so that so much suicide was all thrown 
away. You may conceive the previous confusion 
and the final laughter ; but the intention was good 
on all sides." 



LETTER CCCXXXLX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, June 8, 1817. 

"The present letter will be delivered to you by 
two Armenian friars, on their way, by England, to 
Madras. They will also convey some copies of the 
grammar, which I think you agreed to take. If 
you can be of any use to them, either among your 
naval or East Indian acquaintances, I hope you 
will so far oblige me, as they and their order have 
been remarkably attentive and friendly towards me 
since my arrival at Venice. Their names are Fa- 
ther Sukias Somalian, and Father Sarkis Theodoro- 
sian. They speak Italian, aud probably French, or 
a little English. Repeating earnestly my recom- 
mendatory request, believe me very truly yours, 
» "Byron. 

" Perhaps you can help them to their passage, or 
give or get them letters for India." 



LETTER CCCXL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"La Mira, near Venice, June 14, 1817. 

" I write to yoii from the banks of the Brenta, a 
few miles from Venice, where I have colonized for 
six months to come. Address, as usual, to Venice. 

" Three months after date, (17th March,) — like 
the unnegotiable bill despondingly received by the 
reluctant tailor, — your despatch has arrived, con- 
taining the extract from Moore's Italy and Mr. Ma- 
turin's bankrupt tragedy.* It is the ahsurd work 
of a clever man. I think it might have done upon 
the stage if he had made Manuel (by some trickery, 
in a mask or vizor), fight his own battle instead of 
employing Molineux as his champion ; and, after 
the defeat of Torrismond, have made him spare the 
son of his enemy, by some revulsion of feeling, not 
incompatible with a character of extravagant and 
distempered emotions. But as it is, what with the 
Justiza, and the ridiculous conduct of the whole 
dram, jiers. (for theyare all as mad as Manuel, who 



surely must have hac\ more interest with a corrupt 
bench than a distant relation and heir presumptive, 
somewhat suspected of homicide,) I do not wonder 
at its failure. As a play, it is impracticable ; as a 
poem, no great things'. Who was the ' Greek that 
grappled with glory naked ? ' the Olympic wrest- 
lers ? or Alexander the Great, when he ran stark 
naked round the tomb of t'other fellow ? or the Spar- 
tan who was fined by the Ephori for fighting with- 
out his armor ? or who ? And as to ' flaying off life 
like a garment,' helas ! that's in Tom Thumb— see 
king Arthur's soliloquy : 



And the stage-directions — ' Staggers among the 
bodies;' the slain are too numerous, as well as the 
blackamoor knights-penitent being one too many : 
and De Zelos is such a shabby Monmouth-street 
villain, Without any redeeming quality — Stap my 
vitals ! Maturin seems to be declining into Nat. 
Lee. But let him try again ; he has talent, but not 
much taste. I 'gin to fear, or to hope, that Sothe- 
by after all is to be the iEschylus of the age, unless 
Mr. Shiel be really worthy his success. The more I 
see of the stage, the less I would wish to have any 
thing to do with it; as a proof of which, I hope 
you have received the third act of Manfred, which 
will at least prove that I wish to steer very clear of 
the possibility of being put into scenery. I sent it 
from Borne. 

" I returned the proof of Tasso. By-the-way, 
have you never received a translation of St. Paul, 
which I sent you, not for publication, before I went 
to Rome ? 

"I am at present on the Brenta. Opposite is a 
Spanish marquis, ninety years old; next his casino 
is a Frenchman's, — besides the natives ; so that, as 
somebody said the other day, we are exactly one of 
Goldoni's comedies, (La Vedova Scaltra,) where a 
Spaniard, English, and Frenchman are introduced: 
but we are all very good neighbors, Venetians, iVc, 
&e., &c. 

"I am just getting on horseback for my evening 
ride, and a visit to a physician, who has an agreea- 
ble family, of a wife and four unmarried daughters, 
all under eighteen, who are friends of Signora S * *, 
and enemies to nobody. There are, and are to be, 
besides, conversaziones and I know not what, at a 
Countess Labbia's and I know not whom. The 
weather is mild ; the thermometer 110 in the sun 
this day, and 80 odd in the shade. 

"Yours, &c, "X." 



LETTER CCCXLI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" La Mira, near Venice, June 17, 1817. 

"It gives me great pleasure to hear of Moore's 
success, and the more so that I never doubted that 
it would be complete. Whatever good you can tell 
me of him and his poem will be most acceptable : I 
feel very anxious indeed to receive it. I hope that 
he is as happy in his fame and reward as I wish him 
to be ; for I know no one who deserves both more — 
if any so much. 

" Now to business ;****** I say unto you, 
verily, it is not so ; or, as the foreigner said to the 
waiter, after asking him to bring a glass of water, to 
which the man answered, ' I will, sir,' — ' You will. 1 
— G — d d — n, — I say, you mush!' And I will sub- 
mit this to the decision of any person or persons to 
be appointed by both, on a fair examination of the 
circumstances of this compared with the preceding 
publications. So, there's for you. There is always 
some row or other previously to all our publications : 
it should seem that, on approximating, we can nevei 



862 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



quite get over the natural antipathy of author and 
bookseller, and that more particularly the ferine 
nature of the latter must break forth. 

" You are out about the third canto : I have not 
done, nor designed, a line of continuation to that 
poem, I was too short a time at Rome for it, and 
have no thought of recommencing. * * * 

"I cannot well explain to you by letter what I 
conceive to be the origin of Mrs. Leigh's notion 
about 'Tales of My Landlord;' but it is some 
points of the characters of Sir. E. Manley and 
Burley, as well as one or two of the jocular por- 
tions, on which it is founded, probably. 

" If you have received Dr. Polidori, as well as a 
parcel of books, and you can be of use to him, be 
so. I never was much more disgusted with any 
human production than with the eternal nonsense, 
and tracasseries, and emptiness, and ill humor, and 
vanity of that young person ; but he has some 
talent, and is a man of honor, and has dii^ositions 
of amendment, in which he has been aided by a 
little subsequent experience, and may turn out well. 
Therefore use your government interest for him, 
for he is improved and. improvable. 

' "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXLII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" La Mira, near Venice, June IS, 1317. 

" Enclosed is a letter to Dr. Holland from Pinde- 
monte. Not knowing the doctor's address, I am 
desired to inquire, and perhaps, being a literary 
man, you will know or discover his haunt near some 
populous churchyard. I have written to you a 
scolding letter — I believe, upon a misapprehended 
passage in your letter — but never mind : it will do 
for next time, and you will surely deserve it. Talk- 
ing of doctors reminds me once more to recommend 
to you one who will not recommend himself, — the 
Doctor Polidori. If you can help him to a pub- 
lisher, do ; or, if you have any sick relation, I 
would advise his advice : all the patients he had in 
Italy are dead — Mr. * *'s son, Mr. Horner, and 
Lord Guildford, whom he embowelled with great 
success at Pisa. ****** 

" Remember me to Moore, whom I congratulate. 
How is Rogers ? and what is become of Campbell 
and all t'other fellows of the Druid order? I got 
Maturin's Bedlam at last, but no other parcel ; 1 
am in fits for the tooth-powder, and the magnesia. 
I want some of Burkitt's Soda powers. Will you 
tell Mr. Kinnoird that I have written him two let- 
ters on pressing business, (about Newstead, &c.,) to 
which I humbly solicit his attendance. I am just 
returned from a gallop along the banks of the 
BreRta — time sunset. " Yours, 

"B." 



LETTER CCCXLIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" La Mira, near Venice, July 1, 1817. 

" Since my former letter, I have been working up 
vny impressions into a fourth canto of Childe Har- 
rold, of which I have roughened off about rather 
better than thirty stanzas, and mean to go on ; and 
probably to make this ' Fytte' the concluding one 
of the poem, so that you may propose against the 
autumn to draw out the conscription for 1818. You 
must provide moneys, as this new resumption 
bodes you certain disbursements. Somewhere 
about the end of September or October I propose to 
be under way, (i. e. in the press ;) but I have no 
idea yet of the probable length oj calibre of the 



canto, or what it will be good for ; but I mean to be 
as mercenary as possible, an example (I do m( an of 
any individual in particular, and least of all any 
person or persons of our mutual acquaintance,) 
which I should have followed in my youth, and I 
might still have been a prosperous gentleman. 

"No tooth-powder, no letters, no recent tidings 
of you. 

" Mr. Lewis is at Venice, and I am going up to 
stay a week with him there — as it is one of his en- 
thusiasms also to like the city. 

" I stood in Venice on the ' Eridge of Sighs,' &c, &c. 

" The ' Bridge of Sighs' (i. e. Ponte de'i Sospiri,) 
is that which divides, or rather joins, the palace of 
the Doge to the prison of the state. It has two 
passages: the criminal went , by the one to judg- 
ment, and returned by the other to death, being 
strangled in a chamber adjoining, where there was 
a mechanical process for the purpose. 

" This is the first stanza of our new canto ; and 
now for a line of the second : 

" In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rows the songless gondolier, 
Her palaces, &c, &c. 

" You know that formerly the gondoliers sung 
always, and Tasso's Gierusalemme was their ballad. 
Venice is built on seventy-two islands. 

" There ! there's a brick of your new Babel ! and 
now, sirrah ! what say you to the sample ? 

" Yours, &c. 
' P. S. I shall write again by-and-by." 



LETTER CCCXLIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" La Mira, near Venice, Inly 8, 1317. 

If you can convey the enclosed letter to its ad- 
dress, or discover the person to whom it is directed, 
you will confer a favor upon the Venetian creditor 
of a deceased Englishman. This epistle is a dun to 
his executor, for house-rent. The name of the in- 
solvent defunct is, ot was, Porter Valter, according 
to the account of the plaintiff, which I rather 
suspect ought to be Walter Porter, ftcovuing to 
our mode of collocation. If you are acquainted with 
any dead man of the like name a good deal in debt, 
pray dig him up, and tell him that ' a pound of his 
fair flesh' or the ducats are required, and that ' if 
you deny them, fie upon your law !' 

" I hear nothing more from you about Moore's 
poem, Rogers, or other literary phenomena ; but to- 
morrow being post-day, will bring perhaps some 
tidings. I write to you with people talking Vene- 
tian all about, so that you must not expect this let- 
ter to be all English. 

" The other day, I had a squabble on the highway, 
as follows : I was riding pretty quickly from Dolo 
home about eight in the evening, when I passed a 
party of people in a hired carriage, one of whom, 
poking his head out of the window, began bawl- 
ing to me in an inarticulate but insolent manner. I 
wheeled my horse round, and overtaking, stopped 
the coach, and said, ' Signor, have you any com- 
mands for me ?' He replied, impudently as to man- 
ner 'No.' I then asked him what he meant by 
•that unseemly noise, to the discomfiture of the 
passers-by. He replied by some piece of imperti- 
nence, to which I answered by giving him a violent 
slap in the face. I then dismounted, (for this 
passed at the window, . I being on horseback still,) 
and opening the door, desired him to walk out, or I 
would give him another. But the first had settled 
him except as to words, of which he poured forth a 
a profusion in blasphemies, swearing that he would 



LETTERS. 



go the police and avouch a battery sMre provocation. 
1 said he lied, and was a * *, and if he did not hold 
his tongue, should be dragged out and beaten anew. 
He then held his tongue. I of course told him 
my name and residence, and defied him to the 
death, if he were a gentleman, or not a gentleman, 
and had the inclination to be genteel in the way of 
combat. He went to the police, but there having 
been bystanders in the road, — particularly a soldier 
who had seen the business, — as well as my servant, 
notwithstanding the oaths of the coachman and 
five insides besides the plaintiff, and a good deal of 
paying on all sides, his complaint was dismissed, 
he having been the aggressor ; — and I was subse- 
quently informed that, had I not given him a blow, 
he might have been had into durance. 

" So set down this, — ' that in Aleppo once' I 'beat 
a Venetian ;' but I assure you that he deserved it, 
for I am a quiet man, like Candide, though with 
somewhat of his fortune in being forced to forego 
my natural meekness every now and then. 

" Yours, &c. 

"B." 



863 



LETTER CCCXLV. 



TO Mil. MUIiUAY. 



" Venice, July 9, 1817. 

" I have got the sketch and extracts from Lalla 
Rookh — which I humbly suspect will knock up * *, 
and show young gentlemen that something more 
than having been across a camel's hump is necessary 
to write a good oriential tale. The plan, as well as 
the extracts I have seen, piease me very much in- 
deed, and 1 feel impatient for the whole. 

" With regard to the critique on ' Manfred,' you 
have been in such a devil of a hurry that you have 
only sent me the half: it breaks off at page 294. 
Send me the rest ; and also page 270, where there 
is ' an account of the supposed origin of this dread- 
ful story,' — in which, by the way, whatever it may 
be, the conjecturer is out, and knows nothing of 
the matter. I had a better origin than he can de- 
vise or divine, for the soul of him. 

"You say nothing of Manfred's luck in the 
world ; and I care not. He is one of the best of 
my misbegotten, say what they will. 

" I got at last an extract, but no parcels. They 
will come, I suppose, some time or other. I am 
come up to Venice for a day or two to bathe, and 
am just going to take a swim in the Adriatic ; so, 
good evening — the post waits. " Yours, &c. 

" B. 

"P. S. Pray was Manfred's speech to the sun 
still retained in act third ? I hope so : it is one of 
the best in the thing and better than the Colosseum. 
I have done jifty-six of canto fourth, Childe 
Harold; so down with your ducats." 



LETTER CCCXLVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"La Mira, Venice, July 10, 1817. 

" Murray, the Mokanna of booksellers, has con- 
trived to send me extracts from Lalla Rookh by the 
post. They are taken from some magazine, and 
contain a short outline and quotations from the first 
two poems. I am very much delighted with what 
is before me, and very thirsty for the rest. You 
have caught the colors as if you had been in the 
rainbow, and the tone of the East is perfectly pre- 
served ; so that * * * and its author must be some- 
T^h.at in the back-ground, and learn that it requires 



something more than to have been upon the haunch 
of a dromedary to compose a good oriental story. I 
am glad you have changed the title from ' Persian 
Tale.' 

"I suspect you have written a devilish fine com- 
position, and I rejoice in it from my heart ; because 
' the Douglas and the Percy both together are con- 
fident against a world in arms.' I hope you won't 
be affronted at my looking on us as ' birds of a 
feather ;' though on whatever subject you had writ- 
ten, I should have been very happy in your success. 

"There is a simile of an orange tree's 'flowers 
and fruits,' which I should have liked better, if I 
did not believe it to be a reflection on 

****** 

" Do you remember Thurlow's poem to Sam,* 
When Rogers, and that d— d supper of Rancliffe's, 
that ought to have been a dinner? 'Ah, Master 
Shallow, we have heard the chimes at midnight ' — 
But 

" My boat is on the shore, t &c. 

" This should have been written fifteen moons 
ago — the first stanza was. I am just come out from 
an hour's swim in the Adriatic ; and I write to you 
with a black-eyed Venetian girl before me, reading 
Boccaccio. * * * 

" Last week I had a row on the road (I came up 
to Venice from my casino, a few miles on the Pa- 
duan road, this blessed day to bathe) with a fellow 
in a carriage, who was impudent to my horse. I 
gave him a swinging box on the ear, which sent 
him to the police, who dismissed his complaint, and 
said, that if I had not thumped him, they would 
have trounced him for being impertinent. Wit- 
nesses had seen the transaction. He first shouted in 
an unseemly way, to frighten my palfrey. I wheeled 
round, rode up to the window, and asked him what 
he meant. He grinned, and said some foolery, 
which produced him an immediate slap in the face, 
to his utter discomfiture. Much blasphemy ensued, 
and some menace, which I stopped by dismounting 
and opening the carriage-door, and intimating an 
intention of mending the road with his immediate 
remains, if he did not hold his tongue. He held it. 

" The fellow went sneakingly to the police : but a 
soldier, who had seen the matter, and thought me 
right, went and counter-oathed him; so that he 
had to retire — and cheap too : — I wish I had hit 
him harder. 

" Monk Lewis is here — ' how pleasant !'| He is a 
very good fellow, and very much yours. So is Sam 
— so is every body — and among the number, 

" Yours ever, 

"B. 

" P. S. What think you of Manfred ? * * 

" If ever you see * * *, ask him what he means 
by telling me, ' Oh, my friend, invent portion f — 
What ' portum ?' Port wine, I suppose — the only 
port he ever sought or found, since I knew him." 



LETTER CCCXLVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"La Mira, near Venice, July IS, 1817. 

" I have finished (that is, written — the file comes 
afterward) ninety and eight stanzas of the fourth 
canto, which I mean to be the concluding one. It 
will probably be about the same length as the third, 
being already of the dimensions of the first or 
second cantos. I look upon parts of it as very 
good, that is, if the three former are good, but this 



* See Poems, p. 565. 
t See Poems, p. 572. 

{ An allusion (such as often occurs In these letters) to : 
which he had been amused. 



864 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



we shall see ; and at any rate, good or not, it is 
rather a different style from the last — less meta- 
physical — which at any rate, will be a variety. I 
sent you the shaft of the column as a specimen the 
other day, i. e. the first stanza. So you may be 
thinking of its arrival towards autumn, whose 
winds will not be the only ones to be raised, if so be 
as how that it is ready by that time. 

" I lent Lewis, who is at Venice (in or on the 
Canalaccio, the Grand Canal), your extracts from 
Lalla Rookh and Manuel, and, out of contradiction, 
it may be, he likes the last, and is not much taken 
with the first, of these performances. Of Manuel 
I think, with the exception of a few capers, it is as 
heavy a nightmare as was ever bestrode by indi- 
gestion. 

"Of the extracts I can but judge as extracts, 
and I prefer the ' Peri' to the ' Silver Veil.' He 
seems not so much at home in his versification of 
the ' Silver Veil,' and a little embarrassed with his 
horrors ; but the conception of the character of the 
impostor is fine, and the plan of great scope for his 
genius, — and I doubt not. that, as a whole, it will be 
very Arabesque and beautiful. 

"Your late epistle is not the most abundant in 
information, and has not yet been succeeded by any 
other ; so that I know nothing of your own concerns, 
or of any concerns, and as I never hear from any body 
but yourself who does not tell me something as dis- 
agreeable as possible, I should not be sorry to hear 
from you : and as it is not very probable, — if I can, 
by any device or possible arrangement with regard 
to my personal affairs, so arrange it, — that I shall 
return soon, or reside ever in England, all that you 
tell me will be all I shall know or inquire after, as 
to our beloved realm of Grub street, and the black 
brethren and blue sisterhood of that extensive 
suburb of Babylon. Have you had no new babe of 
literature sprung up to replace the dead, the dis- 
tant, "the tired, and the retired ? no prose, no verse, 
no nothing f" 



LETTER CCCXLVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, July 20, 1317. 

" I write to give you notice that I have completed 
the fourth and ultimate canto of Childe Harold. It 
consists of one hundred and twenty-six stanzas, and 
is consequently the longest of the four. It is yet 
to be copied and polished ; and the notes are to 
come, of which it will require more than the third 
canto, as it necessarily treats more of works of art 
than of nature. It shall be sent towards autumn ; 
— and now for our barter. What do you bid ? eh ? 
you shall have samples, an' it so please you : but I 
wish to know what I am to expect (as the saying is) 
in these hard times, when poetry does not let for 
half its value. If you are disposed to do what Mrs. 
Winifred Jenkins calls ' the handsome thing,' I may 
perhaps throw you some odd matters to the lot, — 
translations, or slight originals ; there is no saying 
what may be on the anvil between this and the book- 
ing season. Recollect that it is the last canto, and 
completes the work ; whether as good as the others, 
I cannot judge, in course — least of all as yet, but it 
shall be as little worse as I can help. I" may per- 
haps, give some little gossip in the notes as to the 
present state of Italian literati and literature, being 
acquainted with some of their eapi — men as well as 
books ; — but this depends upon my humor at the 
time. So, now, prpnounce : I say nothing. 

" When you have got the whple four cantos, I 
think you might venture on an edition of the whole 
poem in quarto, with spare copies of the last two for 
the purchasers of the old edition of the first two. 



There is a hif^for you, worthy of the row ; and 
now, perpend — pronounce. 

" I have not received a word from you of the fate 
of 'Manfred' or ' Tasso,' which seems to me odd, 
whether they have failed or succeeded. 

" As this is a scrawl of business, and I have late- 
ly written at length and often on other subjects, I 
will only add that I am, &c." 



LETTER CCCXLIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" La Mira, near Venice, Aug-. 7, 1817. 

" Your letter of the 18th, and, what will please 
you, as it did me, that parcel sent by the good- 
natured aid and abetment of Mr._ Croker, are ar- 
rived. — Messrs. Lewis and Hobhouse are here : the 
former in the same house, the latter a few hundred 
yards distant. 

"You say nothing of Manfred, from which its 
failure may be inferred ; but I think it odd you 
should not say so at once. I know nothing, and 
hear absolutely nothing, of any body or any thing 
in England ; and there are no English papers, so 
that all you say will be news — of any person, or 
thing, or things. I am at present very anxious 
about Newstead, and sorry that Kinnaird is leaving 
England at this minute, though I do not tell him 
so, and would rather he should have his pleasure, 
although it may not in this instance tend to my 
profit. 

" If I understand rightly, you have paid into Mor- 
land's 1500/ : as the agreement in the paper is 
two /thousand guineas, there will remain therefore 
six hundred pounds, and not five hundred, the odd 
hundred being the extra to make up the specie. Six 
hundred and thirty pounds will bring it to the like 
for Manfred and Tasso, making a total of twelve 
hundred and thirty, I believe, for I am not a good 
calculator. I do not wish to press you, but I tell 
you fairly that it will be a convenience to me to have 
it paid as soon as it can be made convenient to 
yourself. 

" The new and last canto is one hundred and thirty 
stanzas in length ; and may be made more or less. I 
have fixed no price, even in idea, and have no notion 
of what it may be good for. There are no metaphisics 
in it ; at least, I think not. Mr. Hobhouse has prom- 
ised me a copy of Tasso's Will, for notes ; and 1 have 
some curious things to say about Ferrara, and Par- 
isina's story, and perhaps a farthing-candle's worth 
of light upon the present state of Italian literature. 
I shall hardly be ready by October ; but that don't 
matter. I have all to copy and correct, and the 
notes to write. 

" I do not know whether Scott will like it ; but 
I have called him the ' Ariosto of the North ' in my 
text.* If he should not, say so in time. 

" Lewis, Hobhouse, and I went the other day to 
the circumcision of a sucking Shylock. I have seen 
three men's heads and a child's foreskin cut off in 
Italy. The ceremonies are very moving, but too 
long for detail in this weather. 

"An Italian translation of ' Glenarvon ' came 
lately to be printed at Venice. The censor (Sr. 
Petrotini) refused to sanction the publication till he 
had seen me on the subject. I told him that I did 
not recognize the slightest relation between that 
book and myself ; but that, whatever opinions might 
be upon that subject, I would never prevent or op- 
pose the publication of any book, in any language, 
on my own private account; and desired him (against 
his inclination) to permit the poor translator to pub- 
lish his labors. It is going forward in consequence. 
You may say this, with my compliments, to the au- 
thor. " Yours." 



Canto iv., stanza xl. 



LETTERS. 



865 



LETTER CCCL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, Aug. 12, 1817. 

" I have been very sorry to hear of the death of 
Madame de StaPl, not only because she had been 
very kind to me at Copet, but because now I can 
never requite her. In a general point of view she 
will leave a great gap in society and literature. 

" With regard to death, I doubt that we have 
any right to pity the dead for their own sakes. 

" The copies of Manfred and Tasso are arrived, 
thanks to Mr. Croker's cover You have destroyed 
the whole effect and moral of the poem by omitting 
the last line of Manfred s speaking; and why this 
was done, I know not. Why you persist in saying 
nothing of the thing itself, I am equally at a loss 
to conjecture. If it is for fear of telling me some- 
thing disagreeable, you are wrong ; because sooner 
or later I must know it, and I am not so new nor 
so raw, nor so inexperienced, as not to be able to 
bear, not the mere paltry, petty disappointments of 
authorship, but things more serious, — at least I 
hope so, and that what you may think irritability is 
merely mechanical, and only acts like galvanism on 
a dead body, or the muscular motion which survives 
sensation. 

"If it is that you are out of humor, because I 
wrote to you a sharp letter, recollect that it was part- 
ly from a misconception of your letter, and partly 
because you did a thing you had no right to do with- 
out consulting me. 

" I have, however, heard good of Manfred from 
two other quarters, and from men who would not be 
scrupulous in saying what they thought, or what 
was said ; and so ' good-morrow to you, good master 
Lieutenant.' 

"1 wrote to you twice about the fourth canto, which 
you will answer at your pleasure. Mr. Hobhouse 
and I have come up for a day to the city ; Mr. 
Lewis is gone to England; and I am 

"Yours." 



LETTER CCCLI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" La Mira, near Venice, Aug. 21, 1S17. 

" I take you at your word about Mr. Hanson, and 
will feel obliged if you will go to him, and request 
Mr. Davies also to visit him by my desire, and 
repeat that I trust that neither Mr. Kinnaird's ab- 
sence nor mine will prevent his taking all proper 
steps to accelerate and promote the sale of New- 
stead and Rochdale, upon which the whole of my 
future personal comfort depends. It is impossible 
for me to express how much any delays upon these 
points would inconvenience me ; and I do not know 
a greater obligation that can be conferred upon 
me than the pressing these things upon Hanson, 
and making him act according to my wishes. I 
wish you would speak out, at least to me, and tell 
me what you allude to by your cold way of men- 
tioning him. All mysteries at such a distance are 
not merely tormenting but mischievous, and may 
be prejudicial to my interests,; so pray expound, 
that I may consult with Mr. Kinnaird when he ar- 
rives ; and remember that I prefer the most disa- 
greeable certainties to hints and inuendoes. The 
devil take every body ; I never can get any person 
to be explicit about any thing or any body, and my 
whole life is passed in conjectures of what people 
mean : you all talk in the style of Caroline Lamb's 
novels. 

" It is not Mr. St. John, but Mr. St. Aubyn, son 
of Sir John St. Aubyn. Polidori knows him, and 
introduced him to me. He is of Oxford, and has 
got my parcel. The doctor will ferret him out, or 
ought. The parcel contains many letters, some of 
109 



Madame de Stael's, and other people's, besides 

MSS., &c. By , if I find the gentleman, and 

he don't find the parcel, I will say something he 
won't like to hear. 

" You want a ' civil and delicate declension' for 
the medical tragedy ? Take it — 

" Dear Doctor, I have read your play, 
Which is a goud one in its way ; 
Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels, 
And drenches handkerchief like towels 
With tears, that, in a flux of grief, 
Afford hysterical relief 
To shatler'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
Which your catastrophe convulses. 

u I like your moral and machinery : 
Your plot, too, has such scope (or scenery I 
Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
The play's concoction full of art; 
Your iiero raves, your heroine cries, 
All stab, and every body dies. 
In short, your tragedy would be 
The very thing to hear and see : 
And lor a piece of publication, 
If I decline on this occasion, / 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in themselves ostensible, 
But — and I grieve to speak it — plays 
Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-day*. 
1 had a heavy loss by ' Manuel,' — 
Too lucky if it prove not annual, — 
And Sotheby, with his ' Orestes,' 
(Which, by-the-by, the author's best is,) 
Has Iain so very long on hand 
That I despair of all demand. i 

I've advertised, but see my books, 
Or only watch my shopman's looks : — 
Still Ivati, lna, and such lumber, 
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 

" There's Byron, too, who once did better, 
Has sent me, foided in a letter, 
A sort of — it's no more a drama 
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama; 
So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
1 think he's lost his wits at Venice. 

In short, sir, what with one and t' other, 
I dare not venture on another. 
I write in haste ; excuse each blunder ; 
The coaches through the strpot so thunder! 
My room's so full — we've Gilford here 
Reading MS., with Hookham Frere 
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles 
Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 

" The Quarterly— Ah, sir, if you 
Had but the genius to review I— 
A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
Or if you only would but tell in a 

Short compass what hut to resume : 

As I was saying, sir, the room — 

The room's so full of wits and bards, 

Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, 

And others, neither bards nor wits; — 

My humble tenement admits 

All persons in the dress of gent., ' 

From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 

" A party dines with me to day, 
All clever men, who make their way ; 
They're at this moment in discussion 
On poor De Stael's late dissolution. 
Her book, they say, was in advance — 
Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France I 



" Thus run our time and tongues away. — 
But, to return, sir, to your play : 
Sorry, sir, hut I cannot deal, 
Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill. 
My hands so full, my head so busy, 
, I'm almost dead, and always dizzy ; 

And so, with endless truth and hurry, 
Dear Doctor, I am yours, 

"JOHN MURRAY." 

" P. S. I've done the fourth and last canto, which 
amounts to one hundred and thirty-three stanzas 
I desire you to name a price ; if you don't, 1 
will ; so I advise you in time. " Yours, &c. 

" There will be a good many notes." 



866 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCLII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Sept. 4, 1817. 

" Your letter of the 15th has conveyed with its 
contents the impression of a seal, to which the 
' Saracen's Head ' is a seraph, and the ' Bull and 
Mouth ' a delicate device. I knew that calumny 
had sufficiently blackened me of later days, but not 
that it had given me the features as well as com- 
plexion of a negro. Poor Augusta is not less, but 
rather more, shocked than myself, and says ' people 
seem to have lost their recollection strangely,' when 
they engraved such a ' blackmoor.' Pray don't seal 
(at least to me) with such a caricature of the hu- 
man numskull altogether ; and if you don't break 
the seal-cutter's head, at least crack his libel (or 
likeness, if it should be a likeness) of mine. 

" Mr. Kinnaird is not yet arrived, but expected. 
He has lost by the way all the tooth-powder, as a 
letter from Spa informs me. 

" By Mr. Rose I received safely, though tardily, 
magnesia and tooth-powder, and * * * *. Why 
do you send me such trash — worse than trash, the 
Sublime of Mediocrity ? Thanks for Lalla, how- 
ever, which is good, and thanks for the Edinburgh 
and Quarterly, both very amusing and well-written. 
Paris in 1815, &c. — good. Modern Greece* — good 
for nothing ; written by some one who has never 
been there, and not being able to manage the Spen- 
ser stanza, has invented a thing of its own, consist- 
ing of two elegaic stanzas, a heroic line, and an 
Alexandrine, twisted on a string. Besides, why 
' modern/ ' You may say modem Greeks, but sure- 
ly Greece itself is rather more ancient than ever ft 
was. — Now for business. 

"You offer fifteen hundred guineas for the new can- 
to : I won't take it. I ask two thousand five hundred 
guineas for it, which you will either give or not, as 
you think proper. It concludes the poem, and con- 
sists of one hundred and forty-four stanzas. The 
notes are numerous, and chiefly written by Mr. 
Hobhouse, whose researches have been indefati- 
gable, and who, I will venture to say, has more 
real knowledge of Rome and its environs than 
any Englishman who has been there since Gib- 
bon. By-the-way, to prevent any mistakes, I think 
it necessary to state the fact that Jte, Mr. Hob- 
house, has no interest whatever in the price or profit 
to be derived from the copyright of either poem or 
notes directly or indirectly ; so you are not to sup- 
pose that it is by, for, or through him, that I require 
more for this canto than the preceding. — No : but if 
Mr. Eustace was to have had two thousand for a 
poem on Education ; if Mr. Moore is to have three 
thousand for Lalla, &c. ; if Mr. Campbell is to have 
three thousand for his prose on poetry — I don't 
mean to disparage these gentlemen in their labors — 
but I ask the aforesaid price for mine. You will 
tell me that their productions are considerably 
longer : very true, and when they shorten them, I 
will lengthen mine, and ask less. You shall sub- 
mit the MS. to Mr. Gilford, and any other two gen- 
tlemen to be named by you, (Mr. Frere, or Mr. 
Croker, or whomever you please, except such fel- 
lows as your * *s and * *s,) and if they pronounce 
this canto to be inferior as a whole to the preced- 
ing, I will not appeal from their award, but burn 
the manuscript, and leave things as they are. 

" Yours very truly. 

" P. S. In answer to a former letter, I sent you 
a short statement of what I thought the state of 
our present copyright account, viz., six hundred 
pounds still (or lately) due on Childe Harold, and 
six hundred guineas, Manfred and Tasso, making a 
total of twelve hundred and thirty pounds. If we 
agree about the new poem, I shall take the liberty 
to reserve the choice of the manner in which it 
should be published, viz., a quarto, certes." * * 



By Mn. Hemaos. 



LETTER CCCLIII. 



TO MR. IIOPPNER. 



" La Mira, Sept. 12, 1817. 

" I set out yesterday morning with the intention 
of paying my respects, and availing myself of your 
permission to walk over the premises.* On arriv- 
ing at Padua, I found that the march of the Aus- 
trian troops had engrossed so many horses, that 
those I could procure were hardly able to crawl ; 
and their weakness, together with the prospect of 
finding none at all at the post-house of Monsclice, 
and consequently either not arriving that day at 
Este, or so late as to be unable to return home the 
same evening, induced me to turn aside in a second 
visit to Arqua, instead of proceeding onwards ; and 
even thus I hardly got back in time. 

" Next week I shall be obliged to be in Venice to 
meet Lord Kinnaird and his brother, who are ex- 
pected in a few days. And this interruption, 
together with that occasioned by the continued 
march of the Austrians for the next few days, 
will not allow me to fix any prfecise period for 
availing myself of your kindness, though I should 
wish to take the earliest opportunity. Perhaps, if 
absent, you will have the goodness to permit one of 
your servants to show me the grounds and house, 
or as much of either as may be convenient ; at any 
rate, I shall take the first occasion possible to go 
over, and regret very much that I was on yesterday 
prevented. 

" I have the honor to be your obliged, &c." 



LETTER CCCLIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Sept. 15, 1817. 

" I enclose a sheet for correction, if ever you get 
to another edition. You will observe that the 
blunder in printing makes it appear^as if the Cha- 
teau was over St. Gingo, instead of being on the 
opposite shore of the Lake, over Clarens. So, sep- 
arate the paragraphs, otherwise my topography will 
seem as inaccurate as your typography on this 
occasion. 

" The other day I wrote to convey my proposition 
with regard to the fourth and concluding canto. I 
have gone over and extended it to one hundred and 
fifty stanzas, which is almost as long as the first 
two were originally, and longer by itself than any 
of the smaller poems except the ' Corsair.' Mr. 
Hobhouse has made some very valuable and accu- 
rate notes, of considerable length, and you may be 
sure that I will do for the text all that I can to 
finish with decency. I look upon Childe Harold as 
my best; and as I begun, I thkik ot concluding 
with it. But I make no resolutions on that head, 
as I broke my former intention with regard to the 
' Corsair.' However, I fear that I shall never do 
better ; and yet, not being thirty years of age, for 
some moons to come, one ought to be progressive, 
as far as intellect gots, for many a good year. But 
I have had a devilish deal of tear and wear of mind 
and body in my time, besides' having published too 
often and much already. God grant me some judg- 
ment to do what may be most fitting in that and 
every thing else, for I doubt my own exceedingly 

" I have read ' Lalla Rookh,' but not with suffi- 
cient attention yet, for I ride about, and lounge, 
and ponder, and — two or three other things ; so 
that my reading is very desultory, and not so atten- 
tive as it used to be. I am very glad to hear of its 
popularity, for Moore is a very noble fellow in all 



• A country-house on the Euganean hills, near Este, which Mr. Hoppncr, 
who was then the English consul-general at Venice, hail for some time 
occupied, and which Lord Byron afterward rented of him, but nerer resided 



LETTERS. 



867 



respects, and will enjoy it without any of the bad 
feelings which success — good or evil — sometimes 
engenders in the men of rhyme. Of the poem 
itself, I will tell you my opinion when I have 
mastered it: I say of the poem, for I don't like 
the prose at all, at all : and in the meantime, the 
' Fire- Worshippers ' is the best, and the 'Veiled 
Prophet ' the worst, of the volume. 

" With regard to poetry in general,* I am con- 
vinced the more I think of it, that he and all of us 
—Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, 
I, — are all in the wrong, one as much as another 
that we are upon a wrong revolutionary poetical 
system, or systems, not worth a damn in itself, and 
from which none but Rogers and Crabbe are free ; 
and that the present and next generations will 
finally be of this opinion. I am the more con- 
firmed in this by having lately gone over some of 
our classics, particularly Pope, whom I tried in this 
way : — If took Moore's poems and my own and 
some others, and went over them side by side with 
Pope's, and I was really astonished (I ought not to 
have been so) anfl mortified at the ineffable distance 
in point of sense, learning, effect, and even imagi- 
nation, passion, and invention, between the little 
Queen Anne's man, and us of the lower empire. 
Depend upon it, it is all Horace then, and Claudian 
now among us ; and if I had to begin again, I would 
mould myself accordingly. Crabbe's the man, but 
he has got a coarse and impracticable subject, 
and Rogers is retired upon half-pay, and has done 
enough, unless he were to do as he did formerly." 



LETTER CCCLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



•Sept. 17, 1817. 



" Mr. Hobhouse purposes being in England in 
November ; he will bring the fourth canto with 
him, notes and all: the text contains one hundred 
and fifty stanzas, which is long for that measure. 

"With regard to the ' Ariosto of the North, '+ 
surely their themes, chivalry, war, and love, were 
as like as can be; and as to the compliment, if you 
knew what the Italians think of Ariosto, you would 
not hesitate about that. But as to their ' measures,' 
you forget that Ariosto's is an octave stanza, and 
Scott's any thing but a stanza. If you think Scott 
will dislike it, say so, and I will expunge. I do not 
call him the ' Scotch Ariosto,' which would be sad 
provincial eulogy, but the ' Ariosto of the North,' 
meaning of all countries that are not the South. 
****** 

" As I have recently troubled you rather frequent- 
ly, I will conclude, repeating that I am 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCLVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

• "Oct. 12, 1817. 

"Mr. Kinnaird and his brother, Lord Kinnaird, 
have been here, and are now gone again. All your 
missives came, except the tooth-powder, of which 
I request farther supplies, at all convenient oppor- 
tunities; as also of magnesia and soda-powders, 
ooth great luxuries here, and neither to be had 
good, or indeed hardly at all, of the natives. 
* '* * * * 



• On this p..r..-r.. P !. 
following note, in iIiq Ik 

k?ii».-, mi. I feeling I 

re.i.l, ..r l.ui.l Uy ivii 

) See letters l..r tttwl 
} See Letter cccxlvi. 



in tin- MS. o.|.y ul the al.ive k-tirr, I Anil thi 
iilwriling of Mr. liillbnl: " There is more jrum 
iil'j-ui.-ni iii this pnssnge, th:in in any other 1 eve 
e."— Moore. 

i anil Bl.ickwooil. 



" In Coleridge's Life I perceive an attack upon 
the then committee of D. L. Theatre for acting 
Bertram, and an attack upon Maturin's Bertram 
for being acted. Considering all things, this is not 
very grateful nor graceful on the part of the worthy 
autobiographer ; and 1 would answer, if I had not 
obliged him. Putting my own pains to forward the 
views of Coleridge out of the question, I know that 
there was every disposition, on the part of the sub- 
committee, to bring forward any production of his, 
were it feasible. The play he offered, though poeti- 
cal, did not appear at all practicable, and Bertram 
did ; — and hence this long tirade, which is the last 
chapter of his vagabond life. 

"As for Bertram, Maturin may defend his own 
begotten, if he likes it well enough ; I leave the 
Irish clergyman and the new orator Henley to 
battle it out between them, satisfied to have done 
the best I could for both. I may say this to you, 
who know it. * * * ■ * * 

" Mr. Coleridge may console himself with the fer- 
vor, — the almost religious fervor of his and Words- 
worth's disciples, as he calls it. If he means that 
as any proof of their merits, I will find him as much 
'fervor' in behalf of Richard Brothers and Joanna 
Southcote as ever gathered over his pages or round 
his fireside. * * * * *■ 

" My answer to your proposition about the fourth 
canto you will have received, and I await yours ; — 
perhaps we may not agree. I have since written a 
poem* (of eighty-four octave stanzas), humorous, 
in or after the excellent manner of Mr. Whistle- 
craft (whom I take to be Frere), on a "Venetian 
anecdote which amused me: — but till I have your 
answer, I can say nothing more about it. 

" Mr. Hobhouse does not return to England in 
November, as he intended, but will winter here; 
and as he is to convey the poem, or poems, — for 
there may perhaps be more than the two mentioned 
(which, by-the-way, I shall not perhaps include in 
the same publication or agreement) — I shall not be 
able to publish so soon as expected ; but I suppose 
there is no harm, in the delay. 

" I have signed and sent your former copyrights 
by Mr. Kinnaird, but not the receipt, because the 
money is not yet paid. Mr. Kinnaird has a power 
of attorney to sign for me, and will, when necessary. 

" Many thanks for the Edinburgh Review, which 
is very kind about Manfred, and defends its origi- 
nality, which I did not know that any body had 
attacked. I never read, and do not know that I 
ever saw the ' Faustus of Marlow,' and had, and 
have, no dramatic works by me in English, except 
the recent things you sent me ; but I heard Mr. 
Lewis translate verbally some scenes of Goethe's 
Faust (which were, some good and some bad) last 
summer — which is all I know of the history of that 
magical personage ; and as to the germs of Man- 
fred, they may be found in the Journal which I sent 
to Mrs. Leis;h (part of which you saw) when I went 
over first the Dent de Jam an, and then the Wengen 
or Wena;eberg Alp and Sheideck, and made the giro 
of the Jungfrau, Shreckhorn, &c, &c., shortly be- 
fore I left Switzerland. I have the whole scene of 
Manfred before me as if it was but yesterday, and 
could point it out, spot by spot, torrent and all. 

" Of the Prometheus of ^Eschylus I was passion- 
ately fond as a boy (it was one of the Greek plays 
we read thrice a year St Harrow) ; indeed that and 
the ' Medea ' were the only ones, except the ' Seven 
before Thebes,' which ever much pleased me. As 
to the ' Faustus of Marlow,' I never read, never 
saw, nor heard of it — at least, thought of it, except 
that I think Mr. Gifford mentioned, in a note of his 
which you sent me, something about the catastro- 
phe ; but not as having any thing to do with mine, 
which may or may not resemble it, for any thing I 
know. 

" The Prometheus, if not exactly in my plan, has 




868 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



always been so much in my head, that I can easily 
conceive its influence over all or any thing that I 
have written ; — but I deny Marlow and his progeny, 
and beg that you will do the same. 

" If you can send me the paper in question, * 
which the Edinburgh Review mentions, do. The 
review in the magazine you say was written by Wil- 
son ? it had all the air of being a poet's, and was a 
very good one. The Edinburgh Review I take to 
be Jeffrey's own by its friendliness. I wonder they 
thought it worth while to do so, so soon after the 
former ; but it was evidently with a good motive. 

" I saw Hoppner the other day, whose country- 
house at Este I have taken for two years. If you 
come out next summer, let me know in time. Love 
to Gifford. " Yours ever truly. 

11 Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
Are all partakers of my pantry. 

These two lines are omitted in your letter to the 
doctor, after — 

" All clever men who make their way." 



LETTER CCCLVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Oct. 23, 1817. 

" Your two letters are before me, and our bargain 
is so far concluded. How sorry I am to hear that 
Gifford is unwell ! Pray tell me he is better ; I 
hope it is nothing but cold. As you say his illness 
originates in cold, I trust it will get no farther. 

" Mr. Whistlecraft has no greater admirer than 
myself: I have written a story in eighty-nine stan- 
zas, in imitation of him, called Beppo (the short 
name for Giuseppe, that is, the Joe of the Italian 
Joseph), which I shall throw you into the balance 
of the fourth canto, to help you round to your 
money ; but you perhaps had better publish it 
anonymously : but this wc wili see to by-and-by. 

" In the notes to canto fourth, Mr. Hobhouse 
has pointed out several errors of Gibbon. You may 
depend upon H.'s research and accuracy. You may 
print it in what shape you please. 

" With regard to a future large edition, you may 
print all, or any thing, except 'Engli.-h Bards,' to 
the republication of which at no time will I consent. 
I would not reprint them on any consideration. I 
don't think them good for much, even in point of 
poetry ; and as to the other things, you are to recol- 
lect that I gave up the publication on account of 
the Hollands, and I do not think that any time or 
circumstances can neutralize the suppression. Add 
to which, that, after being on terms with almost all 
the bards and critics of the day, it would be savage 
at any time, but worst of all noto, to revive this 
foctish lampoon. 



"The review of Manfred came very safely, and 
I am much pleased with it. It is odd that they 
should say (that is, somebody in a magazine whom 
the Edinburgh controverts), that it was taken from 
Marlow's Faust, which I never read nor saw. An 
American, who came the otb*r day from Germany, 
told Mr. Hobhouse that Manfred was taken from 
Goethe's Faust. The devil may take both the 
Faustuses, German and English — I have taken 
neither. 

" Will you send to Hanson, and say that he has 
not written since 9th September ? — at least I have 
had no letter since, to my great surprise. 



" Will you desire Messrs. Morland to send out 
whatever additional sums have or may be paid in 
credit immediately, always, to their Venice corre- 
spondents ? It is two months ago that they sent 
me out an additional credit for one thousand pounds. 
I was very glad of it, but I don't know how the 
devil it came ; for I can only make out five hundred 
of Hanson's payment, and I had thought the other 
five hundred came from you ; but it did not, it 
seems, as by yours of the 7th instant, you have only 
just paid the 1230/. balance. 

"Mr. Kinnaird is on his way home with the as- 
signments. I can fix no time for the arrival of 
canto fourth, which depends on the journey of Mr. 
Hobhouse home; and I do not think that "this will 
be immediate. 

" Yours, in great haste, and very truly, 

" B. 

"P. S. Morlands have not yet written to my 
bankers, apprising the payment of your balances : 
pray desire them to do so. 

"Ask them about the previous thousand — of 
which I know five hundred came 'fjMm Hanson's- 
and make out the other five hundred — t 
whence it came." 



-that is, 



LETTER CCCLVIII. 



TO MK. MURRAY. 



» A paper in the Edinburgh Magazine, in which it was suggested that 
the general conception of Manfred, and much of what is excellent in the 
manner of its execution, had been borrowed from "The Tragical History 
of Dr. Faustus," of Marlow. 



"Venice, Nov. 15, 1S17. 

" Mr. Kinnaird has probably returned to England 
by this time, and will have conveyed to you any ti- 
dings you may wish to have of us and ours. I have 
come back to Venice for the winter. Mr. Hobhouse 
will probably set off in December, but what day or 
week, I know not. He is my opposite neighbor at 
present. 

" I wrote yesterday in some perplexity, and no 
very good humor to Mr. Kinnaird, to inform me 
about Newstead and the Hansons, of which and 
whom I hear nothing since his departure from this 
place, except in a few unintelligible words from an 
unintelligible woman. 

" I am as sorry to hear of Dr. Polidori's accident 
as one can be for a person for whom one has a dis- 
like, and something of contempt. When he gets 
well, tell me, and how he gets on in the sick line. 
Poor fellow ! how came he to fix there ? 

"IP ai lii.- .1 a ir'a skill at Norwich 
Will hardly Bait the doctor's porridge. 

Methought he was going to the Brazils, to give the 
Portuguese physic (of which they are fond to despe- 
ration), with the Danish consul. 

* * * *■,*"* 

"Your new canto has expanded to one hundred 
and sixty-seven stanzas. It will be long, you see ; 
and as for the notes by Hobhouse, I suspect they 
will be of the heroic size^ You must keep Mr. * * 
in good humor, for he is devilish touchy yet about 
your Review and all which it inherits, including the 
editor, the Admiralty, and its bookseller. I used to 
think that / was a good deal of an author in amour 
propre and noli me tangere ; but these prose, fellows 
^.re worst, after all, about their little comforts. 

" Do you remember my mentioning, some months 
ago, the Marquis Moncada — a Spaniard of distinc- 
tion and fourscore years, my summer neighbor at La 
Mira : Well, about six weeks ago, he fel; in love 
with a Venetian girl of family, and no fortune or 
character : took her into his mansion ; quarrelled 
with all his former friends for giving him advice 
(except me who gave him none), and installed her 
present concubine and future wife and mistress of 
himself and furniture. At the end of a month, in 
which she demeaned herself as ill as possible, he 
found out a correspondence between her and some 
former keeper, and after nearly strangling, turned 



LETTERS. 



869 



her out of the house, to the great scandal of the 
keeping part of the town, and with a prodigious 
eclat, which has occupied all the canals and coffee- 
houses in Venice. He said she wanted to poison 
him; and she says — God knows what ; but between 
them they have made a great deal of noise. I 
know a little of both the parties : Moncada seemed 
a very sensible old man, a character which he has 
not quite kept up on this occasion ; and the woman 
is rather showy than pretty. For the honor of re- 
ligion, she was bred in a convent, and for the credit 
of Great Britain, taught by an Englishwoman. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



'• Venice, Dec. 3, 1317. 

" A Venetian lady, learned and somewhat stricken 
in years, having, in her intervals of love and devo- 
tion, taken upon her to translate the letters, and 
write the life of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, — 
to which undertaking there are two obstacles, 
firstly, ignorance of English, and, secondly, a total 
W dearth of information on the subject of her pro- 
jected biography, — has applied to me for facts or 
falsities upon this promising project. Lady Mon- 
tague lived the last twenty or more years of her life 
in or near Venice, I believe ; but here they know 
nothing, and remember nothing, for the story of 
to-day is succeeded by the scandal of to-morrow ; 
and the wit, and beauty, and gallantry, which might 
render your countrywoman notorious in her own 
country, must have been here no great distinction 
— because the first is in no request, and the two lat- 
ter are common to all women, or at least the last of 
them. If you can therefore tell me any thing, or 
get any thing told, of Lady Wortley Montague, I 
shall take it as a favor, and will transfer and trans- 
late it to the ' Dama ' in question. And I pray you 
besides to send me, by some quick and safe voy- 
ager, the edition of her letters, and the stupid life, 
by Dr. Dallawaxj , published by her proud and fool- 
ish family. 

" The death of the Princess Charlotte has been 
a shock even here, and must have been, an earth- 
quake at home.* The Courier's list of some three 
hundred heirs to the crown (including the house of 
Wirtemberg, with that * * *, P , of disreputa- 
ble memory, whom I remember seeing at various 
balls during the visit of the Muscovites, &c, in 
1814), must be very consolatory to all true lieges, 
as well as foreigners, except Signor Travis, a rich 
Jew merchant of this city, who complains griev- 
ously of the length of British mourning, which has 
countermanded all the silks which he was on the 
point of transmitting, for a year to come. « The 
death of this poor girl is melancholy in every re- 
spect, dying at twenty or so, in childbed — of a boy, 
too, a present princess and future queen, and just 
as she began to be happy, and to enjoy herself and 
the hopes which she inspired. ****** 

•' I think, as far as I can recollect, she is the first 
royal defunct in childbed upon record in our history. 
I feel sorry in every respect — for the loss of a female 
reign, and a woman hitherto harmless ; and all the 
lost rejoicings, and addresses, and drunkenness, 
and disbursements of John Bull on the occasion. 
* * * * * * « 

" The Prince will marry again, after divorcing his 
wife, and Mr. Southey will write an elegy now, and 
an ode then ; the Quarterly will have an article 
against the press, and the Edinburgh an article 
half and half, about reform and right of divorce ; 
* * * the British will give you Dr. Chalmers's 
funeral sermon much commended, with a place in 



• See Childe Harold, canto iv., stanza clxxvii. 



the stars for deceased royalty ; and the Morning 
Post will have already yelled forth its ' syllables of 
dolor.' 

1 Wo, wo, Nealliny .'—the young Nealliny ! ' 

' It is some time since I have heard from you : 
are you in bad humor ? I suppose so. I rrffve been 
so myself, and it is your turn now, and by-and-by 
mine will come round again. '• Yours truly, 

"B. 

' P. S. Countess Albrizzi, come back from Paris, 
has brought me a medal of herself, a present from 
Denon to me, and a likeness of Mr. Rogers (belong- 
ing to her), by Denon also." 



LETTER CCCLX. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



" Venice, Dec. 15, 1317. 

"I should have thanked you before, for your 
favor a few days ago, had I not been in the inten- 
tion of paying my* respfcts, personally, this eve- 
ning, from which I am deterred by the recollection 
that you will probably be at the Count Goess's this 
evening, which has made me postpone my intrusion. 
' I think your elegy a remarkably good one, not 
only as a composition, but both the politics and 
poetry ^contain a far greater portion of truth and 
enerosity than belongs to the times, or to the pro- 
fessors of these opposite pursuits, which usually 
agree only in one point, as extremes meet. I do not 
know whether you wished me to retain the copy, 
but I shall retain it till you tell me otherwise ; and 
am very much obliged by the perusal. 

"My own sentiments on Venice, &c, such as 
they are, I l}ad already thrown into verse last sum- 
mer, in the fourth canto of Childe Harold, now in 
preparation for the press ; and I think much more 
highly of them for being in coincidence with yours. 
" Believe me yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Jan. 8, 1S18. 
1 My dear Mr. Murray, 
You're in a damn'd hurry 

To set up this ultimate canto J 
But (if they don't rob us), 
You'll see Mr. Hobhouse 
Will bring it sate in his portmanteau. 

1 For the Journal you hint of, 
As ready to print olf, 

No doubt you do right to commend it ; 
But as yet I have writ off 
The devil a bit of 

Our ( Beppo ; '—when copied, I'll send it. 

' Then you've * * * 's Tour,— 
No great things, to be sure, — 

You could hardly begin with a less work ; 
For the pompous rascallkm 
Who don't speak.Italian 

Nor French, must have scribbled by guess-work. 

' You enn make any loss up 
With 'Spence' and his gossip, 

A work which musAurely succeed ; 
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
Witli the new ' Fytte ' of ' Whistlecraft,' 

Must make people purchase and read. 

1 Then you've General Gordon, 
Who girded his sword on, 

To serve with a Muscovite master, 
And help him to polish 
A nation sn owlish, 

They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 



870 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



11 For the poor man, 'poor and shrewd^ * 
With whom you'd conclude 

A compact without more delay, 
Perhaps some euch pen is 
Still extant in Venice; 

But please, sir, to mention your pay. " 



LETTER CCCLXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, Jan. 19, 1818. 

" I send you the storyf in three other separate 
covers. Tit won't do for your Journal, being full of 
political allusions. Print alone, without name; 
alter nothing ; get a scholar to see that the Italian 
phrases are correctly published (your printing, by- 
the-way, always makes me ill with its eternal blun- 
ders, which are incessant), and God speed you. 
Hobhouse left Venice a fortnight ago, saving two 
days. I have heard nothing of or from him. 

» • " Yours, &c. 

"He has the whole of the MSS. ; so put up 
prayers in your back shop, or in the printer's 
' chapel.' " 



LETTER CCCLXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, Jan. 27, 1818. 

"My father — that is, my Armenian father, Padre 
Pasquali — in the name of all the others of our con- 
vent, sends you the enclosed, greeting : 

"Inasmuch as it has pleased the translators of 
the long-lost and lately-found portions of the text 
of Eusebius to put forth the enclosed prospectus, 
of which I send six copies, you are hereby implored 
to obtain subscribers in the two universities, and 
among the learned, and the unlearned, who would 
unlearn their ignorance. This they (the convent) 
request^/ request, and do you request. 

" I sent you Beppo some weeks agone. You 
must publish it alone ; it has politics and ferocity, 
and won't do for your isthmus of a Journal. 

" Mr. Hobhouse, if the Alps have not broken his 
neck, is, or ought to be, swimming with my com- 
mentaries and his own coat of mail in his teeth and 
right hand, in a cork jacket, between Calais and 
Dover. 

" It is the height of the Carnival, and I am in the 
extreme and agonies of a new intrigue with I don't 
exactly know whom or what, except that she is in- 
satiate of love, and won't take money, and has light 
hair and blue eyes, which are not common here, and 
that I met her at the masque, and that when her 
mask is off, I am as wise as ever. I shall make 
what I can of the remainder of my youth." 



LETTER CCCLXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

• " Venice, Feb. 2, 1818. 

" Your letter of Dec. 8, arrived but this day, by 
some delay, common, but inexplicable. Your do- 
mestic calamity is very grievous, and I feel with you 
as much as I dare feel at all. Throughout life, 
your loss must be my loss, and your gain my gain ; 



* " Vide your letter." 
1 Beppo. 



and, though my heart may ebb, there will always be 
a drop for you among the dregs.* 

" I know how to feel with you, because (selfish- 
ness being always the substratum of our damnable 
clay) I am quite wrapt up in my own children. Re- 
sides my little legitimate, I have made unto myself 
an illegitimate since (to say nothing of one before), f 
and I look forward to one of these as the pillar ot 
my old age, supposing that I ever reach — which I 
hope I never shall — that desolating period. I have 
a great love for my little Ada, though perhaps she 
may torture me, like ***** 

* * * * 

" Your offered address will be as acceptable as 
you can wish. I don't much care what the wretches 
of the world think of me — all that's past. But 1 
care a good deal what you think of me, and so, say 
what you like. You know that I am not sullen"; 
and, as to being savage, such things depend on cir- 
cumstances. However, as to being in good humor 
in your society, there is no great merit in that, be- 
cause it would be an effort, or' an insanity, to be 
otherwise. 

" I don't know what Murray may have been say- 
ing or quoting. I called Crabbe and Sam the fathers 
of present poesy ; and said, that I thought — except 
them — all of ' us youth ' were on a wrong tack. But 
I never said that we did not sail well. Our fame 
will be hurt by admiration and imitation. When I 
say our, I mean all (lakers included), except the 
postscript of the Augustans. The next generation 
(from the quantity and facility of imitation) will 
tumble and break their necks off our Pegasus, who 
runs away with us ; but we keep the saddle, because 
we broke the rascal, and can ride. But though easy 
to mount, he is the devil to guide ; and the next 
fellows must go back to the riding-school and the 
manege, and learn to ride the ' great horse.' 

" Talking of horses, by-the-way, I have trans- 
ported my own, four in number, to the Lido, (beach, 
in English.) a strip of some ten miles along the 
Adriatic, a mile or two from the city ; so that I not 
only get a row in my gondola, but a spanking gal- 
lop of some miles daily along a firm and solitary 
beach, from the fortress to Malamocco, the which 
contributes considerably to my health and spirits. 

" I have hardly had a wink of sleep this week 
past. We are in the agonies of the Carnival's last 
days, and I must be up all night again, as well as 
to-morrow, I have had some curious masking ad- 
ventures this Carnival, but, as they are not yet over, 
I shall not say on. I will work the mine of my 
youth to the last veins of the ore, and then — good 
night. I have lived, and am content. 

"Hobhouse went away before the Carnival began, 
so that he had little or no fun. Besides, it requires 
some time to be thorough-going with the Venetians ; 
but of all this anon, in some other letter. * * 
****** 

" I must dress for the evening. There is an opera, 
ridotta, and I know not what, besides balls ; and so, 
ever and ever yours, ',' B. 

'P. S. I send this without revision, so excuse 
errors. I delight in the fortune and fame of Lalla, 
and again congratulate you on your well-merited 
success." 



LETTER CCCLXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Feb. 20, 1818. 

" I have to thank Mr. Croker for the arrival, and 
you for the contents, of the parcel which came last 
week, much quicker than any before, owing to Mr. 
Croker's kind attention and the official exterior of 



• To Mr. Moore, p. 572. 

♦ See Poemi. 



LETTERS. 



871 



*he bags ; and all safe, except much friction among 
magnesia, of which only two bottles came entire ; 
but it is all very well, and I am exceedingly obliged 
to you. 

" The books I have read, or rather am reading. 
Pray, who may be the Sexagenarian, whose gossip 
is very amusing ? Many of his sketches I recognize, 
particularly Gifford, Mackintosh, Drummond, Du- 
tens, H. Walpole, Mrs. Inchbald, Obie, &c, with 
the Scotts, Lo^hborough, and most of the divines 
and lawyers, besides a few shorter hints of authors, 
and a few lines about a certain ' noble author,' char- 
acterized as malignant and sceptical, according to 
the good old story, ' as it was in the beginning, is 
now, but not always shall be : ' do you know such a 
person, Master Murray ? eh ? — And pray, of the 
booksellers, which be you? the dry, the dirty, the 
honest, the opulent, the finical, the splendid, or the 
coxcomb bookseller ? Stap my vitals, but the au- 
thor grows scurrilous in his grand climacteric. 

" I remember to have seen Porson at Cambridge, 
in the hall of our college, and in private parties, but 
not frequently ; and I never can recollect him except 
as drunk or brutal, and generally both : I mean in 
an evening, for in the hall, he dined at the Dean's 
table, and I at the Vicemaster's, so that I was not 
near him ; and he then and there appeared sober in 
his demeanor, nor did I ever hear of- excess or out- 
rage on his part in public, — commons, college, or 
chapel ; but I have seen him in a private party of 
undergraduates, many of them freshmen and 
strangers, take up a poker to one of them, and 
heard him use language as blackguard as his action. 
I have seen Sheridan drunk, too, with all the 
world ; but his intoxication was that of Bacchus, and 
Porson's that of Silenus. Of all the disgusting 
brutes, sulky, abusive, and intolerable, Porson was 
the most bestial, as far as the few times that I saw 
him went, which were only at William Bankes's 
(the Nubian discoverer's) rooms. I saw him once 
go away in a rage, because nobody knew the name 
of the ' Cobbler of Messina,' insulting their igno- 
rance with the most vulgar terms of reprobation. 
He was tolerated in this state among the young 
men for his talents, as the Turks think a madman 
inspired, and bear with him. He used to recite or 
rather vomit pages of all languages, and could hic- 
cup Greek like a Helot ; and certainly Sparta never 
shocked her children with a grosser exhibition than 
this man's intoxication. 

" I perceive, in the book you sent me, a long ac- 
count of him, which is very savage. I cannot 
judge, as I never saw him sober, except in hall or 
coinbination-room ; and then I was never near 
enough to hear, and hardly to see him. Of his 
drunken deportment, I can be sure, because I 
saw it. 

"With the Reviews, I have been much enter- 
tained. It requires to be as far from England as I 
am to relish a periodical paper properly : it is like 
soda-water in an Italian summer. But what cruel 
work you make with Lady Morgan ! You should 
recollect that she is a woman; though, to be sure, 
they are now and then very provoking ; still as au- 
thoresses they can do no great harm ; and I think 
it is a pity so much good invective should have 
been laid out upon her, when there is such a fine 
field of us, Jacobin gentlemen, for you to work 
upon. It is, perhaps, as bitter a critique as ever 
was written, and enough to make sad work for 
Dr. Morgan, both as husband and apothecary ; — 
unless she should say, as Pope did of some attack 
_ upon him, ' That it is as good for her as a dose of 
hartshorn.' 

" I heard from Moore lately, and was sorry to be 
made aware of his domestic loss. Thus it is — 
' medio de fonte leporum ' — in the acme of his fame 
•and his happiness comes a drawback as usual. 



" Mr. Hoppner, whom I saw this morning, has 



been made the father of a very fine boy.* — Mother 
and child doing very well indeed. By this time 
Hobhouse should be with you, and also certain pack- 
ets, letters, &c, of mine, sent since his departure. 
I am not at all well in health within this last eight 
days. My remembrances to Gifford and all friends. 
"Yours, &c, . 
"B. 

" P. S. In the course of a month or two, Hanson 
will have probably to send off a clerk with convey- 
ances to sign, (Newstead being sold in November 
last for ninety-four thousand five hundred pounds,) 
in which case I supplicate supplies of articles as 
usual, for which, desire Mr. Kinnaird to settle from 
funds in their bank, and deduct from my account 
with him. 

" P. S. To-morrow night I am going to see 
' Otello,' an opera from our 'Othello,' and one of 
Rossini's best, it is said. It will be curious to see 
in Venice the Venetian story itself represented, 
besides to discover what they will make of Shak- 
speare in music. 



LETTER CCCLXVI. 



TO MK. HOPPNER. 



" Venice, Feb. 28, ISIS. 

" My Dear Sir, 

" Our friend, il Conte M., threw me into a cold 
sweat last night, by telling me of a menaced ver- 
sion of Manfred (in Venetian I hope, to complete 
the thing), by some Italian, who had sent it to you 
for correction, which is the reason why I take the 
liberty of troubling you on the subject. If you 
have any means of communication with the man, 
would you permit me to convey to him the offer of 
any price he may obtain, or think to obtain, for his 
project, provided he will throw his translation into 
the fire, and promise not to undertake any other of 
that or any other of my things : I will send him 
his money immediately on this condition. 

" As I did not write to the Italians, nor for the 
Italians, nor of the Italians, (except in a poem not 
yet published, where I have said all the good I know 
or do not know of them and none of the harm,) I 
confess I wish that they would let me alone, and not 
drag me into their arena as one of the gladiators, in 
a silly contest which I neither understand nor have 
ever interfered with, having kept clear of all their 
literary parties, both here and at Milan, and else- 
where. — I came into Italy to feel the climate and 
be quiet if possible. Mossi's translation I would 
have prevented if I had known it, or could have 
done so ; and I trust that I shall yet be in time to stop 
this new gentleman, of whom I heard yesterday for 
the first time. He will only hurt himself, and do 
no good to his party, for in party the whole thing 
originates. Our modes of thinking and writing are so 
unutterably different, that I can conceive no greater- 
absurdity than attempting to make any approach 
between the English and Italian poetry of the pres- 
ent day. I like the people very much, and their 
literature very much, but 1 am not the least ambi- 
tious of being the subject of their discussions litera- 
ry and personal, (which appear to be pretty much 



* On the binh of this child, L who was christened John William Rizao, 
Lord Byron wrote the four following lines, which are in no other respect 
remarkable than that they were thought worthy of being metrically translated 
into no less than ten different languages; namely, Greek, Latin, Italian, 
(also in the Venetian dialect,) German, French, Spanish, lllyrian, Hebrew 
Armenian, and Samaritan : — 

" His father's sense, his mother's grace 

In him, I hope, will always fit so ; 

With (still to keep him in good case,) 

The health and appetite of Rizzo." 

The original lines, with the different versions above mentioned, wen 
printed in a small volume, in the Seminary of Padua.— Moore. 



872 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the same thing, as is the case in most countries ;) 
and if you can aid me in impeding this publication, 
you will add to much kindness already received from 
you by yours. " Ever and truly, 

" Byron. 
" P S. How is the son, and mamma ? Well, I 
dare say." 



LETTER CCCLXVII. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



" Venice, March 3, 1818. 

" I have not, as you say, ' taken to wife the Adri- 
atic' I heard of Moore's loss from himself in a 
letter which was delayed upon the road three months. 
I was sincerely sorry for it, but in such cases what are 
words ? 

" The villa you speak of is one at Este, which 
Mr. Hoppner (consul-general here), has transferred 
to me. I have taken it for two years as a place of 
Villeggiatura. The situation is very beautiful in- 
deed, among the Euganean hills, and the house very 
fair. The* vines are luxuriant to a great degree, 
and all the fruits of the earth abundant. It is close 
to the old castle of the Estes, or Guelphs, and with- 
in a few miles of Arqua, which I have visited twice, 
and hope to visit often. 

" Last summer (except an excursion to Rome), I 
passed upon the Brenta. In Venice I winter, 
transporting my horses to the Lido, bordering the 
Adriatic, (where the fort is,) so that I get a gallop 
of some miles daily along the strip of beach which 
reaches to Malamocco, when in health ; but within 
these few weeks I have been unwell. At present I 
am getting better. The Carnival was short but a 
good one. I don't go out much, except during the 
time of masks ; but there are one or two conversa- 
zioni, where I go regularly, just to keep up the sys- 
tem, as I had letters to their givers ; and they are 
particular on such points ; and now and then, though 
very rarely, to the Governor's. 

" It is a very good place for women. I like the 
dialect and their manner very much. There is a 
natvete about them which is very winning, and the 
romance of the place is a mighty adjunct ; the bel 
sangue is not, however, now among the dame or 
higher orders ; but all under ifazzioli, or kerchiefs, 
(a white kind of veil which the lower orders wear 
upon their heads ;) — the testa zcndale, or old na- 
tional female costume, is no more. The city, how- 
ever, is decaying daily, and does not gain in popu- 
lation. However, I prefer it to any other in Italy ; 
and here have I pitched my staff, and here do I 
purpose to reside for the remainder of my life, un- 
less events, connected with business not to be trans- 
acted out of England compel me to return for that 
purpose ; otherwise I have few regrets, and no de- 
sires to visit it again for its own sake. I shall 
probably be obliged to do so, to sign papers for my 
affairs and a proxy for the Whigs", and to see Mr. 
Waite, for I can't find a good dentist here, and eve- 
ry two or three years one ought to consult one. — 
About seeing my children, I must take my chance. 
One I shall have sent here ; and I shall be very 
happy to see the legitimate one when God pleases, 
which he perhaps will some day or other. As for 
my mathematical wife, I am as well without her. 

" Your account of your visit to Fonthill is very 
striking: could you beg of him for me a copy in 
MS. of the remaining Tales f* I think I deserve 
them, as a strenuous and public admirer of the first 
one. I will return it when read, and make no ill 
use of the copy, if granted. Murray would send 
me out any thing safely. If ever I return to Eng- 
land, I should like very much to see the author, with 
his permission. In the mean time, you could not 



A continuation of Vathelf, by Mr. Beckford. 



oblige me more than by obtaining me the perusal I 
request, in French or English, — all's one for that, 
though I prefer Italian to either. I have a French 
copy of Vathek, which I bought at Lausanne. I 
can read French with great pleasure and facility, 
though I neither speak nor write it. Now Italian 
I can speak with some fluency, and write sufficient- 
ly for my purposes, but I don't like their modern 
prose at all ; it is very heavy, and so different from 
Machiavelli. ^ 

" They say Francis is Junius ; — I think it looks 
like it. I remember meeting him at Earl Gray's at 
dinner. Has not he lately married a young woman ; 
and was not he .Madame Talleyrand's cavaliere ser- 
vente in India years ago ? 

"I read my death in the papers', which was net 
true. I see they are marrying the remaining single- 
ness of the royal family. They have brought out 
Fazio with great and deserved success at Covent 
Garden ; that's a good sign. I tried, during the 
directory, to have it done at Drury Lane, but was 
overruled. If you think of coming into this coun- 
try, you will let me know perhaps beforehand. I 
suppose Moore won't move. Rose is here. I saw 
him the other night at Madame Albrizzi's ; he talks 
of returning in May. My love to the Hollands. 

"Ever, &c. 

"P. S. They have been crucifying Othello into 
an opera, (Otello, by Rossini;) the music good, but 
lugubrious ; but as for the words, all the real scenes 
with Iago cat out, and the greatest nonsense in- 
stead ; the handkerchief turned into a billet-doux, 
and the first singer would not black his face, for 
some exquisite reasons assigned in the preface. Sing- 
ing, dresses, and music, very good." 



LETTER CCCLXVIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Venice, March 16, 1818. 

My Dear Tom, 

" Since my last, which I hope that you have re- 
ceived, I have had a letter from our friend Samuel.* 
He talks of Italy this summer — won't you come 
with him ? I don't know whether you would like 
our Italian way of life or not. 



" They are an odd people. The other day I was 
telling a girl, ' you must not come to-morrow, be- 
cause Marguerita is coming at such a time,' — (they 
are both about five feet ten inches high, with great 
black eyes and fine figures — fit to breed gladiators 
from — and I had some difficulty to prevent a battle 
upon a rencontre once before) — ' unless you promise 
to be friends, and ' — the answer was an interruption 
by a declaration of war against the other, which she 
said would be a 'Guerra di Candia.' Is it not odd, 
that the lower order of Venetians should still allude 
proverbially to that famous contest, so glorious and 
so fatal to the Republic ? 

"They have singular expressions, like all the 
Italians. For example, ' Viscere ' — as we would 
say, 'my love,' or 'my heart,' as an expression of 
tenderness. Also, ' I would go for you in the midst 
of a hundred knives.' — ' Mazza ben,' excessive at- 
tachment, — literally, ' I wish you well even to kilU 
ing.' They then say, (instead of our way, ' do you 
think I would do you so much harm?') 'do you 
think I would assassinate you in such a manner ? ' • 
— ' Tempo perfde,' bad weather ; ' Strade perfide,' 
bad roads — with a thousand other allusions and 
metaphors, taken from the state of society and 
habits in the middle ages. 

" I am not so sure about mazza, whether it don't 



LETTERS. 



873 



mean massa, i.e. a great deal, a mass, instead of 
the interpretation I have given it. But of the other 
phrases I am sure. 

" Three o' th' clock — I must ' to bed, to bed, to 
bed,' as mother Siddons (that tragical friend of the 
mathematical wife) says, ***** 
******* 

" Have you ever seen — I forget what or whom — 
no matter. They tell me Lady Melbourne is very 
unwell. \I shall Ue so sorry. She was my greatest 
friend, of the feminine gender : — when I say 'friend,' 
I mean not mistress, for that's the antipodes. Tell 
me all about you and every body — how Sam is — how 
you like your neighbors, the Marquis and Mar- 
chesa, &c, &c.gk " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXIX. 

TO Mil. MURRAY. 

" Venice, March 25, !818. 

" I have your letter, with the account of ' Beppo,' 
for which I sent you four new stanzas a fortnight 
ago, in case you print or reprint. 

****** 

"Croker's is a good guess ; but the style is not 
English — it is Italian ; — Berni is the original of all. 
Whistlecraft was my immediate model ; Rose's 
' Animali ' I never saw till a few days ago, — they are 
excellent. But (as I said above), Berni is the father 
of that kind of writing, which I think suits our 
language, too, very well ; — we shall see by the ex- 
periment. If it does, I shall send you a volume in 
a year or two, for I know the Italian way of life well, 
and in time may know it yet better ; and as for the 
verse and the passions, I have them still in tolera- 
ble vigor. 

" If you think that it will do you and the work, 
or works, any good, you may put my name to it ; 
but first consult the knowing ones. It will, at any 
rate, show them that I can write cheerfully, and 
repel the charge of monotony and mannerism. 

" Yours, &c." 



( Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine 
The works thou deemest most divine — 
The ' Art of Cookery,' and mine, 
My Murray. 

' Tours, Travels, Essays, too, 1 wist, 
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist ; 
And then thou hast the ' Navy List,' 
My Murray. 

' And Heaven forbid 1 should conclude 
Without the ' Board of Longitude,' 
Although tliis narrow paper would, 
My Murray ! " 



LETTER CCCLXX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, April II, 1813. 

" Will you send me by letter, packet, or parcel, 
half a dozen of the colored prints froin Holmes's 
miniature, (the latter done shortly before I left your 
country, and the prints about a year ago;) I shall 
be obliged to you, as some people here have asked 
me for the like. It is a picture of my upright self, 
done for Scrope B. Davies, Esq. 

* * * * * * 

" Why have you not sent me an answer, and lists 
of subscribers to the translation of the Armenian 
Ewebius? of which I sent you printed copies of the 
prospectus (in French) two moons ago. Have you 
had the letter ? — I shall send you another : — you 
must not neglect my Armenians. Tooth-powder, 
magnesia, tincture of myrrh, tooth-brushes, diachy- 
lon plaster, Peruvian bark, are my personal de- 
mands. 

" Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
Patron and publisher of rhymes, 
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
My Murray. 

" To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
The unfledged MS. authnrs come ; 
Thou printest all — and sellest some — 
My Murray. 

11 Upon thy table's baize so green 
The last new Quarterly is seen : 
But where is tby new Magazine, 
My Murray? 

110 



LETTER CCCLXXI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, April 12, 1813. 

" This letter will be delivered by Signor Gioe. 
Bata. Missiaglia, proprietor of the Apollo library, 
and the principal publisher and bookseller now in 
Venice. He sets out for London with a vjanr to 
business and correspondence with the English book- 
sellers : and it is in the hope that it may be for your 
mutual advantage that I furnish him with this let- 
ter'of introduction to you. If you can be of use to 
him, either by recommendation to others, or by any 
personal attention on your own part, you will oblige 
him, and gratify me. You may also perhaps both 
be able to derive advantage, or establish some mode 
of literary communication, pleasing to the public, 
and beneficial to one another. 

" At any rate, be civil to him for my sake, as well 
as for the honor and glory of publishers and authors 
now and to come for evermore. 

"With him I also consign a great number of MS. 
letters, written in English, French, and Italian, by 
various English established in Italy during the last 
century : — the names of the writers, Lord Hervey, 
Lady M. W. Montague, (hers are but few — some 
billets-doux in French to Algarotti, and one letter 
in English, Italian, and all sorts of jargon, to the 
same,) Gray, the poet, (one letter,) Mason, (two or 
three,) Garrick, Lord Chatham, David Hume, and 
many of less note, — all addressed to Count Alga- 
rotti. Out of these, I think, with discretion, an 
amusing miscellaneous volume of letters might be 
extracted, provided some good editor were disposed 
to undertake the selection, and preface, and a few 
notes, &c. 

" The proprietor of these is a friend of mine, Dr. 
Aglietti, — a great name in Italy, — and if you are 
disposed to publish, it will be for his benefit, and it 
is to and for him that you will name a price, if you 
take upon you the work. I would edit it myself, 
but am too far off, and too lazy to undertake it ; but 
I wish that it could be done. The letters of Lord 
Hervey, in Mr. Rose's opinion and mine, are good ; 
and the short French love-letters certainly are Lady 
M. W. Montague's — the French not good, but the 
sentiments beautiful. Gray's letter good ; and 
Mason's tolerable. The whole correspondence must 
be well loeeded ; but this being done, a small and 
pretty popular volume might be made of it. There 
are many ministers' letters — Gray the ambassador 
at Naples, Horace Mann, and others of the tame 
kind of animal. 

"I thought of a preface, defending Lord Hervey 
against Pope's attack, but Pope — quoad Pope, the 
poet — against all the world, in the unjustifiable at- 
tempts begun by Warton, and carried on at this day 
by the new school of critics and scribblers, who think 
themselves poets because they do not write like Pope. 
I have no patience with such cursed humbug and 
bad taste ; your whole generation are not worth a 
canto of the Rape of the Lock, or the Essay on 
Man, or the Dunciad, or ' any thing that is his.' 
But it is three in the matin, and I must go to bed. 
"Yours alway, &* " 



874 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCLXXII. 



TO Mil. MURRAY. 



" Venice, April 17, 1818 

" A few days ago, I wrote to you a letter request- 
ing you to desire Hanson to desire his messenger to 
come on from Geneva to Venice, because I won't go 
from Venice to Geneva ; and if this is not done, the 
messenger may be damned, with him who mis-sent 
him. Pray reiterate my request. 

" With the proofs returned, I sent two additional 
stanzas for canto fourth: did they arrive? 

"Your monthly reviewer has made a mistake: 
Cavaliere alone is well enough ; ' Cavalier servente' 
has always the e mute in conversation, and omitted 
in writing ; so that it is not for the sake of metre ; 
and pray l?t Griffiths know this, with my compli- 
ments. I humbly conjecture that I know as much 
of Italian society and language as any of his peo 
pie ; but to make assurance doubly sure, I asked, at 
the Countess Benzona's, last night, the question of 
more than one person in the office; and of these 
' cay^iere serventi ' (in the plural, recollect,) I found 
that they all accorded in pronouncing for ' cavalier 
servente ' in the singular number. I wish Mr. * * * * 
(or whoever Griffith's scribbler may be) would not 
talk of what he don't understand. Such fellows are 
not fit to be intrusted with Italian, even in a quota- 
tion. ******** 

" Did you receive two additional stanzas, to be 
inserted towards the close of canto fourth ? Re- 
spond, that (if not) they may be sent. 

" Tell Mr. * * and Mr. Hanson, that they may as 
well expect Geneva to come to me, as that I should 
go to Geneva. The messenger may go or return, 
as he pleases ; I won't stir : and I look upon it as a 
piece of singular absurdity in those who know me, 
imagining that I should — not to say malice, in at- 
tempting unnecessary torture. If, on the occasion, 
my interests should suffer, it is their neglect that is 
to blame ; and they may all be d d together. 



" You may tell them this ; and add, thaf nothing 
but force or necessity shall stir me one step towards 
the places to which they would wring me. 

****** 

" If your literary matters prosper, let me know. 
If ' Beppo ' pleases, you shall have more in a year 
or two in the same mood. And so, ' Good morrow 
to you, good Master Lieutenant. 

"Yours, &c." 



" It is ten o'clock, and time to dress. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 23,1818. 

" The time is past in which I could feel for the 
dead, — or I should feel for the death of Lady Mel- 
bourne, the best, and kindest, and ablest female I 
ever knew, old or young. But ' I have supped full 
of horrors ; ' and events of this kind have only a 
kind of numbness worse than pain, like a violent 
blow on the elbow or the head. There is one link 
less between England and myself. 

" Now to business. I presented you with Beppo, 
as part of the contract for canto fourth, — consider- 
ing the price you are to pay for the same, and in- 
tending to eke you out in case of public caprice or 
my own poetical failure. If you choose to suppress 
it entirely, at Mr. * * * *' s suggestion, you may do 
as jjfiu please. But recollect it is not to be pub- 
lished in a garbled or mutilated state. I reserve to 
my friends and myself the right of correcting the 
press : — if the publication continue, it is to continue 
in its present form. 

****** 

".As Mr. * * says that he did nor write this let- 
ter, &c, I am ready to believe him; but for the 
firmness of my former persuasion, I refer to Mr. 
* * * *, who can inform you how sincerely I erred 
on this point. He has also the note — or, at least, 
had it, for I gave it to him with my verbal com- 
ments thereupon. As to ' Beppo,' I will not alter 
or suppress a syllable for any man's pleasure but my 
own. 



LETTER CCCLXXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. % 

" Palazzo Mocenigo, Canal Grande, 
" Venice, June 1, 1818. • 

"Your letter is almost the only news, as yet, of 
canto fourth, and it has by no means settled its fate, 
— at least, does not tell me how the ' poeshie ' has 
been received by the public. But I suspect, no 
great things,— firstly, from Murray's ' horrid still- 
ness ; ' secondly: from what you say about the stan- 
zas running into each other,* which I take not to be 
yours, but a notion you have binned with among the 
Blues. The fact is, that the terza rima of the Ital- 
ians, which always runs on and in, may have led me 
into experiments, and carelessness into conceit — or 
conceit into carelessness — in either of which events 
failure will be probable, and my fair woman, ' su- 
perne,' end in a fish ; so that Childe Harold will be 
like the mermaid, my family crest, with the fourth 
canto for a tail thereunto. I won't quarrel with the 
public, however, for the ' Bulgars ' are generally 
right ; and if I miss now, I may hit another time": 
— and so ' the gods give us joy.' 

"You like Beppo; that's right. * * * * I 
have not had the Fudges yet, but live in hopes. I 
need not say that your successes are mine. By-the- 
way, Lydia White is here, and has just borrowed 
my copy of ' Lalla Rookh.' 



" Hunt's letter is probably the exact piece of vul- 
gar coxcombry you might expect from his situation. 
He is a good man, with some poetical elements in 
his chaos ; but spoiled by the Christ-Church Hos- 
pital and a Sunday newspaper, — to say nothing of 
the Surry jail, which conceited him into a martyr. 
But he is a good man. When I saw ' Rimini ' in 
MSS., I told him that I deemed it good poetry at 
bottom, disfigured only by a strange style. His 
answer was, that his style was a system, or upon 
system, or some such cant ; and, when a man talks 
of system, his case is hopeless : so I said no more 
to him, and very little to any one else. 

" He believes his trash of vulgar phrases tortured 
into compound barbarisms to be old English ; and 
we may say of it as Aimwell says of Captain Gib- 
bet's regiment, when the captain calls it an ' old 
corps,' — 'the oldest in Europe, if I may judge by 
your uniform.' He sent out his ' Foliage ' by Percy 
Shelley, and, of all the ineffable centaurs that were 
ever begotten by self-love upon a night-mare, I 
think this monstrous sagittary the most prodigious. 
He (Leigh H.) is an honest charlatan, who has per- 
suaded himself into a belief of his own impostures, 
and talks Punch in pure simplicity of heart, taking 
himself (as poor Fitzgerald said of himseU in the 
Morning Post) for Vates in both senses, or non- 
senses, of the word. Did you look at the transla- 
tions of his own which he prefers to Pope and Cow- 
per, and says so ? — Did you read his skimble- 
skamble about * * being at the head of his own 
profession in the eyes of those who followed it ? I 
thought that poetry was an art, or an attribute, and 
nor a profession ; — but be it one, is that ****** 



• Mr, Moore had said, in his letter to hirn, that this practice of carryine 
one stanza into another, was " something like taking on horses another stage 
without baiting." 



LETTERS. 



875 



at the head of your profession in your eyes ? I'll 
be cursed if he is of mine, or ever shall be. He is 
^he only one of us (but of us he is not) whose coro- 
nation I would oppose. Let them take Scott, 
Campbell, Crabbe, or you or me, or any of the liv- 
ing, and throne him; — but not this new Jacob 
Behmen, this ******* 
whose pride might have kept him true, even had 
his principles turned as perverted as his soi-disant 
poetry. 

" But Leigh Hunt is a good man, and a good 
father — see his odes to all the Masters Hunt ; a 
good husband — see his sonnet to Mrs. Hunt ; — a 
good friend — see his epistles to different people : — 
and a great coxcomb, and a very vulgar person in 
every thing about him. But that's not his fault, 
but of circumstances. 



"I do not know any good model for a life of 
Sheridan but that of Savage. Recollect, however, 
that the life of such a man may be_made far more 
amusing than if he had been a Wilberforce ; — and 
this without offending the living or insulting the 
dead. The Whigs abuse him ; however, he never 
left them, and such blunderers deserve neither 
credit nor compassion. As for his creditors, — re- 
member, Sheridan never had a shilling, and was 
thrown, with great powers and passions, into the 
thick of the world, and placed upon the pinnacle 
of success, with no other external means to support 
him in his elevation. Did Fox * * * pay his debts ? 
— or did Sheridan take a subscription ? Was the 
Duke of Norfolk's drunkenness more excusable 
than his ? Were his intrigues more notorious than 
those of all his contemporaries ? and is his memory 
to be blasted, and theirs respected ? Don't let 
yourself be led away by clamor, but compare him 
with the coalitioner Fox, and the pensioner Burke, 
as a man of principle, and with ten hundred thou- 
sand in personal views, and with none in talent, 
for he beat them all out and out. Without means, 
without connexion, without character (which might 
be false at first, and made him mad afterward from 
desperation), he beat them all, in all he ever at 
tempted. But alas, poor human nature ! Good 
night — or, rather, morning. It is four, and the 
dawn gleams over the Grand Canal, and unshadows 
the Rialto. I must to bed ; up all night — but, as 
George Philpot says, ' it's life, though, damme, it's 
life ! ' " Ever yours, 

<<B.' 

"Excuse errors — no time for revision. The post 
goes out at noon, and I shan't be up then. I will 
write again soon about your^&w for a publication." 



LETTER CCCLXXV. 



" Since you desire the story of Margarita Cogni, 
you shall be told it, though it may be lengthy. 

" Her face is the fine Venetian cast of the old 
time; her figure, though perhaps too tall, is not 
less fine — and taken altogether in the national 
dress. 

" In the summer of 1817, ***** and myself 
were sauntering on horseback along the Brenta one 
evening, when, among a group of peasants, we re- 
marked, two girls as the prettiest we had seen for 
some time. About this period there had been great 
distress in the country, and I had a little relieved 
some of the people. Generosity makes a great 
figure at very little cost in Venetian livres, and 
mine had probably been exaggerated as an English- 
man's. Whether they remarked us looking at them 
or no, I know not; but one of them called out to 
me in Venetian, ' Why do not you, who relieve 



others, think of us also ? ' I turned round and 
answered her — ' Cara, tu sei troppo bella e giovane 
per aver' bisogna del' soccorso inio.' She answered, 
' If you saw my hut and my food, you would not 
say so.' All this passed half jestingly, and I saw 
no more of her for some days. 

"A few evenings after, we met with these two 
girls again, and they addressed us more seriously, 
assuring us of the truth of their statement. They 
were cousins ; Margarita married, the other single. 
As I doubted still of the circumstances, I took the 
business in a different light, and made an appoint- 
ment with them for the next evening. 

****** 

* * In short, in a few evenings we arranged 
our affairs, and for a lopg space of time she was the 
only one who preserved over me an ascendency 
which was often disputed, and never impaired. 

" The reasons for this were, firstly, her person ; — 
very dark, tall, the Venetian face, very tine black 
eyes. She was two-and-twenty years old, * * 

* * *. She was besides a thorough Vene- 
tian in her dialect, in her thoughts, in her counte- 
nance, in every thing, with all their nalvet and 
pantaloon humor. Besides, she could neither read 
nor write, and could not plague me with letters, 
— except twice that she paid sixpence to a public 
scribe, under the piazza, to make a letter for her, 
upon some occasion when I was ill and could not 
see her. In other respects, she was somewhat 
fierce and ' prepotente,' that is overbearing, and 
used to walk in whenever it suited her, with no 
very great regard to time, place, nor persons ; and 
if she found any women in her way, she knocked 
them down. 

"When I first knew her, I was in 'relazione' 
(liaison) with la Signora * *, who was silly enough 
one evening at Dolo, accompained by some of her 
female friends, to threaten her ; for the gossips 
of the Villeggiatura had already found out, by the 
neighing of my horse one evening, that I used to 
' ride late in the night ' to meet the Fornarina 
Margarita threw back her veil (fazziolo), and replied 
in very explicit Venetian : ' I ou are not his wife . 
I am not his wife : you are his Donna, and / am 
his Donna : your husband is a becco, and mine is 
another. For the rest, what right have you to 
reproach me ? If he prefers me to you, is it my 
fault ? If you wish to secure him, tie him to your 
petticoat-string. But do not think to speak to me 
without a reply, because you happen to be richer 
than I am.' Having aelivered this pretty piece of 
eloquence (which I translate as it was translated 
to me by a bystander), she went on her way, leaving 
a numerous audience, with Madame * * to ponder 
at her leisure on the dialogue between them. 

" AVhen I came to Venice for the winter she fol- 
lowed ; and as she found herself out to be a favor- 
ite, she came to me pretty often. But she had 
inordinate self-love, and was not tolerant of other 
women. At the ' Cavalchina,' the masked ball on 
the last night of the Carnival, where all the world 
goes, she snatched off the mask of Madame Con- 
tarini, a lady noble by birth, and decent in conduct, 
for no other reason but because she happened to 
be leaning on my arm. You may suppose what a 
cursed noise this made ; but this is only one of her 
pranks. 

"At last she quarrelled with her husband, and 
one evening ran away to my house. I told her this 
would not do ; she said she would lie in the street, 
but not go back to him; that he beat her, (the 
gentle tigress !) spent her money, and scandalously 
neglected her. As it was midnight, I let her stay, 
and next day there was no moving her at all. Her 
husband came roaring and crying, and entreating 
her to come back— not she! He then applied to 
the police, and they applied to me: I told them 
and her husband to take her ; I did not want her ; 
she had come, and I could not fling her ou» of the 
window ; but they might conduct her through that 



376 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



or the door if they chose it. She went before the 
commissary, but was obliged to return, with that 
'becco ettico,' as she called the poor man, who had 
a phthisic. In a few days she ran away again. 
After a precious piece of work, she fixed herself in 
my house, really and truly without my consent ; 
but, owing to my indolence, and not being able to 
keep my countenance — for if I began in a rage, she 
always finished by making me laugh with some 
Venetian pantaloonery or another ; and the gipsy 
knew this well enough, as well as her other powers 
of persuasion, and exerted them with the usual tact 
and success of all she-things ; — high and low, they 
are all alike for that. 

"Madame Benzoni also took her under her pro- 
tection, and then her head turned. She was always 
in extremes, either crying or laughing, and so fierce 
when angered, that she was the terror of men, wo- 
men, and children — for she had the strength of an 
Amazon, with the temper of Medea. She was a 
fine animal, but quite untameable. / was the only 
person that could at all keep her in any order, and 
when she saw me really angry (which they tell me 
is a savage sight), she subsided. But she had a 
thousand fooleries. In her fazziolo, the dress of 
the lower orders, she looked beautiful ; but, alas 
she longed for a hat and feathers ; and all I could 
say or do (and I said much) could not prevent this 
travestie. I put the first into the fire ; but I got 
tired of burning them before she did of buying 
them, so that she made herself a figure — for they 
did not at all become her. 

"Then she would have her gowns with a tail 
like a lady, forsooth ; nothing would serve her but 
Tabita colla coua,' or cua (that is the Venetian for 
' la cola,' the tail or train), and as her cursed pro- 
nunciation of the word made me laugh, there was 
an end of a^l controversy, and she "dragged this 
diabolical tail after her every where. 

" In the mean time, she beat the women and 
stopped my letters. I found her one day ponder- 
ing over one. She used fo try to find out by their 
shape whether they were feminine or no ; and she 
used to lament her ignorance, and actually studied 
her alphabet, on purpose (as she declared) to open 
all letters addressed to me, and read their contents. 

" I must not omit to do justice to her housekeep- 
ing qualities. After she came into my house as 
' donna di governo,' the expenses were reduced to 
less than half, and every body did their duty better 
— the apartments were kept^n order, and every 
thing, and every body else, except herself. 

"That she had a sufficient regard for me in her 
wild way, I had many reasons to believe. I will 
mention one. In the autumn, one day going to the 
Lido with my gondoliers, we were overtaken by a 
heavy squall, and the gondola put in peril — hats 
blown away, boat filling, oar lost, tumbling sea, 
thunder, rain in torrents, night coming, and wind 
unceasing. On our return, after a tight struggle, 
I found her on the open steps of the Mocenigo 
palace, on the Grand Canal, with her great, black 
eyes flashing through her tears, and the long dark 
hair, which was streaming, drenched with rain, 
over her brows and breast. She was perfectly ex- 
posed to the storm ; and the wind blowing her hair 
and dress about her thin tall figure, and the light- 
ning flashing around her, and the waves rolling at 
her feet, made her look like Medea alighting from 
her chariot, or the sibyl of the tempest that was 
rolling around her, the only living thing within 
hail at that moment except ourselves. On seeing 
me safe, she did not wait to greet me, as might 
have been expected, but calling out to me — ' Ah ! 
can' della Madonna, xe esto il tempo por andar' al' 
Lido ? ' (Ah ! dog of the Virgin, is this a time to 
go to Lido?) ran into the house, and solaced her- 
self with scolding the boatmen for not foreseeing 
the ' temporale.' I am told by the servants that 
she had only been prevented from coming in a boat 
to look after me, by the refusal of all the gondoliers 



of the canal to put out into the harbor in such h 
moment ; and that then she sat down on the steps 
in all the thickest of the squall, and would neither^ 
be removed nor comforted. Her joy at seeing me 
again was moderately mixed with ferocity, and gave 
me the idea of a tigress over her recovered cubs. 

" But her reign drew near a close. She became 
quite ungovernable some months after, and a con- 
currence of complaints, some true, and many false 
— ' a favorite has no friends ' — determined me to 
part with her. I told her quietly that she must 
return home, (she had acquired a sufficient pro- 
vision for herself and mother, &c, in my service,) 
and she refused to quit the house. I was firm, and 
she went threatening knives and revenge. I told 
her that I had seen knives drawn before her time, 
and that if she chose to begin, there was a knife, 
and fork also, at her service on the table, and that 
intimidation would not do. The next day, while I 
was at dinner, she walked in, (having broken open 
a glass door that lead from the hall below to the 
staircase, by ^ay of prologue,) and advancing 
straight up to the table, snatched the knife from 
my hand, cutting me slightly in the thumb in the 
operation. Whether she meant to use this against 
herself or me, I know not — probably against neither 
— but Fletcher seized her by the arms, and disarmed 
her. I then called my boatmen, and desired them 
to get the gondola ready, and conduct her to her 
own house again, seeing carefully that she did her- 
self no mischief by the way. She seemed quite 
quiet, N and walked down stairs. ] resumed my 
dinner. 

" We heard a great noise, and went out, and met 
them on the staircase, carrying her up stairs. She 
had thrown herself into the canal. That she in- 
tended to destroy herself, I do not believe : but 
when we consider the fear women and men who 
can't swim have of deep, or even of shallow water, 
(and the Venetians in particular, though they live 
on the waves,) and that it was also night, and dark, 
and very cold, it shows that she had a devilish spirit 
of some sort within her. They had got her out 
without much difficulty or damage, excepting the 
salt water she had swallowed, and the wetting she 
had undergone. 

" I foresaw her intention to refix herself, and sent 
for a surgeon, inquiring how many hours it would 
require to restore her from her agitation ; and he 
named the time. I then said, ' I give you that 
time, and more if you require it ; but at the expira- 
tion of this prescribed period, if she does not leave 
the house, I will.' 

" All my people were consternated. They had 
always been frightened at her, and were now para- 
lyzed : they wanted me to apply to the police, to 
guard myself, &c, &c, like a pack of snivelling 
servile boobies, as they were. I did nothing of the 
kind, thinking that I might as well end that way as 
another ; besides, I had been used to savage women, 
and knew their ways. 

"I had her sent home quietly after her recovery, 
and never saw her since, except twice at the opera, 
at a distance among the audience. She made many 
attempts to return, but no more" violent ones. — And 
this is the story of Margarita Cogni, as far as it 
relates to me. 

"I forgot to mention that she was very devout, 
and would cross herself if she heard the prayer 
time strike. ***** 
* * * * * * 

" She was qujck in reply; as, for instance — One 
day when she had made me very angry with beat- 
ing somebody or other, I called her a cow, (a cow, 
in Italian, is a sad affront.) I called her ' Vecca.' 
She turned round, curtsied, and answered, ' Vecca 
tua, 'celenza,' (i. e. eccellenza.) ' Your cow, please 
your Excellency.' In short, she was, as I said be- 
fore, a very fine animal, of considerable beauty and 
energy, with many good and several amusing quali- 
ties, but wild as a witch and fierce as a demon. She 



LETTERS. 



877 



used to boast publicly of her ascendancy over me, 
contrasting it with that of other women, and as- 
signing for it sundry reasons, * * *. True it was, 
that they all tried to get her away, and no one 
succeeded till her own absurdity helped them. 

" I omitted to tell you her answer, when I re- 
proached her for snatching Madame Contarini's 
mask at the Cavalchina. I represented to her that 
she was a lady of high birth, ' una Dama,' &c. 
She answered, ' Se ella e dama mi (io) son Vene- 
tian : ' — 'if she is a lady, I am a Venetian.' This 
would have been fine a hundred years ago, the pride 
of the nation rising up against the pride of aristoc- 
racy :* but, alas ! Venice, and her people, and her 
nobles, are alike returning fast to the ocean ; and 
where there is no independence, there can be no 
real self-respect. I believe that I mistook or mis- 
stated one of her phrases in my letter ; it should 
have been — ' Can' della Madonna, cosa vus' tu ? 
esto non e tempo per andar' a Lido ? ' 



LETTER CCCLXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, June 13, 1318. 

"Business, and the utter and inexplicable silence 
of all my correspondents, renders rfft impatient and 
troublesome. I wrote to Mr. Hanson for a balance 
which is (or ought to be) in his hands ; — no answer. 
I expected the messenger with the Newstead papers 
two months ago, and instead of him, I received a 
requisition to proceed to Geneva, which (from * *, 
who knows my wishes and opinions about approach- 
ing England) could only be irony or insult. 

" I must, therefore, trouble you to pay into my 
bankers immediately whatever sum or sums you 
can make it convenient to do on our agreement ; 
otherwise, I shall be put to the severest and most 
immediate inconvenience ; and this at a time when, 
by every rational prospect and calculation, I ought 
to be in the receipt ^ considerable sums. Pray do 
not neglect this ; yorrhave no idea to what incon- 
venience you will otherwise put me. * * had some 
absurd notion about the disposal of this money in 
annuity, (or God knows what,) which I merely lis- 
tened to when he was here to avoid squabbles and 
sermons ; but I have occasion for the principal, and 
had never any serious idea of approbating it other- 
wise than to answer my personal expenses. Hob- 
house's wish is, if possible, to force me back to 
England : he will not succeed ; and if he did, I 
would not stay. I hate the country, and like this ; 
and all foolish opposition, of course, merely adds 
to the feeling. Your silence makes me doubt the 
success of canto fourth. If it has failed, I will 
make such deduction as you think proper and fair 
from the original agreement ; but I could wish 
whatever is to be paid were remitted to me, without 
delay, through the usual channel, by course of post. 

" When I tell you that I have not heard a word 
from England since very early in May, I have made 
the eulogium of my friends, or the persons who call 
themselves so, since I have written so often and in 
the greatest anxiety. Thank God, the longer I am 
absent, the less cause I see for regretting the 
country or its living contents. 

"I am yours, &c. 

" P. S. Tell Mr. * * * that * * 

****** 

and that I never will forgive him, (or any body,) the 
atrocity of their late silence at a time when I wished 
particularly to hear, for every reason, from my 
frierlds." 



* Childe Harold, canto iv., stanza xiii.,- 
wheuce she rote. ' 



' Sinks like a seaweed into 



LETTER CCCLXXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, July 10, ISIS. 

" I have received your letter and the credit from 
Morlands, &c, for whom I have also drawn upon 
you at sixty days' sight for the remainder, accord- 
ing to your proposition. 

"I am still waiting in Venice, in expectancy of 
the arrival of Hanson's clerk. What can detain 
him, I do not know : but I trust that Mr. Hobhouse 
and Mr. Kinnaird, when the political fit is abated, 
will take the trouble to inquire and expedite him, 
as I have nearly a hundred thousand pounds de- 
pending upon the completion of the sale and the 
signature of the papers. 

"The draft on you is drawn up by Siri and Will- 
halm. I hope that the form is correct. I signed it 
two or three days ago, desiring theia to forward it 
to Messrs. Morland and Ransom. 

" Your projected editions for November had bet- 
ter be postponed, as I have some things in project, 
or preparation, tkaf may be of use to you, though 
not very importarrWn themselves. I have completed 
an ode on Venice,* and have two stories, one seri- 
ous and one ludicrous, (a la Beppo,) not yet 
finisB#d, and in no hurry to be so. 

" You talk of the letter to Hobhouse being much 
admired, and speak of prose. f I think of writing 
(for your full edition) some memoirs of my life, to 
prefix to them, upon the same model (though far 
enough, I fear, from reaching it), of Gifford, Hume, 
&c. ; and this without any intention of making dis- 
closures, or remarks upon living people, which 
would be unpleasant to them : but I think it might 
be done, and well done. However, this is to be 
considered. I have materials in plenty, but the 
greater part of them could not be used by me, nor 
for these hundred years to come. However, there 
is enough without these, and merely as a literary 
man, to make a preface ior such an edition as you 
meditate. But this is^ty-the-way : I have not 
made up my mind. 

"I enclose you a*note on the subject of ' Pari- 
sini,'X which Hobhouse can dress for you. - It is an 
extract of particulars from a history of Ferrara. 

" I trust you have been attentive to Missiaglia, 
for the English have the character of neglecting 
the Italians at present, which I hope you will re- 
deem. " Yours in haste, 

i •'B." 



LETTER CCCLXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, July 1^1818. 

" I suppose that Aglietti will take whatever you 
offer, but till his return from Vienna I can make 
him no proposal ; nor, indeed, have you authorized 
me to do so. The three French notes are by Lady 
Mary; also another half-English-French-Iti;lian. 
They are very pretty and passionate ; it is a pity 
that a piece of one of them is lost. Alga- 
rotti seems to have treated her ill ; but she was 
much his senior, and all women are used ill — or say 
so, whether they are or not. 

* * * * * * 

" I shall be glad of your books and powders. I 
am still in waiting for Hanson's clerk, but luckily 
not at Geneva. All my good friends wrote to me 
to hasten there to meet him, but not one had the 
good sense, or the good nature, to write afterward 
to tell me that it would be time and a journe.v 



* See pa ge 529. The two stories were Mazeppa and Don Juan, 
t Dedication to the fourth canto of Childe Harold, 
t See Parisina, note, 



878 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



thrown away, as he could not set off for some 
months after the period appointed. If I had taken 
the journey on the general suggestion, I never 
would have spoken again to one of you as long as I 
existed. I have written to request Mr. Kinnaird, 
when the foam of his politics is wiped away, to ex- 
tract a positive answer from that * * * *, and not 
to keep me in a state of suspense upon the subject. 
I hope that Kinnaird, who has my power of attor- 
ney, keeps a look-out upon the gentleman, which is 
the more necessary, as I have a great dislike to the 
idea of coming over to look after him myself. 

" I have several things begun, verse and prose, 
but none in much forwardness. I have written 
some six or seven sheets of a life, which I mean to 
continue, and send you when finished. It may per- 
haps serve for your projected editions. If you 
would tell me exactly (for I know nothing and have 
no correspondents, except on business) the state of 
the reception of our late publications, and the feel- 
ing upon them, without consulting any delicacies, (I 
am too seasoned to require them,) I should know 
how and in what manner to proceed. I should not 
like to give them too much, vAjch may probably 
have been the case already ; bTrr^ as I tell you, I 
know nothing. 

" I once wrote from the fulness of my mind and 
the love of fame, (not as an end, but as a ?necMs, to 
obtain that influence over men's minds which is 
power in itself and in its consequences,) and now 
from habit and from avarice ; so that the effect may 
probably be as different as the inspiration. I have 
the same facility, and indeed necessity, of composi- 
tion, to avoid idleness, (though idleness in a hot 
country is a pleasure,) but a much greater indiffer- 
ence to what is to become of it, after it has served 
my immediate purpose. However, I should on no 

account like to , but I won't go on, like the 

archbishop of Granada, as I am very sure that you 
dread the fate of Gil Bias, and with good reason. 

" Yours, &c." 

" P. S. I have written sj«ie very savage letters to 
Mr. Hobhouse, Kinnaird, to you, and to Hanson, be- 
cause the silence of so long a time made me tear 
off my remaining rags of patience. I have seen one 
or two late English publications which are no great 
things, except Rob Roy. I shall be glad of Whis- 
tlecraft."' 



LETTER CCCLXXIX. 



TO MR. MU1UIAY. 



" Venice, Auj. 26, ISIS. 

"You may go on with your edition, without cal- 
culating on the memoir, which I shall not publish 
at preset. It is nearly finished, but will be too 
long ; and there are so many things, which, out of 
regard to the living, cannot be mentioned, that I 
have written -with too much detail of that which in- 
terested me least ; so that my autobiographical 
essay would resemble the tragedy of Hamlet at the 
country theatre, recited ' with the part of Hamlet 
left out by particular desire.' I shall keep it among 
my papers ; it will be a kind of guide-post in case 
of death, and prevent some of the lies which would 
otherwise be told, and destroy some which have 
been told already. 

" The tales also are in an unfinished state, and I 
can fix no time for their completion ; they are also 
not in the best manner. You must not, therefore, 
calculate upon any thing in time for this edition. 
The memoir is already above forty sheets of very 
large, long paper, and will be about fifty or sixty ; 
but I wish to go on leisurely ; and when finished, 
although it might do a good deal for you at the 
time, I am not sure that it would serve any good 
purpose in the end either, as it is full of many pas- 
sions and prejudices, of which it has been impos- 



sible for me to keep clear : — I ha\ e not the pa 
tience. 

" Enclosed is a list of books which Dr. Aglietti 
would be glad to receive by way of price for his MS. 
letters, if you are disposed to purchase at the rate 
of fifty pounds sterling. These he will be glad to 
have as part, and the rest I will give him in money, 
and you may carry it to the account of books, &c, 
which is in balance againt me, deducting it accord- 
ingly. So that the letters are yours, if you like 
them, at any rate ; and he and I' are going to 
hunt for more Lady-Montague letters, which he 
thinks of finding. I write in haste. Thanks for 
the article, and believe me, "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXXX. 



TO CAI>T. BASIL HALL. 



" Venice, Aug-. 31, 1818. 

" Dear Sir, 

"Dr. Aglietti is the best physician, not only in 
Venice, but in Italy ; his residence is on the Grand 
Canal, and easily found ; I forget the number, but 
am probably the only person in Venice who don't 
know it. There is no comparison between him and 
any of the other medical people here. I regret very 
much to hear of your indisposition, and shall do 
myself the honJl of waiting upon you the moment 
I am up. I write this in bed, and have only just 
received the letter and note. I beg you to believe 
that nothing but the extreme lateness of my hours 
could have prevented me from replying immediately, 
or coming in person. I have not been called a 
minute. I have the honor to be, very truly, 

" Your most obedient servant, 
'• Byron." 



LETTER CCCLXXXI. 



TO MR. MO 



OJE. 

" Venice, Sent. 19, 1818. 

An English newspaper here would be a prodigy, 
and an opposition one a monster; and, except some 
extracts from extracts in the vile, garbled Paris 
gazettes, nothing of the kind reaches the Vcneto- 
Lombard public, who are perhaps the most op- 
pressed in Europe. My correspondences with 
England are mostly on business, and chiefly with 
my solicitor, Mr. Hanson, who has no very exalted 
notion, or extensive conception, of an author's 
attributes ; for he once took up an Edinburgh Re- 
view, and, looking at it a minute, said to me, ' So I 
see you have got into the magazine,' which is the 
only sentence I ever heard him utter upon literary 
matters, or the men thereof. 

" My first news of your Irish apotheosis has, con- 
sequently, been from yourself. But, as it will not 
be forgotten in "a hurry, either by your friends or 
your enemies, I hope to have it more in detail from 
some of the former, and, in the mean time, I wish 
you joy with all my heart. Such a moment must 
have been a good deal better than Westminster 
Abbey, — besides being an assurance of that one day 
(many years hence, I trust) into the bargain. 

I am sorry to perceive, however, by the close of 
your letter, that even you have not escaped the 
surgit amari,' &c, and that your damned deputy 
has been gathering such ' dew from the still oext 
Bermoothes' — or rather vexatious. Pray, give me 
some items of the-affair, 'as you say it is a serious 
one ; and, if it grows more so, you should make a 
trip over here for a few months, to see how things 
turn-out. I suppose you are a violent admirer of 
England by vour staying so long in it. For my own 



LETTERS. 



879 



part, I have passed between the age of one-and- 
twenty and thirty, half the intervenient years out 
of it without regretting any thing, except that I 
ever returned to it at all, and the gloomy prospect 
before me of business and parentage obliging me, 
one day, to return again, — at least, for the transac- 
tion of affairs, the signing of papers, and inspect- 
ing of children. 

" I have here my natural daughter, by name Al- 
legra, — a pretty little girl enough, and reckoned like 
papa. Her mamma is English, — but it is a long 
story, — and — there's an end. She is about twenty 
months old. ***** 

" I have finished the first canto, (a long one, of 
about one hundred and eighty octaves,) of a poem in 
the style and manner of ' Beppo' encouraged by the 
good success of the same. It is called 'Don Juan,' 
and is meant to be a little quietly facetious upon 
every thing. But I doubt whether it is not — at 
least, as far as it has yet gone — too free for these 
very modest days. However, I shall try the experi- 
ment, anonymously and if it don't take, it will be 
discontinued. It is dedicated to Southey in good, 
simple, savage verse, upon the * * * *'s politics,* 
and the way he got them. But the bore of copying 
it out is intolerable ; and if I had an amanuensis he 
would be of no use, as my writing is so difficult to 
decipher. 

" My poem's Epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books, each book containing 

With love and war, a heavy gale at sea — 
A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning — 

New characters, &c, &c. 

The above are two stanzas, which I send you as a 
brick of my Babel, and by which you can judge of 
the texture of the structure. 

" In writing the life of Sheridan, never mind the 
angry lies of the humbug Whigs. Recollect that he 
was an Irishman and a clever fellow, and that we 
have had some very pleasant days with him. Don't 
forget that he was at school at Harrow, where, in my 
time, we used to show his name — R. B. Sheridan, 
1765 — as an honor to the walls. Remember * 

******* 

Depend upon it that there were worse folks going, 
of that gang, than ever Sheridan was. 

" What did Parr mean by ' haughtiness and cold- 
ness ? I listened to him with admiring ignorance, 
and respectful silence. What more could a talker 
for fame have ? — they don't like to be answered. It 
was at Payne Knight's I met him, where he gave me 
more Greek than I could carry away. But I cer- 
tainly meant to (and did) treat him with the most 
respectful deference. 

" I wish you a good night with a Venetian bene- 
diction, ' Benedetto te, e la terra che ti fara ! ' — 
' May you be blessed, and the earth which you will 
make ' — is it not pretty ? You would think it still 
prettier if you had heard it, as I did two hours ago, 
from the lips of a Venetian girl, with large black 
eyes, a face like Faustina's, and the figure of a 
Juno — tall and energetic as a Pythoness, with 
eyes flashing, and her dark hair streaming in the 
moonlight — one of those women who may be made 
any thing. I am sure if I put a poniard into the 
hand of this one, she would plunge it where I told 
her, — and into me, if I offended her. I like this kind 
of animal, and am sure that I should have preferred 
Medea to any woman that ever breathed. You may, 
perhaps, wonder that I don't in that case * 
****** 

I could have forgiven the dagger or the bowl, any 
thing, but the deliberate desolation piled upon me, 
when I stood alone upon my hearth, with my house- 
hold gods shivered around me.* * * * 
Do you suppose I have forgotten or forgiven it ? It 
has comparatively swallowed up in me every other 
feeling, and I am only a spectator upon earth, till 



a tenfold opportunity offers. It may come yet. 
There are others more to be blamed than * * 
* *, and it is on these that my eyes are fixed un- 
ceasingly." 



The dedication to SouUicy was suppressed. 



LETTER CCCLXXX1I. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Sept. 24, 1818. 

: 'In the one hundred and thirty-second stanza of 
canto fourth, the stanza runs in the manuscript 

" And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis I 

and not ' lost, which is nonsense, as what losing a 
scale means, I know not ; but leaving an unbalanced 
scale, or a scale unbalanced, is intelligible.* Correct 
this, I pray, — not for the public, or the poetry, but I 
do not choose to have blunders made in addressing 
any of the deities so seriously as this is addressed. 

" Yours, &c. 
" P. S. In the translation from the Spanish, alter 

" in increasing squadrons flew, 

to— 

" To a mighty squadron grew. 

"What does ' thy waters toasted them' in the 
canto ?) That is not me.f Consult the MS. always. 

" I have written the first canto (one hundred and 
eighty octave stanzas) of a poem J in the style of 
Beppo, and have Mazeppa to finish besides. 

" In referring to the mistake in stanza one hun- 
dred and thirty-two, I take the opportunity to desire 
that in future, in all parts of my writings referring 
to religion, ••you will be more careful, and not forget 
that it is possible that in addressing the Deity a 
blunder may become a blasphemy ; and I do not 
choose to suffer such infanious perversions of my 
words or of my intentions. 

" I saw the canto by accident." 



LETTER CCCLXXXIII. 

' TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Jan. 20, 1819. 
****** 

' The opinions which I have asked of Mr. Hob- 
house and others were with regard to the poetical 
merit, and not as to what they may think due to the 
cant of the day, which still reads the Bath Guide, 
Little's Poems, Prior, and Chaucer, to say nothing 
of Fielding and Smollett. If published, publish en- 
tire, with the above-mentioned exceptions ; or you 
may publish anonymously, or not at all. In the lat- 
ter event, print fifty on my account, for private dis- 
tribution. "Yours, &c. 

" I have written to Messrs. Kinnaird and Hob- 
house, to desire that they will not erase more than I 
have stated. 

' The second canto of Don Juan is finished in 
two hundred and six stanzas." 



LETTER CCCLXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRA». 

" Venice, Jan. 25, 1819. 

" You will do me the favor to print privately (for 
private distribution) fifty copies of ' Don Juan." 



• Corrected in this edition. 

f This passage remains uncorrected. 

{ See Don Juan, canto iv., slauia xviii. 



880 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The list of the men to whom I wish it to be presented 
I will send hereafter. The other two poems had best 
be added to the collective edition : I do not appiJDve 
of their being published separately. Print Don Juan 
entire, omitting, of course, the lines on Castlereagh, 
as I am not on the spot to meet him. I have a sec- 
ond canto ready, which will be sent by-and-by. By 
this post, I have written to Mr. Hobhouse, addressed 
to your care. " Yours, &c. 

"P. S. I have acquiesced in the request and re- 
presentation ; and having done so, it is idle to detail 
my arguments in favor of my own self-love and 
Poeshie ; but I protest. If the poem has poetry, it 
would stand ; if not, fall ; the rest is ' leather and 
prunella,' and has never yet affected any human pro- 
duction ' pro or con.' Dulness is the only annihilator 
in such cases. As to the cant of *he day, I despise 
it, as I have ever done all its other finical fashions, 
which become you as paint became the ancient Bri- 
tons. If you admit this prudery, you must omit 
half Ariosto, La Fontaine, Shakspeare, Beaumont, 
Fletcher, Massinger, Ford, all the Charles Second 
writers ; * in short, something of most who have 
written before Pope and are worth reading, and much 
of Pope himself. Read him — most of you don't — 
but do — and I will forgive you ; though the inevita- 
ble consequence would be that you would burn all 
I have ever written, and all your other wretched 
Claudians of the day (except Scott and Crabbe), 
into the bargain. I wrong Claudian, who was ajioet, 
by naming him with such fellows ; but he was the 
'ultimus Romanorum,' the tail of the comet, and 
these persons are the tail of an old gown cut into a 
waistcoat for lackey ; but being both tails, I have 
compared one with the other, though very unlike, 
like all similes. f I write in a passion and a sirocco, 
and I was up till six this morning at the Carnival ; 
but I protest, as I did in my former letter." 



LETTER CCCLXXXV 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



i-ht-u the original is dust, 

I bad picture, and worse bust, J 



Venice, Feb. 1, 1819 

" After one of the concluding stanzas of the first 
canto of ' Don Juan,' which ends with (I forget the 
number) — 

"To have 

A oook 

insert the following stanza : — 

" What are the hopes of man, &.C. 

" I have written to you several letters, some with 
additions, and some upon the subject of the poem 
itself, which my cursed puritanical committee have 
protested against publishing. But we will circum- 
vent them on that point. I have not yet begun to 
copy out the second canto, which is finished, from 
natural laziness, and the discouragement of the 
milk and water they have thrown upon the first. I 
say all this to them as to you, that is, for you to say 
to them, for I will have nothing underhand. If they 
had told me the poetry was' bad, I would have 
acquiesced; but they say the contrary, and then 
talk to me about morality — the first time I ever 
heard the word from any body who was not a rascal 
that used it for a purpose. I maintain that it is the 
most moral of poems ; but if people won't discover 
the moral, that is their fault not mine. I have al 



• See Don Juan, canto iv., stanza y.viii. 
t See Letters to Bowles and Blackwood. 
X In the printed version, " a wretched picture.' 1 



" Within this last fortnight I have been rathei 
indisposed with a rebellion of stomach, which wou^d 
retain nothing, (liver, I suppose,) and an inability, 
or fantasy, not to be able to eat of any thing with 
relish but a kind of Adriatic fish called ' scampi,' 
which happens to be the most indigestible of marine 
viands. However, within these last two days, I am 
better, and very truly yours." 



LETTER CCCLXXXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, April 6, 1819. 

" The second canto of Don Juan was sent, on 
Saturday last, by post, in four packets, two of four, 
and two of three sheets each, containing in all two 
hundred and seventeen stanzas, octave measure. 
But I will permit no curtailments, except those 
mentioned about Castlereagh and * * * * 

* * -You shan't make canticles of my cantos. 
The poem will please, if it is lively ; if it is stupid, 
it will fail: but I will have none of your damned 
cutting and slashing. If you please you may publish 
anonymously : it will, perhaps, be better ; but I will 
battle my way against them all, like a porcupine. 

" So you and Mr. Foseolo, &c, want me to under- 
take what you call a ' great work ? ' an Epic Poem, 
I suppose, or some such pyramid. I'll try no such 
thing; I hate. tasks. And then 'seven or eight 
years ! ' God send us all well this day three months, 
let alone years. If one's years can't be better 
employed than in sweating poesy, a man had 
better be a ditcher. And works, too ! — is Chikle 
Harold nothing ? You have so many ' divine ' poems, 
is it nothing to have written a human one ? without 
any of your worn-out machinery. Why, man, I could 
have spun the thtjughts of the four cantos of that 
poem into twenty, had I wanted to book-make, and 
its "jassion into as many modern tragedies. Since 
you want length, you shall have enough of Juan, 
for I'll make fifty cantos.* » 

" And Foseolo, too ! Why does he not do some- 
thing more than the Letters of Otis, and a tragedy, 
and pamphlets ? He has good fifteen years more at 
his command than I have : what has he done all that 
time r — proved his genius, doubtless, but not fixed 
its fame, nor done his utmost. 

' Besides, I mean to write my best work in Ital- 
ian, and it will take me nine years more thoroughly 
to master the language ; and then if my fancy exists, 
and I exist too, I will try what I can do really. As 
to the estimation of the English which you talk of, 
let them calculate what it is worth, before they 
insult me with their insolent condescension. 

' I have not written for their pleasure. If they are 
pleased, it is that they chose to be so ; I have never 
flattered their opinions, nor their pride; nor will I. 
Neither will I make ' Ladies' books ' ' al dilettar le 
femine e la plebe.'t I have written from the fulness 
of my mind, from passion, from impulse, from many 
motives, but not for their ' sweet voices.' 

' I know the precise worth of popular applause ; 
for few scribblers have had more of it ; and if I chose 
to swerve into their paths, I could retain it, or re- 
time it. But I neither love ye, nor fear ye ; and 
though I buy with ye, and sell with ye, I will neither 
eat with ye, drink with ye, nor pray with ye. Thej 
made me, without my search, a species of populai 
idol ; they, without reason or judgment, beyond the 
caprice of their good pleasure, threw down the image 
from its pedestal : it was not broken with the fall, 
and they would, it seems, again replace it, — but they 
shall not. 

' You ask about my health : about the beginning 
of the year I was in a state of great exhaustion, 



* See Don Juan, canto xii., stanza lv. 
] Childe Harold, canto iii., stanza cxiii. 



LETTERS. 



881 



attended by such debility of stomach that nothing 
remained upon it ; and I was obliged to reform my 
' way of life,' which was conducting me from the 
'yellow leaf to the ground, with all deliberate 
speed. I am better in health and morals, and very 
much yours, &c. 

" P. S. I have read Hodgson's ' Friends.' * * 
* * He is right in defending Pope against the 
bastard pelicans of the poetical winter day, who add 
insult to their parricide by sucking the blood of the 
parent of English real poetry — poetry without fault 
— and then spurning the bosom which fed them." 



LETTER CCCLXXXVII. 

TO THE EDITOR OF GALIGNAXl's MESSENGER. 



; SlR, 



, April 27, 1S19. 



" In various numbers of your journal, I have seen 
mentioned a work entitled ' the Vampire,' with the 
addition of my name as that of the author. I am 
not the author, and never heard of the work in 
question until now. In a more recent paper I per- 
ceive a formal annunciation of ' the Vampire,' with 
the addition of an account of my ' residence on the 
Island of Mitylene,' an island which I have occa- 
sionally sailed by in the course of travelling some 
years ago through the Levant — and where I should 
have no objection to reside, but where I have never 
yet resided. Neither of these performances are mine, 
and I presume that it is neither unjust nor ungracious 
to request that you will favor me by contradicting 
the advertisement to which I allude. If the book 
is clever, it would be base to deprive the real writer, 
whoever he may be, of his honors ; and if stupid, I 
desire the responsibility of nobody's dulness but my 
own. You will excuse the trouble I give you ; the 
imputation is of no great importance, and as long 
as it was confined to surmises and reports, I 
should have received it, as 1 received many others, 
in silence. But the formality of a public adver- 
tisement of a book I never wrote, and a residence 
where I never resided, is a little too much ; particu- 
larly as I have no notion of the contents of the one, 
nor the incidents of the other. I have besides, 
a personal dislike to 'Vampires,' and the little 
acquaintance I have with them would by no means 
induce me to divulge their secrets. You did me 
much less injury by your paragraphs about ' my de- 
votion ' and ' abandonment of society for the sake of 
religion,' which appeared in your Messenger during 
last Lent, all of which are not founded on fact, but 
you see I do not contradict them, because they are 
merely personal, whereas the others in some degree 
concern the reader. You will oblige me by comply- 
ing with my request of contradiction — I assure you 
that I know nothing of the work or works in question, 
and have the honor to be (as the correspondents to 
Magazines say) ' your constant reader,' and very 

, " Obt. humble servt., 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCCLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 



* 



1 Venice, May 1.5, 1819. 
* * 



" I have got your extract, and the ' Vampire.'* I 
need not say it is not mine. There is a rule to go 
by : you are my publisher, (till we quarrel,) and 
what is not published by you is not written by me. 



Ill 



By Doctor Polidori. 



"Next week I set out for Romagna — at least in. 
all probability. You had better go on with the 
publications, without waiting to hear farther, for I 
have other things in my head. ' Mazeppa ' and the 
' Ode * separate ? — what think you ? Juan anony- 
mous, without the dedication; for I won't be shabby, 
and attack Southey under cloud of night. 

"Yours &c." 



In another letter on the subject of the Vampire, 
are the following particulars. 

LETTER CCCLXXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"The story of Shelley's agitation is true.* I 
can't tell what seized him, for he don't want courage. 
He was once with me in a gale of wind, in a small 
boat, right under the rocks between Meillerie and 
St. Gingo. We were five in the boat — a servant, 
two boatmen, jmd ourselves. The sail was mis- 
managed, and the boat was filling fast. He can't 
swim. I stripped off my coat, made him strip off 
his, and take hold of an oar, telling him that I 
thought (being myself an expert swimmer) I could 
save him, if he would not struggle when I took 
hold of him — unless we got smashed against the 
rocks, which were high and sharp, with an awk- 
ward surf on them at that minute. We were then 
about a hundred yards from the shore, and the boat 
in peril. He answered me, with the greatest cool- 
ness, 'that he had no notion of being saved, and 
that I would have enough to do to save myself, and 
begged not to trouble me.' Luckily, the boat 
righted, and, bailing, we got round a point into St. 
Gingo, where the inhabitants came down and em- 
braced the boatmen on their escape, the wind hav- 
ing been high enough to tear up some huge trees 
from the Alps above us, as we saw next day. 

"And yet the same Shelley, who was as cool as 
it was possible to be in such circumstances, (of 
which I am no judge myself, as the chance of swim- 
ming naturally gives self-possession when near 
shore,) certainly had the he of fantasy which Poli- 
dori describes, though not exactly as he describes it. 

" The story of the agreement to write the ghost- 
books is true ; but the ladies are not sisters. * * 
****** 

Mary Godwin (now Mrs. Shelley) wrote Franken- 
stein, which you have reviewed, thinking it Shel- 
ley's. Methinks it is a wonderful book for a girl of 
nineteen, not nineteen, indeed, at that time. I en 
close you the beginning of mine,t by which you will 
see how far it resembles Mr. Colburn's publication. 
If you choose to publish it, you may, stating why, 
and with such explanatory proem as you please. I 
never went on with it, as you will perceive by the 
date. I began it in an old account-book of Miss 
Milbanke's, which I kept, because it contained the 
word ' Household,' written by her twice on the in- 
side blank page of the covers, being the only two 
scraps I have in the world in her writing, except her 
name to the deed of separation. Her letters I sent 
back, except those of the quarrelling correspond- 
ence, and those, being documents, are placed in the 



* This story, as given in the Preface to the " Vampire," is as follows :— 
" It appears that one evening Lord B., Mr. P. B. Shelley, two ladies, and 
the gentleman before alluded to, after having perused a German work called 
Phantasmagoria, began relating ghost stories, when his lordship having 
recited the beginning of Christabel, then unpuon'shed, the whole took 60 
strong a hold of Mr. Shelley's mind, that he suddenly started up, and ran 
out of the room. The physician and Lord Byron followed, and discovered 
him leaning against a mamle-piece, with cold drops of perspiration trickling 
down his face. After having given him something to refresh him, upon 
inquiring into the cause of his alarm, they found that his wild imagination 
having pictured to him the bosom of oris ol the ladies with eyes, (which wai 
reported of a lady in the neighborhood where he lived,) he was oUiged M, 
leave the room in order to destroy the impression." 

| See Fragment. 



882 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



hands of a third person, with copies of several of 
my own ; so that I have no kind of memorial what- 
ever of her, but these two words, — and her actions. 
I have torn the leaves containing the part of the 
tale out of the book, and enclose them with this 
sheet. *' ******* 

" What do you mean ? First, you seem hurt by 
my letter, and then, in your next, you talk of its 
' power,' and so forth. ' This is a d — d blind story, 
Jack ; but never mind, go on.' You may be sure I 
said nothing on purpose to plague you, "but if you 
will put me ' in a frenzy, I will never call you Jack 
again.' I remember nothing of the epistle at 
present. 

" What do you mean by Polidori's Diary? Why, 
I defy him to say any thing about mc, but he "is 
welcome. I have nothing to reproach me with on 
his score, and I am mitch mistaken if that is not 
his oien opinion. But why publish the name of the 
two girls ? and in such a manner ? — what a blun 
dering piece of exculpation ! He asked Pictet, &c. 
to dinner, and of course was left to entertain them 
Invent into society solely to present him, (as I told 
him,) that he might return into good^rompany if he 
chose ; it was the best thing for his youth arid cir- 
cumstances : for myself, I had done with society, 
and, having presented him, withdrew to my own 
' way of life/ It is true that I returned without 
entering Lady Dalrymple Hamilton's, because I saw 
it full. It is true that Mrs. Hervey (she writes 
novels) fainted at my entrance into Copet, and then 
came back again. On her fainting, the Duchessede 
Broglie exclaimed, 'This is too much at sixty-five 
years of age ! ' I never gave the ' English '" an 
opportunity of avoiding me, but I trust that if ever 
I do, they will seize it. With regard to Mazeppa 
and the Ode, you may join or separate them, as you 
please, from the two cantos. 

" Don't suppose I want to put you out of humor. 
I have a great respect for your good and gentle- 
manly qualities, and return your personal friendship 
towards me ; and although I think you a little 
spoiled by ' villainous company,' — wits, persons of 
humor about town, authors, and fashionables, to- 
gether with your ' I am just going to call at Carlton 
House, are you walking that way ? ' — I say, not- 
withstanding ' pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the 
musical glasses,' you deserve and possess the - es- 
teem of those whose esteem is worth having, and of 
none more (however useless it may be) than yours 
very truly, &c. 

" P. S. Make my respects to Mr. Gifford. lam 
perfectly aware that ' Don Juan ' must set us all by 
the ears, but that is my concern, and my beginning. 
There will be the ' Edinburgh ' and all, too, against 
it, so that, like 'Rob Roy,' I shall have my hands 
full." 



LETTER CCCXC. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, May 25, 1819. 

" I have received no proofs by the last post, and 
shall probably have quitted Venice before the arrival 
of the next. There wanted a few stanzas to the 
termination of canto first in the last proof: the next 
will, I presume, contain them, and the whole or a 
portion of canto second ; but it will be idle to wait 
for farther answers from me, as I have directed that 
my letters wait for my return, (perhaps.in a month, 
and probably so ;) therefore do not wait for farther 
advice from me. You may as well talk to the wind 
and better — for it will at least convey your accents 
a little farther than they would otherwise have 
gone ; whereas / shall neither echo nor acquiesce in 
your ' exquisite reasons.' You may omit the note 



of reference to Hobhouse's travels, in canto second 
and you will put as motto to the whole — 

' Difficile est proprie communia dicere.' — Horace. 

"A few days ago I sent you all I know of Poli- 
dori's Vampire. He may do, say, or write what he 
pleases, but I wish he would not attribute to me his 
own compositions. If he has any thing of mine in 
his possession, the manuscript will put it beyond 
controversy; but I scarcely think that any one" who 
knows me would believe the thing in the Magazine 
to be mine, even if they saw it in my own hiero- 
glyphics. 

■' I write to you in the agonies of a sirocco, which 
annihilates me ; and I have been fool enough to 
do four things since dinner, which are as well omit- 
ted in very hot weather: firstly, * •■* *■ secondly, 
to play at billiards from ten to twelve, under the 
influence of lighted lamps, that doubled the heat: 
thirdly, to go afterward into a red-hot conversazione 
of the Countess Benzoni's ; and fourthly, to begin 
this letter at three in the mdrning : but being begun, 
it must be finished. 

" Ever very truly and affectionately yours, 

"B. 

" P. S. I petition for tooth-brushes, powder, mag- 
nesia, Macassar oil, (or Russia,) the sashes, and Sir 
Nl. Wraxall's Memoirs of his Own Times. I want, 
besides, a bull-dog, a terrier, and two Newfoundland 
dogs ; and I want (is it Buck s ?) a life of Richard 
Third, advertised by Longman, long, lone/, long ago ; 
I asked for it at least three years since. See Long- 
man's advertisement." 



LETTER CCCXCI. 



TO MR. HOnwi:;:. 



" A journey in an Italian June is a conscription ; 
and if I was not the most constant of men, I should 
now be swimming from the Lido, instead of smok- 
ing in the dust of Padua. Should there be letters 
from England, let them wait my return. And do 
look at my house and (not lands, but) waters, and 
scold; — and deal out the moneys to Edgecombe* 
with an air of reluctance and a shake of the head — 
and put queer questions to him — and turn up your 
nose when he answers. 

" Make my respects to the Consulcss — and to the 
Chevalier — and to Scotin — and to all the counts and 
countesses of our acquaintance. 
"And believe me ever 

"Your disconsolate and affectionate, &c." 



LETTER CCCXCII. 



TO MR. IIOPrNER. 



" Bologna, June 6, 1819. 

"I am at length joined to Bologna, where I am 
settled like a sausage, and shall be broiled like one, 
if this weather continues. Will you thank Men- 
galdo on my part for the Ferrara acquaintance, 
which was a very agreeable one. I stayed two days 
at Ferrara, and was much pleased with the Count 
Mosti, and the little the shortness of the time per- 
mitted me to see of his family. I went to his con- 
versazione, which is very far superior to any thing 
of the kind at Venice — the women almost all young 
— several pretty — and the men courteous and cleanly. 
The lady of the mansion, who is young, lately mar- 



A clerk ol the English Consulate, whom he at this time employed tc 
control his accounts. 



LETTERS. 



883 



ried, and with child, appeared very pretty by candle- 
light, (I did not see her by day,) pleasing in her 
manners, and very lady-like, or thorough-bred, as 
we call it in England, — a kind of thing which re- 
minds one of a racer, an antelope, or an Italian 
greyhound. She seems very fond of her husband, 
who is amiable and accomplished ; he has been in 
England two or three times, and is young. The 
sister, a Countess somebody — I forget what — (they 
are botli Mallei by birth, and Veronese of course) — 
is a lady of more display ; she sings and plays di- 
vinely ; but I thought she was a d — d long time 
about it. Her likeness to Madame Flahant (Miss 
Mercer that was) is something quite extraordinary. 

" I had but a bird's-eye view of these people, and 
shall not probably see them again ; but I am very 
much obliged to Mengaldo for letting me see them 
at all. Whenever I meet with any thing agreeable 
in this world, it surprises me so much, and pleases 
me so much, (when my passions are not interested 
one way or the other,) that I go on wondering for a 
week to come. I feel, too, in great admiration of 
the Cardinal Legate's red stockings. 

" I found, too, such a pretty epitaph in the Cer- 
tosa cemetery, or rather two : one was — 



the other, 



Martial Luigi 
linplora pace ; ' 



Liacretia Picini 
Implora eterna quiete.' 



That was all : but it appears to me that these two 
and three words comprise and compress all that can 
be said on the subject, — and then, in Italian, they 
are absolute music. They contain doubt, hope, and 
humility ; nothing can be more pathetic than the 
'implora' and the modesty of the request; — they 
have had enough of life — they want nothing but 
rest — they implore it, and ' eterna quiete.' It is like 
a Greek inscription in some good old heathen ' city 
of the dead.' Pray, if I am shovelled into the Lido 
churchyard in your time, let me have the ' implora 
pace,' and nothing else, for my epitaph. I never 
met with any, ancient or modern, that pleased me a 
tenth part so much. 

" In about a day or two after you receive this let- 
ter, I will thank you to desire Edgecombe to pre- 
pare for my return. I shall go bark to Venice before 
I village on the Brenta. I shall stay but a few days 
in Bologna. I am just going out to see sights, but 
shall not present my introductory letters lor a day 
or two, till I have run over again the place and pic- 
tures ; nor perhaps at all, if I find that I have 
books and sights enough to do without the inhabit- 
ants. After that, I shall return to Venice, where 
you may expect me about the eleventh, or perhaps 
sooner. Pray make my thanks acceptable to Men- 

taldo ; my respects to the Consuless, and to Mr. 
cott. 
" I hope my daughter is well. 

" Ever yours, and truly. 

"P. S. I went over the Ariosto MS., &c., &c., 
again at Ferrara, with the castle, and cell, and 
house, &c, &c. 

" One of the Ferrarese asked me if I knew ' Lord 
Byron,' an acquaintance of his 11010 at Naples. I 
told him ' No!' which was true both ways; for I 
knew not an impostor, and, in the other, no one 
knows himself. He stared when told that I was 
' the real Simon Pure.' Another asked me if I had 
not translated ' Tasso.' You see what/awe is ! how 
accurate ! how boundless ! I don't know how others 
feel, but I am always the lighter and the better 
looked on when I have got rid of mine ; it sits on 
me like armor on the Lord Mayor's champion ; and 
I got rid of all the husk of literature, and the attend- 
ant babble, by answering, that I had not translated 
Tasso, but a namsesake had ; and by the blessing of 
Heaven, I looked so little like a poet, that every 
body believed me." 



LETTER CCCXCIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Bologna, June 7, 1819. 

" Tell Mr. Hobhouse that I wrote to him a few 
days ago from Ferrara. It will therefore be idle in 
him or you to wait for any farther answers or returns 
of proofs from Venice, as I have directed that no 
English letters be sent after me. The publication 
can be proceeded in without, and I am already sick 
of your remarks, to which I think not the least at- 
tention ought to be paid. 

" Tell Mr. Hobhouse, that since I wrote to him, 
I had availed myself of my Ferrara letters, and 
found the society much younger and better there 
than at Venice*. I am very much pleased with the 
little the shortness of my stay permitted me to see 
of the Gonfaloniere Count Mosti, and his family 
and friends in general. 

" I have been picture-gazing this morning at the 
famous Domenichino and Guiclo, both of which are 
superlative. I afterward went to the beautiful cem- 
etery of Bologna, beyond the walls, and found, be- 
sides the superb burial-ground, an original of a 
custode, who reminded one of the grave-digger in 
Hamlet. He has a collection of capuchins' skulls, 
labeled on the forehead, and taking down one 'of 
them, said, ' This was Brother Desiderio Berro, 
who died at forty — one of my best friends. I begged 
his head of his brethren after his decease, and they 
gave it me. I put it in lime, and then boiled it. 
Here it is, teeth and all, in excellent preservation. 
He was the merriest, cleverest fellow I ever knew. 
Wherever he went he brought joy ; and whenever 
any one was melancholy, the sight of him was 
enough to make him cheerful again. He walked so 
actively, you might have taken him for a dancer — 
lie joked — he laughed — oh! he was such a Frate as 
I never saw before, nor ever shall again ! ' 

" He told me that he had himself planted all the 
cypresses in the cemetery ; that he had the greatest 
attachment to them and to his dead people ; that 
since 1801 they had buried fifty-three thousand per- 
sons. In showing some older monuments, there 
was that of a Roman girl of twenty, with a bust by 
Bernini. She was a princess Barlorini, dead two 
centuries ago : he said, that on opening her grave, 
they had found her hair complete, and ' as yellow 
as gold.' Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased 
me more than the more splendid monuments at 
Bologna; for instance — 

1 Martini Lui°ri 
Implora pace ; ' 

1 Lucretia Picini 

Implora eterna quiete.' 

Can anything be more full of pathos ? Those few 
words say all that can be said or sought ; the dead 
had had enough of life ; all they wanted was rest, 
and this they implore ! There is all .the helpless- 
ness, and humble hope, and deathlike prayer, that 
can arise from the grave — ' implora pace.' I hope 
whoever may survive me, and shall see me put in 
the foreigners' burying-ground at the Lido, within 
the fortress by the Adriatic, will see those two words, 
and no more, put over me. I trust they won't think 
of ' pickling, and bringing me home to Clod or 
Blunderbuss Hall.' I am sure my bones would not 
rest in an English grave, or my clay mix with the 
earth of that country. I believe the thought would 
drive me mad on my death-bed, could I suppose that 
any of my friends would be base enough to convey 
my carcass back to your soil. — I would not even feed 
your worms, if I could help it. 

" So, as Shakspeare says of Mowbray, the ban- 
ished Duke of Norfolk, who died at Venice, (see 
Richard 2d,) that he, after fighting 



1 Against black Pagans, Turks, and Sa: 
And toil'il with works of war, retired hiinsoif 



884 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To Italy, and there, at Venice, gave 
His body to that pleasant country's earth, 
And his pure sonl unto his captain, Christ, 
Under whose colors he had fought bo long. 

" Before I left Venice, I had returned to you your 
late, and Mr. Hobhouse's, sheets of Juan. Don't 
wait for farther answers from me, but address yours 
to Venice, as usual. I know nothing of my own 
movements ; I may return there in a few days, or 
not for some time. All this depends on circum- 
stances. I left Mr. Hoppner very well. My daugh- 
ter Allegra was well too, and is growing pretty ; her 
hair is growing darker, and her eyes are blue. Her 
temper and her ways, Mr. Hoppner says, are like 
mine, as well as her features : she will make, in that 
case, a manageable young lady. 

" I have never heard any thing of Ada, the little 
Electra of my Mycen.se. * * * *. But 
there will come a day of reckoning, even if I should 
not live to see it. I have at least seen Romilly* 
shivered, who was one of my assassins. When that 
man was doing his worst to uproot my whole family, 
tree, branch, and blossoms — when, after taking my 
retainer, he went over to them — when, he was 
bringing desolation on my hearth, and destruction 
on my household godsf — did he think that, in less 
than three years, a natural event — a severe, domes- 
tic, hut an expected and common calamity — would 
lay his carcass in a cross road, or stamp his name in 
a Verdict of Lunacy ! Did he (who in his sexa- 
genary * * *) reflect or consider what my feel- 
ings must have been, when wife, and child, and 
sister, and name, and fame, and country, were to be 
my sacrifice on his lega'l altar — and this at a moment 
when my health was declining, my fortune embar- 
rassed, and my mind had been shaken by many kinds 
of disappointment — while I was yet young, and 
might have reformed what might be wrong in my 
conduct, and retrieved what was perplexing in my 
affairs ! But he is in his grave, and * * * *. 
What a long letter I have scribbled ! 

" Yours, &c. 

"P. S. Here, as in Greece, they strew flowers 
on the tombs. I saw a quantity of rose-leaves, 
and entire roses, scattered over the graves at Fer- 
rara. It has the most pleasing effect you can im- 
agine." 



LETTER CCCXCIV. 



TO MB. HOPPNER. 



" I wrote to you from Padua, and from Bologna, 
and since from Ravenna. I find my situation very 
agreeable, but want my horses very much, there be- 
ing good riding in the environs. 1 can fix no time 
for my return to Venice — it may be soon or late — or 
not at all — it all depends on the Donna, J whom I 
found very seriously in bed with a cough and spit- 
ting blood, &c, all "of which has subsided. * 
****** 

I found all the people here firmly persuaded that 
she would never recover ; — they were mistaken, how- 
ever. 

" My letters were useful as far as I employed 
them, and I like both the place and people, though 
I don't trouble the latter more than I can help. — 
She manages very well — * * * 

* * * * * * 

but if I come away with a stiletto in my gizzard 
some fine afternoon, I shall not be astonished. I 
can't make him out at all — he visits me frequently, 
and takes me out (like Whittington, the Lord May- 



* Sir Samuel Ro 
f See Letter ccclxxviii. 

* The Countess Guiccioli, 



He committed suicide. 



or) in a coach and six horses. The fact appears tc 
be, that he is completely governed by her — for that 
matter, so am I. The people here don't know what 
to make of us, as he had the character of jealousy 
with all his wives — this is the third. He is the 
richest of the Ravennese, by their own account, but 
is not popular among them. 



Now do, pray, send off Augustine, and carriage and 
cattle, to Bologna, without fail or delay, or I shall 
loose my remaining shred of senses. Don't forget 
this. My coming, going, and every thing depend 
upon her entirely, just as Mrs. Hoppner (to whom 
I remit my reverences) said in the true spirit of fe- 
male prophecy. 

" You are but a shabby 'fellow not to have writ- 
ten before. " And I am truly yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXCV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, June 29, 1819r- 

" The letters have been forwarded from Venice, 
but I trust that you will not have waited for farther 
alterations — I will make none. You ask me to 
spare Romilly — ask the worms. His dust can suffer 
nothing from the truth being spoken — and if it 
could, how did he behave to mef You may talk to 
the wind, which will carry the sound — aiid to the 
caves, which will echo you — but not to me, on the 
subject of a * * * who wronged me — whether 
dead or alive. 

"I have no time to return you the proofs — pub- 
lish without them. I am glad you think the poesy 
good; and as to 'thinking of the effect,' think you 
of the sale, and leave me to pluck the porcupines 
who may point their quills at you. 

" I have been here (at Ravenna) those four weeks, 
having left Venice a month ago ; — I came to see my 
'Arnica,' the Countess Guiccioli, who has been, and 
still continues, very unwell. , * * * 

* * * ' * * * 

She is only twenty years old, but not of a strong con- 
stitution. * ' * * * * 
She has a perpetual cough, and an intermittent 
fever, but bears up most gallantly in every sense of 
the word. Her husband (this is his third -vvife) is 
the richest noble of Ravenna, and almost of Ro- 
magna ; he is also not the youngest, being upwards 
of threescore, but in good preservation. All this 
will appear strange to you, who do not understand 
the meridian morality, nor our way of life in such 
respects, and I cannot at present expound the dif- 
ference; — but you would find it much the same in 
these parts. At Faenza there is Lord * * * * with 
an opera girl ; and at the inn in the same town is a 
Neapolitan Prince, who serves the wife of the Gon- 
faloniere of that city. I am on duty here — so you 
see ' Cosi fan tutti e tutfe.' 

'I have my horses here, saddle as well as car- 
riage, and ride or drive, every day in the forest the 
Pineta, the scene of Boccaccio's novel, and Dry- 
den's fable of Honoria, &c, &c. ; and I see my 
Dama every day ******; but I feel seriously 
uneasy about her health, which seems very preca- 
rious. In losing her, I should lose a- being who has 
run great risks on my account, and whom I have 
every reason to love — but I must not think this pos- 
ible. I do not know what I should do if she died, 
but I ought to blow my brains out — and I hope that 
I should. Her husband is a very polite personage, 
but I wish he would not carry me out in his coach 
and six like Whittington and his cat. 

' You ask me if I mean to continue Don Juan,. 
&c. How should I know ? What encouragement 



LETTERS. 



885 



do you give me, all of you, with your nonsensical 
prudery ? — publish me two cantos, and then you will 
see. I desired Mr. Kinnaird to speak to you on a 
little matter of business ; either he has not spoken, 
or you have not answered. You are a pretty pair, 
but I will be even with you bothi I perceive that 
Mr. Hobhouse has been challenged by Major Cart- 
wright. — Is the Major ' so cunning of fence ? ' 
why did not they fight ? — they ought. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXCVI. 

TO MR. HOPrNER. 

" Ravenna. July 2, 1S19. 

" Thanks for your letter and for Madame's. I 
will answer it directly. Will you recollect whether 
I did not consign to you one or two receipts of 
Madame Mocenigo's for house-rent — (I am not sure 
of this, but think I did — if not, they will be in my 
drawers) — and will you desire Mr. Dorville* to have 
the goodness to see if Edgecombe has receipts to all 
payments hitherto made by him on my account, and 
that there are no debts at Venice ? On your answer, 
I shall send order of farther remittance to carry on 
my household expenses, as my present return to 
Venice is very problematical ; and it may happen 
—but I can say nothing positive — every thing with 
me being indecisive and undecided, except the dis- 
gust which Venice excites when fairly compared 
with any other city in this part of Italy. When I 
Bay Venice, I mean the Venetians — the city itself is 
superb as its history — but the people are what 
I never thought them till they taught me to think 
so. 

" The best way will be to leave Allegra with An- 
tonio's spouse till I can decide something about her 
and myself — but I thought you would have had an 

answer from Mrs. V r.f — You have had bore 

enough with me and mine already. 

" Lgreatly fear that the Guiccioli is going into a 
consumption, to which her constitution tends. Thus 
it is with every thing and every body for whom I 
feel any thing like a real attachment ; — ' War, death, 
or discord, doth lay seige to them.' I never even 
could keep alive a dog that I liked or that liked me. 
Her symptoms are obstinate cough of the lungs, 
and occasional fever, &c., &c, and there are latent 
causes of an eruption in the skin, which she fool- 
ishly repelled into the system two years ago ; but I 
have made them send her case to Aglietti ; and 
have begged him to come — if only for a day or two 
— to consult upon her state. * * 

****** 

If it would not bore Mr. Dorville, I wish he would 
keep an eye on Edgecombe and on my other raga- 
muffins. I might have more to say, but I am ab- 
sorbed about La Gui. and her illness. I cannot tell 
you the effect it has upon me. 

" The horses came, &c, &c, and I have been gal- 
loping through the pine forest daily. 

" Believe me, &c. 

"P. S. My benediction on Mrs. Hoppner, a 
pleasant journey among the Bernese tyrants, and 
safe return. You ought to bring back a platonic 
Bernese for my reformation. If any thing happens 
to my present Arnica, I have done with the passion 
for ever — it is my last love. As to libertinism, I 
have sickened myself of that, as was natural in the 
way I went on, and I have at least derived that ad- 
vantage from vice, to love in the better sense of the 
word. This will be my last adventure % — I can hope 
no more to inspire attachment, and I trust never 
again to feel it." 



• The vice-consul of Mr. Hoppner. 

f An English lady, who proposed taking charge of Allegra. 

X See hU linen, page 578. 



LETTER CCCXCVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, August 1, 1819. 

" [Address your answer to Venice, however.] 
" Don't be alarmed. You will see me defend my- 
self gayly— that is, if I happen to be in spirits ; 
and by spirits, I don't mean your meaning of the 
word, but the spirit of a bull-dog when pinched, or 
a bull when pinned ; it is then that they make best 
sport: and as my sensations under an attack are 
probably a happy compound of the united energies 
of these amiable animals, you may perhaps see what 
Marrall calls 'rare sport,' and some good tossing 
and goring, in the course of the controversy. But 
I must be in the right cue first, and I doubt I am 
almost too far off to be in a sufficient fury for the 
purpose. And then I have effeminated and ener- 
vated myself with love and the summer in these 
last two months. 

"I wrote to Mr. Hobhouse the other day, and 
foretold that Juan would either fall entirely or suc- 
ceed completely ; there 'will be no medium. Ap- 
pearances are not favorable ; but as you write the 
day after publication, it can hardly be decided what 
opinion will predominate. You seem in a fright, 
and doubtless with cause. Come what may, I never 
will flatter the million's canting in any shape. Cir- 
cumstances may or may not have placed me at 
times in a situation to lead the public opinion, but 
the public opinion never lead, nor even shall lead, 
me. I will not set on a degraded throne ; so pray 
put Messrs. * * or * *, or Tom Moore, or * * * upon 
it ; they will all of them be transported with their 
coronation. 

****** 

" P. S. The Countess Guiccioli is much better 
than she was. I sent you, before leaving Venice, 
the real original sketch which gave* rise to the 
' Vampire,' &c. Did you get it ? " 



LETTER CCCXCVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, August 9, 1S19. 
****** 

"Talking of blunders reminds me of Ireland — 
Ireland of Moore. What is this I see in Galignani 
about ' Bermuda — agent — deputy — appeal — attach- 
ment,' &c. ? What is the matter ? Is it any thing 
in which his friends can be of use to him ? Pray 
inform me. 

" Of Don Juan I hear nothing farther from you ; 
* * *, but the papers don't seem so fierce as the 
letter you sent me seemed to anticipate, by their 
extracts at least in Galignani's Messenger. I never 
saw such a set of fellows as you are ! And then 
the pains taken to exculpate the modest publisher — 
he remonstrated, forsooth ! I will write a preface 
that shall exculpate you and * * *, &c, completely 
on that point ; but, at the same time, I will cut you 
up like gourds. You have no more soul than the 
Count de Caylus (who assured his friends, on his 
death-bed, that he had none, and that he must 
know better than they whether he had one or no), 
and no more blood than a water-melon ! And I see 
there hath been asterisks, and what Perry used to 
call ' domned cutting and slashing ' — but, never 
mind. 

"I write in haste. To-morrow I set off for Bo- 
logna. I write to you with thunder, lightning, &c, 
and all the winds of heaven whistling through my 
hair, and the racket of preparation to boot. ' My 
mistress dear, who hath fed my heart upon smiles 




886 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



and wine ' for the last two months, set off with her 
husband for Bologna this morning, and it seems 
that I follow him at three to-morrow morning. I 
cannot tell how our romance will end, but it hath 
gone on hitherto most erotically. Such perils and 
escapes ! Juan's are as child's play in comparison. 
The fools think that all my poeshie is always allu- 
sive to my oirn adventures : I have had at one time 
or another better and more* extraordinary and peri- 
lous and pleasant than these, every day of the week, 
if I might tell them ; but that must never be. 
" I hope Mrs. M. has accouched. 

"Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCXCIX. 



TO Mil. MURRAY. 



"Bologna, August 12, 1819. 

" I do not know how far I may be able to reply to 
your letter, for I am not very well to-day. Last 
night I went to the representation of Alfieri's 
Mirra, the last two acts of which threw me into 
convulsions. I do not mean by that word a lady's 
hysterics, but the agony of reluctant tears, and the 
choking shudder, which I do not often undergo for 
fiction. This is but the second time for any thing 
under reality : the first was on seeing Kean's Sir Giles 
Overreach. The worst was, that the ' Dama,' in 
whose box I was, went off in the same way, I really 
believe more from fright than any other sympathy — 
at least with the players : but she had been ill and 
I have been ill, and we are all languid and pathetic 
this morning, with great expenditure of sal volatile. 
But, to return to your letter of the 23d of July. 

" You are right, Gifford is right, Crabbe is right, 
Hobhouse is right — you are all right, and I am all 
wrong ; but do, pray, let me have that pleasure. 
Cut me up root and branch ; quarter me in the 
Quarterly ; send round my ' disjecti membra poetsc,' 
like those of the Levite's concubine ; make me if 
you will a spectacle to men and angels ; but don't 
ask me to alter, for I won't: — I am obstinate and 
lazy — and there's the truth. 

" But, nevertheless, I will answer your friend 
Perry, who objects to the quick succession of fun 
and gravity, as if in that case the gravity did not 
(in intention, at least) heighten the fun. His met- 
aphor is, that ' we are never scorched and drenched 
at the same time.' Blessings on his experience ! 
Ask him these questions 'bout ' scorching and 
drenching.' Did he never play at cricket, or walk 
a mile in hot weather ? Did he never spill a dish 
of tea over himself in handing the cup to his charm- 
er, to the great shame of his nankeen breeches ? 
Did he never swim in the sea at noonday with the 
sun in his eyes and on his head, which all the foam 
of ocean could not cool ? Did he never draw his 
foot out of too hot water, d — ning his eyes and his 
valet's ?***** 
Was he ever in a Turkish bath — that marble para- 
dise of sherbet and * * ? Was he ever in a cauldron 
of boiling pil, like St. John ? or in the sulphureous 
waves of h— 1 ? (where he ought to be for his ' scorch- 
ing and drenching at the same time.') Did he 
never tumble into a river or lake, fishing, and sit 
in his wet clothes in the boat, or on the bank after- 
ward, 'scorched and drenched,' like a true sports- 
man ? ' Oh for breath to utter ! '—but make him 
my compliments ; he is a clever fellow for all that— 
a very clever fellow. 

" You ask me for the plan of Donny Johnny: I 
have no plan ; I had no plan ; but I had or have 
materials ; though if, like Tony Lumpkin, ' I am 
to be snubbed so when I am in spirits,' the poem 
will be nought, and the poet turn serious again. If 
it don't take, I will leave it off where it is, with all 



. canto XIV., stanza ci. 



due respect to the public ; but if continued, it must 
be in my own way. You might as well made Ham- 
let (or Diggory) ' act mad ' in a strait waistcoat as 
trammel my buffoonery, if I am to be a buffoon ; 
their gestures and my thoughts would only be pitia, 
bly absurd a-nd ludicrously constrained. Why, man. 
the soul of such writing is its license ; at least the 
liberty of that license, if one likes — not that one 
should abuse it. It is like trial by jury and peerage 
and the habeas corpus — a very fine thing, but chiefly 
in the reversion ; because no one wishes to be tried 
for the mere pleasure of proving his possession of 
the privilege. 

" But a truce with these reflections. You are, too 
earnest and eager about a work never intended to 
be serious. Do you suppose that I could have any 
intention but to giggle and make giggle ? — a play- 
ful satire, with as little poetry as could be helped, 
was what I meant. And as to the indecency, do 
pray, read in Boswell what Johnson, the sullen 
moralist, says of Prior and Paulo Purgante. 

" Will you get a favor done for me ? You can, by 
your government friends, Croker, Canning, or ray 
old schoolfellow Peel, and I can't. Here it is. 
Will you ask them to appoint (without salary or 
emolument) a noble Italian (whom I will name, 
afterward) consul or vice-consul for Ravenna ? He 
is a man of very large property — noble too ; but 
he wishes to have a British protection in case of 
changes. Ravenna is near the sea. He wants no 
emolument whatever That his office might be use- 
ful, I know ; as I lately sent off from Ravenna to 
Trieste a poor devil of an English sailor, whfc* had 
remained there sick, sorry, and pennyless (having 
been set ashore in 1814), from the "want of any 
accredited agent able or willing to help him home- 
wards. Will you get this done ? If you do, I will 
then send his name and condition, subject of course 
to rejection, if mot approved when known. 

"I know that in the Levant you make consuls 
and vice-consuls, perpetually, of foreigners. This 
man is a patrician, and has twelve thousand a year 
His motive is a British protection in case of new 
invasions. Don't you think Croker would do"it for 
us ? To be sure, my interest is rare ! ! but perhaps 
a brother wit in the tory line might do a good turn 
at the request of so harmless and long absent a 
whig, particularly as there is no salary or burthen 
of any sort to be annexed to the office. 

"I can assure you, I should look upon it as a 
great obligation ; but, alas ! that very circumstance 
may, very probably, operate to the contrary — in- 
deed, it ought ; but I have, at least, been an honest 
and an open enemy. Among your many splendid 
overnment connxions, could not you, think you, 
et our Bibulus made a consul ? or make me one, 
that I may make him my vice. You may be as- 
sured that, in case of accidents in Italy, he would 
be no feeble .adjunct — as you would think, if you 
knew his patrimony. 

" What is all this about Tom Moore ? but why do 
I ask ? since the state of my own affairs would not 
permit me to be of use to him, though they are 
greatly improved since 1816, and may, with some 
inure luck and a little prudence, become quite clear. 
It seems his claimants are American merchants ! 
There goes Nemesis ! Moore abused America. It 
is always thus in the long run : — Time, the avenger* 
You have seen every trampler down, in turn, from 
Bonaparte to the simplest individuals. You saw 
how some were avenged even upon my insignifi- 
cance, and how in turn * * * paid for his atrocity. 
It is an odd world ; but the watch has its main- 
spring, after all. 

" So the prince has been repealing Lord Edward 
Fitzgerald's forfeiture ? Ecco un' sonetto! 

" To be the father of the fatherless, &c* 

" There, you dogs ! there's a sonnet for you: you 



* See Poems, page 572. 



LETTERS. 



887 



won't have such as that in a hurry from Mr. Fitz- 
gerald. You may publish it with my name, an' ye 
wool. He deserves all praise,, bad and good; it 
<vas a very noble piece of principality. Would you 
like an epigram — a translation ? 

"If lor silver, or for gold, 

You could melt ten thousand pimples • 

Into half a dozen dimples, 
Then your face we might behold, 

Looking doubtless much more snugly, 

Yet ev'n then 'twould be d d ugb/. 

"This was written on some Frenchwoman, by 
Ruhieres, I believe. " Yours." 



LETTER CCCC. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Bologna, August 23, 1819. 

" 1 send you a letter to Roberts, signed ' Wortley 
Clutterbuck,'* which you may publish in what form 
you please, in answer to his article. I have had 
many proofs of men's absurdity, but he beats all 
in folly. Why, the wolf in sheep's clothing has 
tumbled into the very trap ! We'll strip him. The 
letter is written in great haste, and amid a thou- 
sand vexations. Your letter only came yesterday, 
so that there is no time to polish: the post goes 
out to-morrow. The date is ' Little Pidlington.' 
Let * * * * correct the press : he knows and can 
read the handwriting. Continue to keep the anon- 
ymous about 'Juan;' it helps us to fight against 
overwhelming numbers. I have a thousand dis- 
tractions at present ; so excuse haste, and wonder 
I can act or write at all. Answer by post, as usual. 

" Yours." 

" P. S. If I had had time, and been quieter and 
nearer, I would have cut him to hash ; but as it is, 
you can judge for yourselves. 



LETTER CCCCI. 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLA. 

[Written in the last page of her copy of Madame De 
Stael's "Corinna."] 

" My dearest Teresa, — I have read this book in 
your garden ; — my love, you were absent, or else I 
could not have read it. It is a favorite book of 
yours, and the writer was a friend of mine. You 
will not understand these English words, and others 
will not understand them, — which is the reason I 
have not scrawled them in Italian. But you will 
recognise the handwriting of him who passionately 
loved you, and you will divine that, over a book 
which was yours, he could only think of love. In 
that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in 
yours — Amor moi — is comprised my existence here 
and hereafter. I feel I exist here, and I fear that I 
shall exist hereafter, — to what purpose you will 
decide ; my destiny rests with you, and you are a 
woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of a 
convent. I wish that you had stayed there, with 
all my heart, — or, at least, that I had never met 
you in your married state. 

" But all this is too late. I love you, and you 
love me, — at least, you say so, and act as if you did 
so, which last is a great consolation in all events. 
But / more than love you, and cannot cease to love 
you. 

" Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and the 
ocean divide us, — but they never will, unless you 
wishit. "Byron.'" 

" Bologna, August 25, 1319. 

* See page 296. 



LETTER CCCCII. 



"Bologiw, August 24, 1819. 

" I wrote to you by last post, enclosing a buffoon- 
ing letter for publication, addressed to the buffoon 
Roberts, who has thought proper to tie a canister 
to his own tail. If was written off-hand, and in the 
midst of circumstances not very favorable to face- 
tiousness, so that there may, perhaps, be more bit- 
terness than enough for that sort of small acid 
punch : — you will tell me. 

" Keep the anonymous, in any case : it helps what 
fun there may be. But if the matter grows serious 
about Don Juan, and you feel yourself 'in a scrape, 
or me either, own that I am the. author. I will never 
shrink ; and if you do, I can always answer you in 
the question of Guatimozin to his minister — each 
bring on his own coals.** 

"I wish that I had been in better spirits; but I 
am out of sorts, out of nerves, and now and then (I 
begin to fear) out of my senses. All this Italy has 
done for me, and not England. I defy^ill you, and 
your climate to boot, to make me mad. But if ever 
I do really become a bedlamite, and wear a strait 
waistcoat, let me be brought back among you ; 
your people will then be proper company. 

" I assure you what I here say and feel has noth- 
ing to do with England, either irfa literary or per- 
sonal point of view. All my present pleasures or 
plagues are as Italian as the opera. And after all, 
they are but trifles ; for all this arises from my 
Dama's ' being in the country for three days, (at 
Capo-fiume.) But as I could never live but for one 
human being at a time, (and, I assure you, that one 
has never been myself, as you may know by the con- 
sequences, for the selfish are successful in life,) 1 
feel alone and unhappy. 

" I have sent for my daughter from Venice, and 
I ride daily, and walk in a garden, under a purple 
canopy of grapes, and sit by a fountain, and talk 
with the gardener of his tools, which seem greater 
than Adam's, and with his wife, and with his son's 
wife, who is the youngest of the party, and, I think, 
talks best of the three. Then I revisited the Cam- 
po Santo, and my old friend, the sexton, has two — 
but one the prettiest daughter imaginable ; and 1 
amuse myself with contrasting her beautiful and 
innocent face of fifteen, with the skulls with which 
he has peopled several cells, and particularly with 
that of one skull dated 1766, which was once covered 
(the tradition goes) by the most lovely features of 
Bologna — noble and rich. When I look at these, 
and at this girl — when I think of what they were, 
and what she must be — why, then, my dear Murray, 
I won't shock you by saying what I think. It is 
little matter what becomes of us ' bearded men,' but 
I don't like the notion of a beautiful woman's last- 
ing less than a beautiful tree — than her own pic- 
ture—her own shadow, which won't change so to 
the sun as her face to the mirror. I must leave off, 
for my head aches consumedly. I have never been 
quite well since the night of the representation oi 
Alfieri's Mirra, a fortnight ago. 

" Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCCIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Bologna, August 29, 1819. 

"I have been in a rage these two days, and am 
still bilious therefrom. You shall hear. A cap- 
tain of dragoons, * *, Hanoverian by birth, in the 
Papal troops at present, whom I had obliged by a 
loan, when nobody would lend him a paul, recom- 
mended a horse to me, on sale by a Lieutenant * *, 
an officer who unites the sale of cattle to the pur- 



888 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



chase of men. I bought it. The next day, on 
shoeing the horse, we discovered the thrush, — the 
animal being warranted sound. I sent to reclaim 
the contract and the money. The lieutenant de- 
sired to speak with me in person. I consented. He 
came. It was his own particular request. He be- 
gan a story. I asked him if he would return the 
money. He said no — but he would exchange. He 
asked an exorbitant price "for his other horses. I 
told him that he was a thief. He said he was an 
officer and a man of honor, and pulled out a Par- 
mesan passport signed by General Count .Neifperg. 
I answered, that as he was an officer, I would treat 
him as such ; and that as to his being a gentleman, 
he might prove it by returning the money ; as for 
his Parmesan passport, I should have valued it 
more if it had been a Parmesan cheese. He ans- 
wered in high terms, and said that if it were in the 
morning (it was about eight o'clock in the evening) 
he would have satisfaction. I then lost my temper : 
' As for that,' I replied, ' you shall have it directly, 
— it will be mutual satisfaction, I can assure you. 
You are a thief, and, as you say, an officer: my 
pistols are in the next room, loaded ; take one of 
the candles, examine, and make your choice of 
weapons.' He replied that pistols were English 
weapons ; he always fought with the sword. I told 
him that I was Kile to accommodate him, having 
three regimental swords in a drawer near us; and 
he might take the longest, and put himself on 
guard. 

„" All this passed in presence of a third person. 
He then said No, but to-morrow morning he would 
give me the meeting at any time or place. I ans 
wered that it was not usuai to appoint meetings in 
the presence of witnesses, and that we had best 
speak man to man, and appoint time and instru- 
ments. But as the man present was leaving the 
room, the Lieutenant * *, before he could shut the 
door after him, ran out, roaring ' help and murder ' 
most lustily, and fell into a sort of hysteric in the 
arms of about fifty people, who all saw that I had 
no weapon of any sort or kind about me, and fol- 
lowed him, asking him what the devil was the mat- 
ter with him. Nothing would do : he ran away 
without his hat, and went to bed, ill of the fright. 
He then tried his complaint at the police, which 
dismissed it as frivolous. He is, I believe, gone 
away, or going. 

"The horse was warranted, but, I believe, so 
worded that the villain will not be obliged to re- 
fund, according to law. He endeavored to raise* up 
an indictment of assault and battery, but as it was 
in a public inn, in a frequented street, there were 
too many witnesses to the contrary ; and, as a mili- 
tary man, he has not cut a martial figure, even in 
the opinion of the priests. He ran off in such a 
hurry that he left his hat, and never missed it till 
he got to his hostel or inn. The facts are as I tell 
you, I can assure you. He began by ' coming Cap- 
tain Grand over me,' or I should never have thought 
of trying his ' cunning in fence.' But what could 
I do ? He talked of ' honor, and satisfaction, and 
his commission ; ' he produced a military passport ; 
there are severe punishments for regular duels on 
the continent, and trifling ones for rencontres, so 
that it is best to fight it out directly; he had rob- 
bed, and then wanted to insult me ; — what could I 
do ? My patience was gone, and the weapons at 
hand, fair and equal. Besides, it was just after 
dinner, when my digestion was bad, and I don't 
like to be disturbed. His friend * * is at Forli ; we 
shall meet on my way back to Ravenna. The Hano- 
verian seems the greater rogue of the two ; and if 

my valor does riot ooze away like Acres's ' Odds 

flints and triggers ! ' if it should be a rainy morn- 
ing, and my stomach in disorder, there may be some- 
thing for the obituary. 

"Now, pray, 'Sir Lucius, do not you look upon 
me as a very ill-used gentleman ? ' I send my lieu- 
tenant to match Mr. Hobhouse's Major Cartwright : 



and so ' good morrow to you, good master lieuten- 
ant.' With regard to other things, I will write 
soon, but I have been quarrelling and fooling till I 
can scribble no more." 



LETTER CCCCIV. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

" Oct. 22, 1S19. 

" I am glad to hear of your return, but I do not 
know how to congratulate you — unless you think 
differently of Venice from what I think now, and 
you thought always. I am, besides, about to renew 
your troubles by requesting you to be judge between 
Mr. Edgecombe and myself in a small matter of 
imputed peculation and irregular accounts on the 
part of that phoenix of secretaries. As I knew that 
you had not parted friends, at the same time that / 
refused for my own part any judgment but yours, I 
offered him his choice of any person, the least 
scoundrel native to be found in Venice, as his own 
umpire ; but he expressed himself so convinced of 
your impartiality, that he declined any but you. 
This is in his favor. The paper within will explain 
to you the default in his accounts. You will hear 
his explanation, and decide, if it so please you. I 
shall not appeal from the decision. 

"As he complained that his salary was insuffi- 
cient, I determined to have his accounts examined, 
and the enclosed was the result. It is all in black 
and white with documents, and I have despatched 
Fletcher to explain (or rather to perplex) the matter. 

" I have had much civility and kindness from Mr. 
Dorville during your journey, and I thank him 
accordingly. 

"Your letter reached me at your departure,* and 
displeased me very much : — not that it might not 
be true in its statement and kind in its intention, 
but you have lived long enough to know how use- 
less all such representations ever are and must be 
in cases where the passions are concerned. To rea- 
son with men in such a situation is like reasoning 
with a drunkard in his cups — the only answer you 
will get from him is that he is sober, and you are 
drunk. 

" Upon that subject we will (if you like) be silent. 
You might only say what would distress me with- 
out answering any purpose whatever ; and I have 
too many obligations to you to answer you in the 
same style. So that you should recollect that you 
have also that advantage over me. I hope to see 
you soon. 

" I suppose you know that they said at Venice, 
that I was arrested at Bologna as a carbonaro — a 
story about as true as their usual conversation. 
Moore has been here — I lodged him in my house at 
Venice, and went to see him daily ; but I could not 
at that time quit La Mira entirely. You and I were 
not very far from meeting in Switzerland. With 
my best respects to Mrs. Hoppner, believe me ever 
and truly, &c. 

" P. S. Allegra is here in good health and spirits 
—I shall keep her with me till I go to England, 
which will perhaps be in the spring. It has just 
occurred to me that you may not perhaps like to 
undertake the office of judge between Mr. Edge- 
combe and your humble servant. Of course, as 
Mr. Liston (the comedian, not the ambassador), 
says, 'it is all hoptional; ' but I have no other re- 



Mr. Hoppner, before his departure from Venice for Switzerland, had 
written a letter to Lord Byron, entreating him " to leave Ravenna, while 
yet he had a whole akin, and urging him not to risk the safety of a person he 
appeared so sincerely attached to — .15 well as his own — for the gratification oE 

lomentary passion, which could only he a source of regret to both 
parlies." In the same letter Mr. Hoppner informed him (f some reports be 
had heard lately at Venice, which, though possibly, he said, unfounded, had 
much increased his anxiety respecting the consequence of the -onnexior 
formed by him. — Moore. 



LETTERS. 



889 



aource. I do not wish to find him a rascal, if it can 
be avoided, and would rather think him guilty of 
carelessness than cheating. The case is this — can 
I, or not, give him a character for honesty? It is 
not my intention to continue him in my service." 



LETTER CCCCV. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



" October 25, 1819. 

"You need not have made any excuses about the 
letter ; I never said but that you might, could, 
should, or would have reason. 1 merely described 
my own state of inaptitude to listen to it at that 
time, and in those circumstances. Besides, you did 
not speak from your own authority — but from what 
you said you had heard. Now my blood boils to 
hear an Italian speaking ill of another Italian, be- 
cause, though they lie in particular, they speak 
■truth in general by speaking ill at all — and although 
they know that they are trying and wishing to lie, 
they do not succeed, merely because they can sav 
nothing so bad of each other, that it may not, and 
must not be true from the atrocity of their long- 
debased national character. 

" With regard to Edgecombe, you will perceive 
a most irregular, extravagant account, without 
proper documents to support it. He demanded an 
increase of salary, which made me suspect him ; he 
supported an outrageous extravagance of expendi- 
ture, and did not like the dismission o-f the cook ; 
he never complained of him — as in duty bound — at 
the time of his robberies. I can only say, that the 
house expense is now under one-half of what it then 
was, as he himself admits. He charged for a comb 
eighteen francs, — the real price was eight. He 
charged a passage from Fusina for a person named 
Iambelli, who paid it herself, as she will prove, if 
necessary. He fancies, or asserts himself, the vic- 
tim of a domestic complot against him ; — accounts 
are accounts — prices are prices : — let him make out 
a fair detail, i" am not prejudiced against him — 
on the contrary, I supported him against the com-. 
plaints of his wife, and of his former master, at a 
time when I could have crushed him like an ear- 
wig, and if he is a scoundrel, he is the greatest of 
scoundrels, an ungrateful one. The truth is, pro- 
bably, that he thought I was leaving Venice, and 
determined to make the most of it. At present he 
keeps bringing in account after account, though he 
had always money in hand — as I believe you know 
my system was never to allow longer than a week's 
bills to run. Pray read him this letter — I desire 
nothing to be concealed against which he may de- 
fend himself. 

"Pray how is your little boy? and how are you 
—I shall be up in Venice very soon, and we will be 
bilious together. I hate the place and all that it 
inherits. " Yours, &c." 



third canto is in advance about one hundred stan 
zas ; but the failure of •.the first two has weakened 
my estro, and it will neither be so good as the former 
two, nor completed, unless I get a little more riscal- 
dato in its behalf.* I understand the outcry was 
beyond every thing. — Pretty cant for people who 
read Tom Jones, and Roderick Random, and the 
Bath Guide, and Ariosto, and Dryden, and Pope — 
to say nothing of Little's Poems. Of course I re- 
fer to the morality of these works, and not to any 
pretension of mine to compete with them in any . 
thing but decency. I hope yours is the Paris edi- 
tion, and that you did not pay the London price. 
I have seen neither, except in the newspapers. 

"Pray make my respects to Mrs. H., and ^.ake 
care of your little boy. All my household have the 
fever and ague, except Fletcher, Allegra, and myseti, 
(as we used to say in Nottinghamshire,) and the 
horses, and Mutz, and Moretto. In the beginning 
of November, perhaps sooner, I expect to have the 
pleasure of seeing you. To-day I got drenched by 
a thunder-storm, and my horse and groom too, and 
his horse all bemired up to the middle in a cross- 
road. It was summer, at noon, and at five we were 
bewintered ; but the lightning was sent, perhaps, to 
let us know that the summer was not yet over. It 
is queer weather for the 27th of October. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



LETTER CCCCVI. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



1 October 28, 1819. 



"I have to thank you for your letter, and your 
compliment to Don Juan. I said nothing to you 
about it, understanding that it is a sore subject with 
the moral reader, and has been the cause of a great 
row; but I am glad you like it. I will say nothing 
about the shipwreck, except that I hope you think 
It is as nautical and technical as verse could admit 
in the octave measure. 

"The poem has not sold well, so Murray says — 
'but the best judges, &c, say, &c.,' so says that 
worthy man. I have never seen it in print. The 
112 



" Venice, OctuOer 2A 1819. 

"Yours of the 15th came yesterday. I am sorry 
that you do not mention a large letter addressed to 
your care for Lady Byron, from me, at Bologna, two 
months ago. Pray tell me was this letter received 
and forwarded ? 

"You say nothing of the vice-cansulate for the 
Ravenna patrician, from which is to be inferred that 
the thing will not be done. 

"I had written about a hundred stanzas of a 
tKrd canto to Don Juan, but the reception of the 
first two is no encouragement to you nor me to pro- 
ceed. 

" I had also written about six hundred lines of a 
poem, the Vision (or Prophecy) of Dante, the sub- 
ject a view of Italy in the ages down to the present 
— supposing Dante to speak in his own person, pre- 
vious to his death and embracing all topics in the 
w*y of prophecy, like Lycophron's Cassandra ; but 
this and the other are both at a stand -still for the 
present. 

" I gave Moore, who is gone to Rome, my life in" 
MS. in seventy-eight folio sheets, brought down to 
1816. But this I put into his hands for his care, as 
he has some other MSS. of mine — a journal kept in 
1814, &c. Neither are for publication during my 
life, but when I am cold, you may do what you 
please. In the mean time, if you like to read them 
you may, and show them to any body you like — I 
care not. 

"The life is memoranda and not confessions. I 
have left out all my loves, (except in a general way,) 
and many other of the most important things, (be- 
cause I must not compromise other people,) so that 
it is like the play of Hamlet — ' The part of Hamlet 
omitted by particular desire.' But you will find 
many opinions, and some fun, with a detailed ac- 
count of my marriage and its consequences, as true 
as a party concerned can make such account, for I 
suppose we are all prejudiced. 

"I have never read over this life since it was 
written, so that I know not exactly what it may re- 
peat or contain. Moore and I passed some merry 
days together. * 



See Letter, cccUxx. 



890 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" I probably must return for business, or in my 
way to America. Pray, did you get a letter for Hob- 
house, who will have told you the contents ? I un- 
derstand that the Venczulean commissioners had 
orders to treat with emigrants ; now I want to go 
there. I should not make a bad South American 
planter, and I should take my natural daughter, Al- 
legra, with me, and settle. I wrote, at length, to 
Hobhouse, to get information from Perry, who, I 
suppose, is the best topographer and trumpeter of 
the new republicans. Pray write. 

" Yours, ever, 

" P. S. Moore and I did nothing but laugh. He 
will tell you of ' my whereabouts,' and all my pro 
ceedings at this present; they are as usual. You 
should not let those fellows .publish false ' Don 
Juans;' but do not put my name, because I mean 
to cut Roberts up like a gourd in the preface, if I 
continue the poem." 



*emr 
vself 



LETTER CCCCVIII. 

TO ME. HOPPNER. 

"October 29, 1819. 

" The Ferrara story is of a piece with all the rest 
of the Venetian manufacture,* — you may judge : I 
only changed horses f here since I wrote to you, after 
my visit in June last. 'Convent' and ' carry off,' 
quotha! and 'girl.' I should like to know who 
has been carried off, except poor dear me. I have 
been more ravished myself than any body since the 
Trojan war ; but as to the arrest, and its causes, one 
is as true as the other, and I can account for the 
invention of neither. I suppose it is some confu- 
sion of the tale of the Fornaretta and of Me. 
Guiccioli, and half a dozen more ; but it is useless 
to unravel the web, when one has only to brush it 
away. I shall settle with Master E., who looks 
very blue at your in-decision, and swears that he is 
the best arithmetician in Europe ; and so I think 
also, for he makes out two and two to be five. 

" You may see me next week. I have a hors 
two more, (five in all,) and I shall repossess myself 
of Lido and I will rise earlier, and we will go and 
shake our livers over the beach, as heretofore, if 
you like — and we will make the Adriatic roar again 
with our hatred of that now empty oyster-shell, 
without its pearl, the city of Venice. 

" Murray sent me a letter yesterday : the impos- 
tors have published two new third cantos of Dpn 
Juan : — the devil take the impudence of some black- 
guard bookseller or other therefor ! Perhaps I did 
not make myself understood ; he told me the sale 
had been great, twelve hundred out of fifteen hun- 
dred quarto, I believe, (which is nothing, after, sell- 
ing thirteen thousand of the Corsair in one day;) 
but that the ' best judges,' &c, had said it was 
very fine, and clever, and particular)' good English, 
and poetry, and all those consolatory things, which 
are not, however, worth a single copy to a book- 
seller : and as to the author, of course I am in a 
d — ned passion at the bad taste of the times, and 
swear there is nothing like posterity, who, of course, 
must know more of the matter than their grand- 
fathers. There has been an eleventh command- 
ment to the women not to read it, and what is still 
more extraordinary, they seem not to have broken 
it. But that can be of little import to them, poor 
things, for the reading or non-reading a book will 
never * ' * * * * * 

" Count G. comes to Venice next week, and I am 
requested to consign his wife to him, which shall be 
done. * * * What you 

say of the long evenings at theMira, or Venice, re- 
minds me of what Curran said to Moore : — ' So I 
hear you have married a pretty woman, and a very 

* See Letter cccc. 



good creature, too, — an excellent creature. Pray— 
um ! — how do you pass your evenings V It is a devil 
of a question that, and perhaps as easy to answer 
with a wife as with a mistress. 

" If you go to Milan, pray leave at least a Vice- 
Consul — the only vice that will ever be wanting at 
Venice. D'Orville is a good fellow. But you shall 
go to England in the spring with me, and plani 
Mrs. Hoppner at Berne with her relations for a few 
months. I wish you had been here (at Venice, I 
mean, not the Mira) when Moore was here — we were 
very merry and tipsy. He hated Venice by-the-way, 
and swore it was a sad place. 

•' So Madame Albrizzi's death is in danger — poor 
woman ! * * * * * * 

Moore told me that at Geneva they had made a 
devil of a story of. the Fornaretta: — 'Young lady 
seduced ! — subsequent abandonment ! — leap into the 
Grand Canal,' — and her being in the ' hospital of 
fous in consequence !' I should like to know who 

was nearest being made 'foil,' and be d d to 

them ! Don't you think me in the interesting 
character of a very ill-used gentleman ? I hope 
your little boy is well. Allegrina is flourishing like 
a pomegranate blossom. " Yours, &e." 



LETTER CCCCIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, November, 8, 1819. 

" Mr. Hoppner has lent me a copy of ' Don Juan,' 
Paris edition, which he tells me is read in Switzer- 
land by clergymen and ladies, with considerable ap- 
probation. In the second canto, you must alter the 
forty-ninth stanza to 

11 'Twos twilight, and the sunless day went down 

Over the waste of waters, like a veil 
Which if withdrawn would but disclose the frown 

Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail ; 
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 

And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 
And the dim desolate deep; twelve days had Fear 
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.* 

" I have been ill these eight days with a tertian 
fever, caught in the country on horseback in a 
thunder-storm. Yesterday I had the fourth attack : 
the two last were very smart, the first day as well as 
the last being preceded by vomiting. It is the 
fever of the place and the season. I feel weakened, 
but not unwell, in the intervals, except headache 
and lassitude. 

" Count Guiccioli has arrived in Venice, and has 
presented his spouse (who had preceded him two 
months for her health and the prescriptions of Dr. 
Aglietti) with a paper of conditions, regulations of 
hours, and conduct, and morals, &c., &c, &c., 
which he insist on her accepting, and she persists in 
refusing. I am expressly, it should seem, excluded 
by this treaty, as an indispensable preliminary; so 
that they are in high dissension, and what the re- 
sult may be, I know not, particularly as they are 
consulting friends. 

"To-night, as Countess Guiccioli observed me 
poring over ' Don Juan,' she stumbled by mere 
chance on the one hundred and thirty-seventh 
stanza of the first canto, and asked me what it 
meant. I told her, 'Nothing, — but "your hus- 
band is coming." ' As I said this in Italian with 
some emphasis, she started up in a fright, and said, 
' Oh, my God, is he coming V thinking it was her 
own, who either was or ought to have been at the 
theatre. You may suppose we laughed when she 
found out the mistake. You will be amused, as I 
was ; it happened not three hours ago. 

" I wrote to you last week, but have added no- 

* Corrected in tills edition. 



LETTERS. 



891 



thing to the third canto since my fever, nor to ' The 
Prophecy of Dante.' Of the former there are 
about a hundred octaves done; of the latter about 
five hundred lines — perhaps more. Moore saw the 
third Juan, as far as it then went. I do not know 
if my fever will let me go on with either, and the 
tertian lasts, they say, a good while. I had it in 
Malta on my way home, and the malaria fever in 
Greece the year before that. The Venetian is not 
very fierce, but I was delirious one of the nights 
with it, for an hour or two, and, on my senses 
corning back, found Fletcher sobbing on one side of 
the bed, and La Contessa Guiccioli weeping on the 
other ; so that I had no want of attendance. I have 
not yet taken any physician, because, though I 
think they may relieve in chronic disorders, such as 
gout and the like, &c, &c, &c, (though they can't 
cure them) — just as surgeons are necessary to set 
bones and tend wounds — yet I think fevers quite 
out of their reach, and remediable only by diet and 
nature. 

" I don't like the taste of bark, but I suppose 
that I must take it soon. 

"Tell Rose that somebody at Milan (an Aus- 
trian, Mr. Hoppner says) is answering his book. 
William Bankes is in quarantine at Trieste. I have 
not lately heard from you. Excuse this paper : it is 
long paper shortened for the occasion. What folly 
is this of Carlisle's trial ? why let him have the 
honors of a martyr ? it will only advertise the books 
in question. "Yours, &o. 

" P. S. As I tell you that the Guiccioli business 
is on the eve of exploding in one way or the other, 
I will just add, that without attempting to influ- 
ence the decision of the Contessa, a good deal de- 
pends upon it. If she and her husband make it up, 
you will perhaps see me in England sooner than you 
expect. If not, I shall retire with her to France or 
America, change my name, and lead a quiet pro- 
vincial life. All this may seein odd, but I have got 
the poor girl into a scrape; and as neither her birth, 
nor her rank, nor her connexions by birth or mar- 
riage, are inferior to my own, I am in honor bound 
to support her through. Besides, she is a very 
pretty woman — ask Moore — and not yet one-and- 
twenty. 

" If she gets over this, and I get over my tertian, I 
will perhaps look in at Albemarle street, some of 
these days, en passant to Bolivar." 



LETTER CCCCX. 



TO Mil. BANKES. 



" Venice, November 20, 1819. 

" A tertian ague which has troubled me for some 
time, and the indisposition of my daughter, have 
prevented me from replying before to your welcome 
litter. I have not been ignorant of your progress 
nor of your discoveries, and I trust that you are no 
worse in health from your labors. You may rely 
upon finding every body in England eager to reap 
tl'.ij fruits of them ; and as you have done more than 
other men, I hope you will not limit yourself to 
saying less than may do justice to the talents and 
time you have bestowed on your perilous researches. 
The first sentence of my letter will have explained 
to you why I cannot join you at Trieste. I was on 
the point of setting" out for England, (before I 
knew of your arrival,) when my child's illness has 
made her and me dependent on a Venetian Proto- 
Medico. 

" It is now seven years since you and I met ; — 
which time you have employed better for others, 
and more honorably for yourself, than I have done. 

" In England you will find considerable changes, 
public and private, — you will see some of our old 
college contemporaries turned into lords of the 



treasury, admirality and the like, — others become 
reformers and orators, — many settled in life, as it is 
called, — and others settled in death ; among the 
latter (by-the-way, not our fellow-collegians), 
Sheridan, Curran, Lady Melbourne, Monk Lewis, 
Frederick Douglas, &c, &c, &c. ; but you will fetill 
rind Mr. * * living and all his family, as also * 

* * * * * , * 

" Should you come up this way, and I am still 
here, you need not be assured how glad I shall be 
to see you ; I long to hear some part, from you, of 
that which I expect in no long time to see. At 
length you have had better fortune than any tra- 
veller of equal enterprise, (except Humboldt,) in re- 
turning safe ; and after the fate of the Brownes, 
and the Parkes, and the Burckhaidts, it is hardly 
less surprise than satisfaction to get you back 
again. " Believe me ever 

"And very affectionately yours, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCCCXI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" You may do as you please, but you are about a 
hopeless experiment.* Eldon will decide against 
you, were it only that my name is in the record. 
You will also recollect that if the publication is 
pronounced against, on the grounds you mention, 
as indecent and blasphemous, that / lose all right in 
my daughter's guardianship and education, in short, 
all paternal authority, and every thing concerning 
her, except * * * * * 

It was so decided in Shelley's case, because he had 
written Queen Mab, &c, &c. However, you can 
ask the lawyers, and do as you like : I do not in- 
hibit you trying the question ; I merely state one 
of the consequences to me. With regard to the 
copyright, it is hard that you should pay for a non- 
entity : I will, therefore, refund it, which I can very 
well do, not having spent it, nor begun upon it ; 
and so we will be quits on that score. It lies at my 
banker's. 

" Of the Chancellor's law I am no judge ; but take 
up Tom Jones, and read his Mrs.' Waters and Molly 
Seagrim ; or Prior's Hans Carvel and Paulo Pur- 
ganti ; Smollett's Roderick Random, the chapter of 
Lord Strutwell, and many others; Peregrine Pickle, 
the scene of the Beggar Girl ; Johnson's London, 
for coarse expressions ; for instance, the words ' * 
*,' and ' * * ; ' Anstey's Bath Guide, the ' Hearken 
Lady Betty, hearken ; ' — take up, in short, Pope, 
Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Fielding, Smollett, and 
let the council select passages, and what becomes of 
their copyright, if his Wat Tyler decision is to pass 
into a precedent ?f I have nothing more to say : 
you must judge for yourselves. 

'i I wrote to you some time ago. I have had a 
teritan ague; my daughter Allegra has been ill also, 
and I have been almost obliged to run away with a 
married woman; but with some difficulty, and many 
internal struggles, I reconciled the lady with her 
lord, and cured the fever of the child with bark, and 
my own with cold water. I think of setting out for 
England by the Tyrol in a few days, so that I could 
wish you to direct your next letter to Calais. Ex- 
cuse my writing in great haste and late in the morn- 
ing, or night, whichever you please to call it. The 
third canto of ' Don Juan ' is completed, in about 
two hundred stanzas ; very decent, I believe, but dc 
not know, and it is useless to discuss until it be 
ascertained, if it may or may not be a property. 

" My present determination to quit Italy was un- 



• Mr. Murray had commenced a suit against a London bookseller, for at 
infringement of his copyright, in publishing a pirated edition of Don Juan. 
t See Letter dlxxxi. 



892 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



looked for ; but I have explained the reasons in let- 
ters to my sister and Douglas Kinnaird, a week or 
two ago. My progress will depend upon the snows 
of the Tyrol, and the health of my child, who is at 
present quite recovered : — but I hope to get on well, 
and am " Yours ever and truly. 

" P. S. Many thanks for your letters, to which 
you are not to consider this as an answer, but as an 
acknowledgement." 



LETTER CCCCXII. 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

"You are, and ever will be, my first thought, 
but at this moment, I am in a state most dreadful, 
not knowing which wav to decide ; — on the one 
hand, fearing that I should compromise you for ever, 
by my return to Ravenna, and the consequences of 
such a step, and, on the other, dreading that I 
shall lose both you and myself, and all that I have 
ever known or tasted of happiness, by never seeing 
you more. I pray of you, I implore you to be com- 
forted, and to believe that I cannot cease to love 
vou but with my life. 

****** 

" I go to save you, and leave a country insupport- 
able to me without you. Your letters to F * * 
and myself do wrong to my motives — but you will 
yet see your injustice. It is not enough that I 
must leave you — from motives of which ere long 
you will be convinced — it is not enough that I must 
fly from Italy, with a heart deeply wounded, after 
having passed all my days in solitude since your 
departure, sick both in body and mind — but I must 
also have to endure your reproaches without an- 
swering and without deserving them. Farewell ! — 
in that one word is comprised the death of my hap- 
piness." 



LETTER CCCCXIII. 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

"J? -* * * w jj] already have told yon, with her 
accustomed sublimity, that Love has gained the vic- 
tory. I could not summon up resohition enough to 
leave the country where you are, without, at least, 
once more seeing you. On yourself, perhaps, it 
will depend, whether I ever again shall leave you. 
Of the rest we shall speak when we meet. You 
ought, by this time, to know which is most condu- 
cive to your welfare, my presence or my absence — 
For myself, I am a citizen of the world — all coun- 
tries are alike to me. You have ,ever been, since 
our first acquaintance, the sole object of my thoughts. 
My opinion was, that the best courSe'l could adopt, 
both for your peace and that of all your family, would 
have been to depart and go far, far away from you ; 
— since to have been near and not approach you 
would have been, for me, impossible. You have 
however decided that I am to return to Ravenna. I 
shall accordingly return — and shall do — and be all 
that you wish. I cannot say more." 



LETTER CCCCXIV. 

to mr. hoppner. 

" My Dear Hoppner, 

" Partings are but bitter work at best, so that I 
shall not venture on a second with you. Pray make 
my respects to Mrs. Hoppner, and assure her of my 



unalterable reverence for the singular goodness of 
her disposition, which is not without its reward even 
in this world — for those who are no great believers 
in human virtues would discover enough in her to 
give them abetter opinion of their fellow-creatures, 
and — what is still more difficult — of themselves, as 
being of the same species, however inferior in ap- 
proaching its nobler models. Make, too, what ex- 
cuses you can for my omission of the ceremony of 
leave-taking. If we all meet again, I will make 
my humblest apology : if not, recollect that I wished 
you all well : and, if you can, forget that I have 
given you a great deal of trouble. 

" Yours, &c, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXV 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, Dec. 10, 1919. 

" Since I last wrote, I have changed my mind, 
and shall not come to England. The more I con- 
template the more I dislike the place and the pros- 
pect. You may therefore address to me as usual 
here, though I mean to go to another city. I have 
finished the third canto of Don Juan, but the things 
I have read and heard discourage all farther publi- 
cation — at least for the present. You may try the 
copy question, but you'll lose it : the cry is up, and 
cant is up. I should have no objection to return 
the price of the copyright, and have written to Mr. 
Kinnaird by this post on the subject. Talk with 
him. 

" I have not the patience, nor do I feel interest 
enough in the question, to contend with the fellows 
in their own slang ; but I perceive Mr. Blackwood's 
Magazine and one or two others of your missives 
have been hyperbolical in their praise, and diaboli- 
cal in their abuse. I like and admire Wilson, and 
he should not have indulged himself in such outra- 
geous license.* It is overdone and defeats itself. — 
What would he say to the grossness without pas- 
sion and the misanthropy without feeling of Gul- 
liver's Travels ? — When he talks of lady Byron's 
business, he talks of what he knows nothing about ; 
and you may tell him that no one can more desire a 
public investigation of that affair than I do. 

" I sent home by Moore (for Moore only who 
has my journal also) my memoir written up to 
1816, and I gave him leave to show it to whom he 
pleased, but not to publish, on any account. You 
may read it, and you may let Wilson read it, if he 
likes — not for his public opinion, but his private; 
for I like the man, and care very little about his 
magazine. And I could wish Lady B. herself to 
read it, that she may have it in her power to mark 
any thing mistaken or misstated; as it may proba- 
bly appear after my extinction, and it would be 
but fair she should see it, — that is to say, herself 
willing. 

" Perhaps I may take a journey to you in the 
spring ; but I have been ill and am indolent and in- 
decisive, because few things interest me. These 
fellows first abused me for being gloomy, and now 
they are wroth that I am, or attempted to be, face- 
tious. I have got such a cold and headache that I 
can hardly see what I scrawl ; — the winters here are 
as sharp as needles. Some time ago I wrote to you 
rather fully about my Italian affairs ; at present I 
can say no more except that you shall hear farther 
by-and-by. 

" Your Blackwood accuses me of treating women 
harshly : it may be so, but I have been their mar- 



* This is one of the many mistakes into which his distance from the scene 
of literary operations led him. The gentleman to whom the hostile article in 
the magazine is he£ attributed, has never, either then or since, written upon 
the subject of the noble poet's character or genius, without giving vent to a 
feeling of admiration as enthusiastic as it is always eloquently and powerfully 
expressed. — Moore. 



LETTERS. 



893 



tyr ; my whole life has been sacrificed to them and 
by them. I mean to leave Venice in a few days, but 
you will address your letters here as usual. When I 
fix elsewhere, you shall know." 



LETTER CCCCXVI. 



TO ME. HOPPXER. 



" Ravenna, Dec. 31, 1819. 

if I have been here this week, and was obliged to 
put on my armor and go the night after my arrival 
to the Marquis Cavalli's, where there were between 
two and three hundred of the best company I have 
seen in Italy, — more beauty, more youth, and more 
diamonds among the women than have been seen 
these fifty years in the Sea-Sodom.* — I never saw 
such a difference between two places of the same 
latitude, (or platitude, it is all one,) — music, danc- 
ing, and play, all in the same salle. The G.'s object 
appeared to be to parade her foreign lover as much 
as po^ible, and, faith, if she seemed to glory in the 
scandal, it was not for me to be ashamed of it. No- 
body seemed surprised ; — all the women, on the con- 
trary, were, as it were, delighted with the excellent 
example. The vice-legate, and all the other vices, 
were as polite as could be ; — and I, who had acted 
on the reserve, was fairly obliged to take the lady 
under my arm, and look as much like a cicisbeo as 
I could on so short a notice, — to say nothing of the 
embarrassment of a cocked hat and sword, much 
more formidable to me than ever it will be to the 
enemy. 

" I write in great haste — do you answer as hastily. 
I can understand nothing of all this ; but it seems 
as if the G. had been presumed to be planted, and 
was determined to show that she was not, — planta- 
tion, in this hemisphere, being the greatest moral 
misfortune. But this is mere conjecture, for I know 
nothing about it-^-except that every body are very 
kind to her, and not discourteous to me. Fathers, 
and all relations, quite agreeable. 

" Yours ever, 

"B. 

" P. S. Best respects to Mrs. H. 

" I would send the compliments of the season ; 
but the season itself is so little complimentary with 
snow and rain that I wait for sunshine." 



LETTER CCCCXVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" January 2, 1S20. 

•' My Dear Moore, 

" ' To-day it is my wedding-day, 
And all the folks would sure 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
And I should dine at Ware. 1 

Or thus — 

" Here's a happy new year ! but with reason, N 

I beg you'll permit nie to say — 
Wish me many returns of the season 
But as few as you please of the aat,. 

" My this present writing is to direct you that, 
if she chooses, she may see the MS. memoir in your 
possession. I wish her to have fair play in all cases, 
even though it will not be published till after my 
decease. For this purpose, it were but just that 
Lady B. should know what is there said of her and 
hers, that she may have full power to remark on or 
respond to any part or parts, as may seem fitting 
to herself. This is fair dealing, I presume, in all 
events. 



' Gehenna of the waters I tl au Sea-Sodom I " 

* Marino Faliero. 



" To change the subject, are yon in England ? 1 
send you an epitaph for Castlereagh. 

* * -* * * * 

Another for Pitt — 

" With death doom'd to grapple 
Beneath this cold slab, he 
Who lied in the Chapel 
Now lies in the Abbey. 

" The gods seem to have made me poetical this 
day : — 

" In digging up your bones, Tom Paiue, 
WiH. Cobbett has done well : 
You visit him on earth again, 
He'll visit you in hell. 

11 You come to him on earth again, 
He'll go with you to hell. 

" Pray let not these versiculi go forth witn my 
name, except among the initiated, because my friend 
Hobhouse has foamed into a reformer, and I greatly 
fear, will subside into Newgate ; since the Honora- 
ble House, according to Galignani's Reports of Par 
liamentary Debates, are menacing a prosecution to 
a pamphlet of his. I shall be very sorry to hear of 
any thing but good for him, particularly in these 
miserable squabbles ; but these are the natural ef- 
fects of taking a part in them. 

" For my own part, I had a sad scene since you 
went. Count Gu. came for his wife, and none of 
those consequences which Scott prophesied ensued. 
There was no damages, as in England, and so Scott 
lost his wager. But there was a great scene, for 
she would not, at first, go back with him — at least, 
she did go back with him ; but he insisted, reason- 
ably enough, that all communication should be 
broken off between her and me. So, finding Italy 
very dull, and having a fever tertian. I packed up 
my valise and prepared to cross the Alps ; but my 
daughter fell ill, and detained me. 

" After her arrival at Ravenna, the Guiccioli fell 
ill again too ; and, at last her father (who had, all 
along, opposed the liaison most violently till now) 
wrote to me to say that she was in such a state that 
he begged me to come and see her, — and that her 
husband had acquiesced, in consequence of her re- 
lapse, and that he (her father) would guarantee all 
this, and that there would be no farther scenes in 
consequence between them, and that I should not 
be compromised in any way. I set out soon after, 
and have been here ever since. I found her a good 
deal altered, but getting better : — all this comes of 
reading Corinne. 

" The Carnival is about to begin, and I saw about 
two or three hundred people at the Marquis Cavalli's 
the other evening, with as much youth, beauty, and 
diamonds among the women, as ever averaged in the 
like number. My appearance in waiting on the 
Guiccioli was considered as a thing of course. The 
Marquis is her uncle, and naturally considered me 
as her relation. 

" The paper is out, and so is the letter. Pray 
write. Address to Venice, whence the letters will 
be forwarded. " Yours, &c, "B " 



LETTER CCCCXVIII. 



TO MR. HOPl'NElt 



"Ravenna, January 20, 1820. 

" I have not decided any thing about remaining 
at Ravenna. I may stay a day, a week, a year, ail 
my life ; but all this depends upon what I can 
neither see nor foresee. I came because I was 
called, and will go the moment that I perceive 
what may render my departure proper. My attach- 
ment has neither "the blindness of the beginning, 
nor the microscopic accuracy of the close to such 
liaisons ; but ' time and the hour ' must decide 
upon what I do. I can as yet say nothing, because 
1 hardly know any thing beyond what I have told you 



894 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" I wrote to you last post for my movables, as 
there is no getting a lodging with a chair or table 
here ready ; and as I have already some things of 
the sort at Bologna which I had last summer there 
for my daughter, I have directed them to be moved ; 
and wish the like to be done with those of Venice, 
that I may at least get out of the ' Albergo Im- 
periale,' which is imperial in all true sense of the 
epithet. Buffini may be paid for his poison, 
forgot to thank you and Mrs. Hoppner for a whole 
treasure of toys for Allegra before our departure ; it 
was very kind, and we are very grateful. 

" Your account of the wedding of the Governor's 
party is very entertaining. If you do not under- 
stand the consular exceptions, I do ; and it is right 
that a man of honor, and a woman of probity, 
should iind it so, particularly in a place where there 
are not 'ten righteous.' As to nobility — in Eng- 
land none are strictly noble but peers, not even 
peers' sons, though titled by courtesy ; nor knights 
of the garter, unless of the peerage, so that Castle- 
reagh himself would hardly pass through a foreign 
herald's ordeal till the death of his father. 

" The snow is a foot deep here. There is a thea- 
tre, and opera, — the Barber of Seville. Balls begin 
on Monday next. Pay the porter for never looking 
after the gate, and ship my chattels, and let me 
know, or let Castelli let me know, how my lawsuits 
go on — but fee him only in proportion to his suc- 
cess. Perhaps we may meet in the spring yet, if 
you are for England. I see Hobhouse has got into 
a scrape, which does not please me ; he should not 
have gone so deep among those men, without 
calculating the consequences. I used to think 
myself the most imprudent of all among my friends 
and acquaintances, but almost begin to doubt it. 

" Yours, &c. 



LETTER CCCCXIX. 



TO Mil. HOPPXKR. 



" Ravenna, January 31, 1820. 

" You would hardly have been troubled with the 
removal of my furniture, but there is none to be 
had nearer than Bologna, and I have been fain to 
have that of the rooms which I fitted up for my 
daughter there in the summer removed here. The 
expense will be at least as great of the land car- 
riage, so that you see it was necessity, and not 
choice. Here they get every thing from Bologna, 
except some lighter articles from Forli or Faenza. 

" If Scott is returned, pray remember me to him, 
and plead laziness the whole and sole cause of my 
not replying : — dreadful is the exertion of letter- 
writing. The Carnival here is less boisterous, but 
we have balls and a theatre. I carried Bankes to 
both, and he carried away, I believe, a much more 
favorable impression of the society here than that of 
Venice — recollect that I speak of the native society 
only. 

" I am drilling very hard to learn how to double a 
shawl, and should succeed to admiration if I did 
not always double it the wrong side out ; and then I 
sometimes confuse and bring away two, so as to put 
all the Serventi out, besides'keeping their Servite in 
the cold till every body can get back their property. 
But it is a dreadfully moral place, for you must not 
look at any body's wife except your neighbor's, — if 
you go to the next door but one, you are scolded, and 
presumed to be perfidious. And then a relazione or 
an amicizia seems to be a regular affair of from five 
to fifteen years, at which period, if there occur a 
widowhood, it finishes by a sposalizio ; and in the 
mean time, it has so many rules of its own that it 
is not much better. A man actually becomes a 
piece of female property,— they won't let their 
Serventi marry until there is a vacancy for them- 
selves. I know two instances of this in one family 
here. 



" To-night there was a — * lottery after the opera ; 
it is an odd ceremony. Bankes and I took tickets 
of it, and buffooned together very merrily. He is 
gone to Firenze. Mrs. J* * should have sent you 
my postscript; there was no occasion to have bored 
you in person. I never interfere in any body's 
squabbles, — she may scratch j'our face herself. 

" The weather here has been dreadful — snow 
several feet — a fiume broke down a bridge, and 
flooded heaven knows how many campi ; then rain 
came — and it is still thawing — so that my saddle 
horses have a sinecure till the roads become more 
practicable. Why did Lega give away the goat ? a 
blockhead — I must have him again. » 

" Will you pay Missiaglia and the Buffo Buffini 
of the Gran Bretagna ? I heard from Moore, who 
is at Paris ; I had previously written to him in 
London, but he has not yet got my letter, appa- 
rently. " Believe me, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXX. 



TO Mil. MUEItAY. 



" R tvenna, February 7, 1820. 
" I have had no letter from you these two months ; 
but since I came here in December, 1S19, 1 sent 
you a letter for Moore, who is God knows where — 
in Paris or London, I presume. I have copied and 
cut the third canto of Don Juan into two, because it 
was too long ; and I tell you this beforehand, because 
in case of any reckoning between you and me, these 
two are only to go for one, as this was the original 
form, and, in fact, the two together are not longer 
than one of the first: so remember that I have not 
made this division to double upon ?/("' / but m Tel) 
to suppress some tediousness in the aspect of the 
thing. I should have served you a pretty trick if I 
had sent you, for example, cantos of fifty stanzas 
each. 

' I am translating the first canto of Pulci's 
Morgante Maggiore, and have half done it; but 
these last days of the Carnival confuse and 'inter- 
rupt every thing. 

' I have not yet sent off the cantos, and have 
some doubt whether they ought to be published, for 
they have not the spirit of the first. The outcry 
has not frightened but it has hurt me, and I have 
not written eon amore this time. It is very decent, 
however, and as dull as ' the last new comedy.' 

" I think my translations of Pulci will make you 
stare. It must be put -by the original, stanza for 
stanza, and verse for verse ; and you will see what 
was permitted in a Catholic country and a bigoted 
age to a churchman, on the score of religion; — 
and so tell those buffoons who accuse me of attack- 
s' the Liturgy. 

" I write in the greatest haste, it being the hour 
of the corso, and I must go and buffoon with the 
rest. My daughter Allegra is just gone with the 
Countess G., in Count G.'s coach and six, to join 
the cavalcade, and I must follow with all the rest 
of the Ravenna world. Our old cardinal is dead, 
and the new one not appointed yet ; but the mask- 
ing goes on the same, the vice-legate being a good 
governor. We have had hideous frost and snow, 
but all is mild again. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXI. 

TO MR. BANKES. 

" Ravenna, February 19, 18J0. 

" I have room for you in the house here, as I had 
in Venice, if you think fit to make use of it ; but 
do not expect to find the same gorgeous suite of 
tapestried halls. Neither dangerous nor tropical 



• The word here being under the ical, Ls illegible. 



LETTERS. 



895 



heats have ever prevented your penetrating wherever 
you had a mind to it, and why should the snow 
now ? — Italian snow — fie on it ! — so pray come. 
Tila's heart yearns for you, and mayhap for your 
silver broad pieces : and your playfellow, the 
monkey, is alone and inconsolab.e. 

" I forget whether you admire or tolerate red 
hair, so tfiat I rather dread showing you all that I 
have about me, and around me in this city. Come, 
nevertheless, — you can pay Dante a morning visit, 
and I will undertake that Theodore and Honoria 
will be most happy to see you in the forest hard 
by. We Goths, also, of Ravenna hope you will not 
daspisc our arch-Goth, Theodoric. I must leave it 
to these worthies to entertain you all the fore part 
of the day, seeing that I have none at all myself — 
the lark, that rouses me from my slumbers, being an 
afternoon bird. But, then, all your evenings, and 
as much as you can give me of your nights, will be 
mine. Ay ! and you will find me eating flesh, too, 
like yourself or any other cannibal, except it be 
upon Fridays. Then, there are more cantos (and 
be d — d to them) of what the courteous reader, Mr. 
Saunders, calls Grub street, in my drawer, which I 
have a little scheme to commit to your charge for 
England; only I must first cut up (or cut down) 
two aforesaid cantos into three, because I am grown 
base and mercenary, and it is an ill precedent to let 
my Mecasnas, Murray, get too much for his money. 
I am busy, also, with Pulci — translating — servilely 
translating, stanza for stanza, and line for line — 
two octaves every night, — the same allowance as at 
Venice. 

" Would you call at your banker's at Bologna, 
and ask him for some letters lying there for me, 
and burn them ? — or I will — so do not burn them, 
but bring them, — and believe me ever and very 
affectionately " Yours, 

" Byron. 

" P. S. I have a particular wish to hear from 
yourself something about Cyprus, so pray recollect 
all that you can. Good night." 



LETTER CCCCXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, February 21, 1820. 

"The bull-dogs will be very agreeable. I have 
only those of , this country, who, though good, have 
not the tenacity of tooth and stoicism in endurance 
of my canine fellow-citizens : then pray send them 
by the readiest conveyance — perhaps best by sea. 
Mr. Kinnaird will disburse for them, and deduct 
from the amount on your application or that of 
Captain Tyler. 

" I see the good.j3ld King is gone to his place. 
One can't help being sorry, though blindness, and 
age, and insanity are supposed to be drawbacks on 
human felicity ; but I am not at all sure that the 
latter at least might not render him happier than 
any of his subjects. 

" I have no thoughts of coming to the corona- 
tion, though I should like to see it, and though I 
have a right to be a puppet in it ; but my division 
with Lady Byron, which has drawn an equinoctial 
line between me and mine in all other things, will 
operate in this also to prevent my being in the same 
procession. 

" By Saturday's post I sent you four packets, 
containing cantos third and fourth. Recollect that 
these two cantos reckon only as one with you and 
me, being in fact the third canto cut into two, 
because I found it too long. Remember this, and 
don't imagine that there could be any other motive. 
The whole is about two hundred and twenty-five 
stanzas, more or less, and a lyric of ninety-six 
lines, so that they are no longer than the first single 



cantos : but the truth is, that I made the first too 
long, and should have cut those down also had I 
thought better, ^Instead of saying in future for se 
many cantos, say so many stanzas or pages : it was 
Jacob Tonson's way, and certainly the best; it 
prevents mistakes. I might have sent you a dozen 
cantos of forty stanzas each, — those of 'The Min- 
strel' (Beattie's) are no longer, — and ruined you at 
once, if you don't suffer as it is. But recollect that 
you are not pinned down to any thing you say in a 
letter, and that, calculating even these two cantos 
as one only (which they were and are to be 
reckoned), you are not bound by your olfer. Act 
as may seem fair to all parties. 

" I have finished my translation o( the first canto 
of the ' Morgante Maggiore ' of Pulci, which I 
will transcribe and send. It is the parent, not only 
of Whistlecraft, but of all jocose Italian poetry. 
You must print it side by side with the original 
Italian, because I wish the reader to judge of the 
fidelity : it is stanza for stanza, and often line for 
line, if not word for word. 

" You ask me for a volume of manners, &c, on 
Italy. Perhaps I am in the case to know more of 
them than most Englishmen, because I have lived 
among the natives, and in parts of the country 
where Englishmen never resided before (I speak of 
Romagna and this place particularly) ; but there 
are many reasons why I do not choose to treat in 
print on such a subject. I have lived in their 
houses and in the heart of their families, sometimes 
merely as ' amico di casa,' and sometimes as ' amico 
di cuore ' of the Dama, and in neither case do I 
feel myself authorized in making a book of them. 
Their moral is not your moral ; their life is not 
your life ; you would not understand it; it is not 
English, nor French, nor German, which you would 
all understand. The ciAentual education, the cav- 
alier servitude, the habrrs of thought and living are 
so entirely different, and the difference becomes so 
much more striking the more you live intimately 
with them, that I know not how to make you com- 
prehend a people who are at once temperate and 
profligate, serious in their characters and buffoons 
in their amusements, capable of impressions and 
passions, whk;h are at once sudden and durable 
(what you find in no other nation), and who actual- 
ly have no society (what we would call so), as you 
may see by their comedies ; they have no real 
comedy, not even in Goldoni, and that is because 
they have no society to draw it from. 

" Their conversazioni are not society at all. They 
go to the theatre to talk, and into company to hold 
their tongues. The women sit in a circle, and the 
men gather into groups, or they play at dreary 
faro, or ' lotto reale,' for small sums. Their acade- 
mie are concerts like our own, with better music 
and more form. Their best things are the carnival 
balls, and masquerades, when every body seems mad 
for six weeks. After their dinners and suppers 
they make extempore verses and buffoon one 
another ; but it is in a humor which you would 
not enter into, ye of the north. 

"In their houses it is better. I should know 
something of the matter, having had a pretty gene- 
ral experience among their women, from the fisher- 
man's wife up to the Nobil Dama, whom I serve. 
Their system has its rules, and its fitnesses, and its 
decorums, so as to be reduced to a kind of discipline 
or game at hearts, which admits few deviations, 
unless you wish to lose it. They are extremely 
tenacious, and jealous as furies, not permitting 
their lovers even to marry if they can helj> it, and 
keeping them always close to them in public as in 
private, whenever they can. In short, they trans- 
fer marriage to adultery, and strike the not out of 
that commandment. The reason is, that they 
marry for their parents, and love for themselves. 
They exact fidelity from a lover as a debt of honor, 
while they pay the husband as a tradesman, that is, 
not at all. You hear a person's character, male or 



896 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



female, canvassed, not as depending on their con- 
duct to their husbands or wives, but to their mis- 
tress or lover. If I wrote a quarto, I don't know 
that I could do more than amplify what I have here 
noted. It is to be observed that while they do all 
this, the greatest outward respect is to be paid to 
the husbands, not only by the ladies, but by their 
Serventi — particularly if the husband serves no one 
himself (which is not often the case, however) ; so 
that you would often suppose them relations — the 
Serventi making the figure of one adopted into the 
family. Sometimes the ladies run a little restive 
and elope, or divide, or make a scene ; but this is 
at starting, generally, when they know no better, 
or when they fall in love with a foreigner, or some 
such anomaly, — and is always reckoned unnecessary 
and extravagant. 

" You inquire after Dante's Prophecy : I have not 
done more than six hundred lines, but will vatici- 
nate at leisure. 

" Of the bust I know nothing. No cameos or 
seals are to be cut here or elsewhere that I know 
of, in any-good style. Hobhouse should write him 
self to Thorwaldsen : the bust was made and paid 
for three years ago. 

" Pray tell Mrs. Leigh to request Lady Byron to 
urge forward the transfer from the funds. I wrote 
to Lady Byron on business this post, addressed to 
the care of Mr. D. Kinnaird." 



LETTER CCCCXXIII. 



TO ME. BAXKES. 



^pLvcnni, February 26, 1820. 

" Pulci and I are waiting for you with impatience ; 
but I suppose we must give way to the attraction of 
the Bolognese galleries for a time. I know nothing 
of pictures myself, and care almost as little ; but to 
me there are none like the Venetian — above all. 
Giorgione. I remember well his judgment of Sol- 
omon in the Mariscalchi in Bologna. The real 
mother is beautiful, exquisitely beautiful. Buy her, 
by all means, if you can, and take her home with 
you: put her in safety — for.be assured there are 
troublous times brewing for Italy ; and as I never 
could keep out of a row in my life, it will be my 
fate, I dire say, to be over head and ears in it; but 
no matter, these are the stronger reasons for com- 
ing to see me soon. 

"I have more of Scott's novels (for surely they 
are Scott's) since we met, and am more and more 
delighted. I think that I even prefer them to his 
poetry, which (by-the-way) I redde for the first 
time in my life in your rooms in Trinity college. 

" There are some curious commentaries on Dante 
preserved here, which you should see. Believe me 
ever faithfully and most affectionately, 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, March I, 1820. 

" I sent you by last post the translation of the 
first canto of the Morgante Maggiore, and wish you 
to ask Rose about the word ' sbergo,' i. e., ' usber"-o ' 
which I have translated cuirass. I suspect that i't 
means helmet also. Now, if so, which of the senses 
is best accordant with the text ? I have adopted 
cuirass, but will be amenable to reasons. Of the 
natives, some say one, and some t'other ; but they 
are no great Tuscans in Romagna. However I will 
ask Sgricci (the famous improvisatore) to-morrow 



who is a native of Arezzo. The Countess Guiccioli, 
who is reckoned a very cultivated young lady, and 
the dictionary, say cuirass. I have written cuirass, 
but helmet runs in my head nevertheless — and will 
run in verse very well, whilk is the principal point. 
I will ask the Sposa Spina Spinelli, too, the Floren- 
tine bride of Count Gabriel Rusponi, just imported 
from Florence, and get the sense out of some- 
body. 

" I have just been visiting the new cardinal, who 
arrived the day before yesterday in his legation. He 
seems a good old gentleman, pious and simple, and 
not quite like his predecessor, who was a bon vivant, 
in the worldly sense of the words. 

" Enclosed is a letter which I received some time 
ago from Dallas. It will explain itself. I have not 
answered it. This comes of doing people good. 
At one time or another (including copyrights) this 
person has had about fourteen hundred pounds of 
my money, and he writes what he calls a posthu- 
mous work about me, and a scrubby letter accusing 
me of treating him ill, when I never .did any such 
thing. It is true that I left off letter-writing, as I 
have done with almost every body else ; but I can't 
see how that was misusing him. 

" I look upon his epistle as the consequence of 
my not sending him another hundred pounds, 
which he wrote to me for about two years ago, 
and which I thought proper to withhold, he having 
had his share, methought, of what I could dispone 
upon others. 

" In your last you ask me after my articles of 
domestic wants : I believe they are as usual ; the 
bull-dogs, magnesia, soda-powders, tooth-powders, 
brushes, and every thins? of the kind which are here 
unattainable. You still ask me to return to Eng- 
land : alas ! to what purpose ? You do not know 
what you are requiring. Return I must, probably, 
some day or other (if I live), sooner or later ; but 
it will not be for pleasure, nor can it end in good. 
You inquire after my health and srriUTS in large 
letters : my health can't be very bad, for I cured 
myself of a sharp tertian ague, in three weeks, 
with cold water, which had held my stoutest gon- 
dolier for months, notwithstanding all the bark ol 
the apothecary, — a circumstance which surprised 
Dr. Aglietti, who said it was a proof of great stami- 
na, particularly in so epidemic a season. I did il 
out of dislike to the taste of bark (which I can't 
bear), and succeeded, contrary to the prophecies ol 
every body by simply taking nothing at all. As to 
spirits, they are unequal, now high, now low, like 
other people's, I suppose, and depending upon cir- 
cumstances. 

"Pray send me W. Scott's new novels. What 
are their names and characters ? I read some of 
his former ones, at least once a day, for an hour or 
so. The last are too hurried: he forgets Ravens- 
wood's name, and calls him Edgar and then Nor- 
man; and Girder, the cooper, is styled now Gilbei't, 
and now John, and he don't make enough of Mon- 
trose ; but Dalgetty is excellent, and so is Lucy 
Ashton, and the b — h her mother. What is Ivan- 
hoe ? and what do you call his other ? are there 
tico f Pray make him write at least two a year : I 
like no reading so well. 

" The editor of the Bologna Telegraph has sent 
me a paper with extracts from Mr. Mulock's (his 
name always reminds me of Muley Moloch of Mo- 
rocco) ' Atheism answered,' in which there is a 
long elogium of my poesy, and a great ' compati- 
mento ' for my misery. I never could understand 
what they mean by accusing me of irreligion. 
However, they may have it their own way. This 
gentleman seems to be my great admirer, so I take 
what he says in good part, as he evidently intends 
kindness, to which I can't accuse myself of being 
invincible. "Yours, &c." 



LETTERS. 



S97 



LETTER CCCCXXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, March 5, 1820. 

" In case, in your country, you should not readily 
lay hands on the Morgante Maggiore, I send you 
the original text of the first canto, to correspond 
with the translation which I sent you a few days ago. 
It is from the Naples edition in quarto of 1732, — 
dated Florence, however, by a trick of the trade, 
which you, as one of the allied sovereigns of the 
profession, will perfectly understand without any 
farther spiegazione. 

"It is strange that here nobody understands the 
real precise meaning of ' sbergo,' or ' usbergo,'* an 
old Tuscan word, which I have rendered cuirass, 
(but am not sure it is not helmet.) I have asked at 
least twenty people, learned and ignorant, male and 
female, including poets, and officers civil and mili- 
tary. The dictionary says cuirass, but gives no 
authority ; and a female friend of mine says posi- 
tively cuirass, which makes me doubt the fact still 
more than before. Ginguene says, ' bonnet de fer ' 
with the usual superficial decision of a Frenchman, 
so that I can't believe him : and what between the 
dictionary, the Italian woman, and the French- 
man, there's no trusting to a word they say. The 
context too, which should decide, admits equally of 
either meaning, as you will perceive. Ask Rose, 
Hobhouse, Merivale, and Foscolo, and vote with 
the majority. Is Frere" a good Tuscan ? if he be, 
bother him too. I have tried, you see, to be as 
accurate as I well could. This is my third or fourth 
letter, or packet, within the last twenty days." 



LETTER CCCCXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, March 14, 1820. 

" Enclosed is Dante's Prophecy — Vision — or what 
not. Where I have left more than one reading, 
(which I have done often,) yon may adopt that 
which Gifford, Frere, Rose, and Hobhouse, and 
others of your Utican Senate think the best, or 
least bad. The preface will explain all that is 
explicable. These are but the first four cantos : 
if approved, I will go on. 

" Pray mind in printing : and let some good Ital- 
ian scholar correct the Italian quotations. 

" Four days ago I was overturned in an open car- 
riage, between the river and a steep bank, — wheels 
dashed to pieces, slight bruises, narrow escape, and 
all that : but no harm done, though coachman, foot- 
man, horses, and vehicle were all mixed together 
like macaroni. It was owing to bad driving, as I 
say ; but the coachman swears to a start on the 
part of the horses. We went against a post on the 
verge of a steep bank, and capsized. I usually go 
out of the town in a carriage, and meet the saddle 
horses at the bridge ; it was in going there that we 
boggled ; but I got my ride, as usual, after the acci- 
dent. They say here it was all owing to St. Anto- 
nio of Padua (serious, I assure you), — who does 
thirteen miracles a day, — that worse did not come 
of it. I have no objection to this being his four- 
teenth in the four-and-twenty hours. He presides 
over overturns and all escapes therefrom, it seems ; 
and they dedicate, pictures, &c, to him, as the 
sailors once did to Neptune, after ' the high Roman 
fashion.' "Yours, in haste." 



* Usbergo is obviously the same as hm.berk, habergeon, &c, all from the 
German hals-berg, or coveriug of the neck. See Gray's Bard, " Helm nor 
hauberk's twisted mail.'' 

113 



LETTER CCCCXXVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, March 20, 1820. 

" Last post I sent you, ' The Vision of Dante,'— 
first four cantos. Enclosed you will find line for 
line, in third rhyme (terza rima,* J of which your 
British blackguard reader as yet understands no- 
thing, Fanny of Rimini. You know that she was 
born here, and married, and slain, from Cary, Boyd, 
and such people. I have done it into cramp Eng- 
lish, line for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to try the 
possibility. You had best append it to the poems 
already sent by last three posts. I shall not allow 
you to play the tricks you did last year, with the 
prose you ^os<-scribed to Mazeppa, which I sent to 
you not to be published, if not in a periodical paper, 
— and there you tacked it, without a word of expla- 
nation. If this is published, publish it with the 
original, and together with the Pulci translation, or 
the Dante imitation. I suppose you have both by 
now, and the Juan long before. 



LETTER CCCCXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY'. 

" Ravenna, Marcli 23, 1820. 

" I have received your letter of the 7th. Besides 
the four packet you have already received, I have 
sent the Pulci a few days after, and since (a few 
days ago) the first four cantos of Dante's Prophecy, 
(the best thing I ever wrote, if it be not unintelligi- 
ble,) and by last post a literal translation, word for 
word (versed like the original) of the episode of 
Francesca of Rimini. I want to hear what you 
think of the new Juans, and the translations, and 
the Vision. They are all things that are, or ought 
to be, very different from one another. 

"If you choose to make a print from the Vene- 
tian, you may : but she don't correspond at all to 
the character you mean her to represent. On the 
contrary, the Contessa G. does (except that she is 
fair), and is much prettier than the Fornarina; but 
I have no picture of her except a miniature, which 
is very ill done ; and, besides, it would not be pro- 
per, on any account whatever, to make such a use 
of it, even if you had a copy. 

" Recollect that the two new cantos only count 
with us for one. You may put the Pulci and Dante 
together : perhaps that were best. So you have put 
your name to Juan after all your panic. You are a 
rare fellow. — I must now put myself in a passion to 
continue my prose. 

" I have caused H. to write to Thorwaldsen. Pray 
be careful in sending my daughter's picture — I mean, 
that it be not hurt in the carriage, for it is a journey 
rather long and jolting." 



LETTER CCCCXXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



t '* Ravenna, March 28, 1820. 

"Enclosed is a 'Screed of Doctrine' for you, of 
which I will trouble you to acknowledge the receipt 
by next post. Mr. Hobhouse must have the correc- 
tion of it for the press. You may show it first to 
whom you please. 

" I wish to know what became of my two epistles 
from St. Paul, (translated from the Armenian three 



* See Poems, p. 572. 

t Letter in answer to Mr. Bowlet, p. 1037. 



898 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



years ago and more,) and of the letter to Roberts 
of last autumn, which you never have attended to ? 
There are two packets with this. 
' " P. S. I have some thoughts of publishing the 
' Hints from Horace,' written ten years ago — if Hob- 
house can rummage them out of my papers left at 
his father's, — with some omissions and alterations 
previously to be made when I see the proofs." 



LETTER CCCCXXX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, March 29, 1820. 

" Herewith you will receive a note (enclosed) on 
Pope, which you will find tally with a part of the 
text of last post. I have at last lost all patience 
with the atrocious cant and nonsense about Pope, 
with which our present * *s are overflowing, and 
am determined to make such head against it as an 
individual can, by prose or verse ; and I will at least 
do it with good will. There is no bearing it any 
longer; and if it goes on, it will destroy what little 
good writing or taste remains among us. I hope 
there are still a few men of taste to second me ; but 
if not, I'll battle it alone, convinced that it is in the 
best cause of English literature. 

"I have sent you so many packets, verse and 
prose, lately, that you will be tired of the postage, 
if not of the perusal. I want to answer some parts 
of your last letter, but 1 have not time, for I must 
'boot and saddle,' as my Captain Craigengilt (an 
officer of the old Napoleon Italian army) is in wait- 
ing, and my groom and cattle to boot. 

"You have given me a screed of metaphor and 
what not about Puled, and manners, ' going without 
clothes, like our Saxon ancestors.' Now, the Sax- 
ons did not go without clothes; and, in the next 
place, they are not my ancestors, nor yours either ; 
for mine were Norman, and yours, I take it by your 
name, were Gael. And, in the next, I differ from 
you about the 'refinement' which has banished the 
comedies of Congreve. Are not the comedies of 
Sheridan acted to the thinnest houses ? I know (as 
ox-committee j that 'The School for Scandal' was 
the worst stock-piece upon record. I also know that 
Congreve gave up writing because Mrs. Centlivre's 
balderdash drove his comedies off. So it is not de- 
cency, but stupidity, that does all this ; for Sheridan 
is as decent a writer as need be, and Congreve 
no worse than Mrs. Centlivre, of whom Wilkes 
(the actor) said, ' not only her play would be 
damned, but she too.' He alluded to 'A Bold 
Stroke for a Wife.' But last, and most to the pur- 
pose, Pulci is not an indecent writer — at least in his 
first canto, as you will have perceived by this time. 

"You talk of refinement: — are you all more 
moral ? a^e you so moral ? No such thing. I know 
what the world is in England, by my own proper 
experience of the best of it — at least of the loftiest ; 
and I have described it every where as it is to be 
found in all places. 

" But to return. I should like to see the proofs 
of mine answer, because there will be something to 
omit or to alter. But pray let it be carefully printed. 
When convenient let me have an answer. 

"Yours." 



LETTER CCCCXXXI. 

TO MR. UOPrNER. 

" Ravenna, March 31, 1826. 
****** 

"Ravenna continues much the same as I de- 
scribed it. Conversazioni all Lent, and much better 



ones than any at Venice. There are small games at 
hazard, that is, faro, where nobody can point more 
than a shilling or two; — other card-tables, and as 
much talk and coffee as you please. Every body 
does and says what they please ; and I do not recol- 
lect any disagreeable events, except being three 
times falsely accused of flirtation, and once being 
robbed of six sixpences by a nobleman of the city, a 
Count * * *. I did not suspect the illustrious de- 
linquent ; but the Countess V * * * and the Mar- 
quis L * * * told me of it directly, and also that it 
was a way he had, of filching money when he saw 
it before him ; but I did not ax him for the cash, 
but contented myself with telling him that if he 
did it again, I should anticipate the law. 

" There is to be a theatre in April, and a fair, and 
an opera, and another opera in 'June, besides the 
fine weather of nature's giving, and the rides in the 
Forest of Pine. AVith my respects to Mrs. Hopp- 
ner, believe me ever, &c. " Byron. 

" P. S. Could you gi,ve me an item of what books 
remain at Venice? I don't want them, but want to 
know whether the few that are not here are there, 
and were not lost by the way. I hope and trust you 
have got all your wine safe, and that it is drinkable. 
Allegra is prettier, 1 think, but as obstinate as a 
mule, and as ravenous as a vulture : health good, to 
judge of the complexion — temper tolerable but for 
vanity and pertinacity. She thinks herself hand- 
some and will do as she pleases." 



LETTER CCCCXXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, April 9, 1820. 

"In the name of all the devils in the printing 
office, why don't you write to acknowledge the 
receipt of the second, third, and fourth packets, viz., 
the Pulci translation and original, the Danticles, 
the Observations on, &c. ? You forget that you 
keep me in hot water till I know whether they are 
arrived, or if I must have the bore of recopying. 
****** 

"Have you gotten the cream of translations, 
Francesca of Rimini, from the Inferno ? Why, I 
have sent you a warehouse of trash within the last 
month, and you have no sort of feeling about you : 
a pastry-cook would have had twice the gratitude, 
and thanked me at least for the quantity. 

"To make the letter heavier, 1 enclose you the 
Cardinal Legate's (our Campeius) circular for his 
conversazione this evening. It is the anniversary of 
the Pope's tiara-tiou, and all polite Christians, 
even of the Lutheran creed, must go and be civil. 
And there will be a circle, and a faro-table, (for 
shillings, that is, they don't allow high play,) and 
all the beauty, nobility, and sanctity of Ravenna 
present. The cardinal himself is a very good- 
natured little fellow, bishop of Muda, and legate 
here, — a decent believer in all the doctrines of the 
church. He has kept his housekeeper these forty 
years **,**, but is reckoned a pious man, 
and a moral liver. 

" I am not quite sure that I won't be among you 
this autumn, for I find that business don't go on — 
what with trustees and lawyers — as it should do, 
' with all deliberate speed.' They differ about in 
vestments in Ireland. 

" Between the devil and deep Eea, 
Between the lawyer and trustee, 

I am puzzled ; and so much time is lost by my not 
being upon the spot, what with answers, demurs, 
rejoinders, that it may be I must come and look to 
it ; for one says do, and t'other don't, so that 1 
know not which way to turn : but perhaps they cap 
manage without me. " Yours, &c. 



LETTERS. 



899 



" V. S. I have begun a tragedy on the subject of 
Marino Faliero, the Doge of Venice ; but you 
shan't see it these six years, if you don't acknow- 
'edge mv packets with more quickness and preci- 
sion. Always write, if but a line, by return of post, 
when any thing arrives, which is not a mere letter. 

"Address direct to Ravenna; it saves a week's 
time, and much postage." 



LETTER CCCCXXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, April 16, 1820. 

"Post after post arrives without bringing any 
acknowledgment from you of the different packets 
(excepting the first) which I have sent within the 
last two months, all of which ought to be arrived 
long ere now ; and as they were announced in other 
letters, you ought at least to say whether they are 
come or not. You are not expected to write fre- 
quent or long letters,, as your time is much occu- 
pied ; but when parcels that have cost some pains 
in. the composition, and great trouble in the copy- 
ing, are sent to you, I should at least be put out of 
suspense, by the immediate acknowledgment, per 
return of post, addressed directly to Ravenna. I 
am naturally — knowing what continental posts are 
— anxious to hear that they are arrived : especially 
as I loath the task ef copying so much, that if 
there was a human being that could copy my blot- 
ted MSS., he should have all they can ever bring 
for his trouble. All I desire is two lines, to say, 
such a day I received such a packet. There are at 
least six unacknowledged. This is neither kind nor 
courteous. 

" I have, besides, another reason for desiring you 
to be speedy, which is, that there is that brewing 
in Italy, which will speedily cut off all security of 
communication, and set all your Anglo-travellers 
flying in every direction, with their usual fortitude 
in foreign tumults. The Spanish and French af- 
fairs have set the Italians in a ferment ; and no 
wonder .- they have been too long trampled on. 
This will make a sad scene for your exquisite travel- 
ler, but not for the resident, who naturally wishes a 
people to redress itself. I shall, if permitted by 
the natives, remain to see what will come of it, and 
perhaps to take a turn with them, like Dugald Dal- 
getty and his horse, in case of business ; for I shall 
think it by far the most interesting spectacle and 
moment in existence, to see the Italians send the 
barbarians of all nations back to their own dens. I 
have lived long enough among them to feel more 
for them as a nation than for any other people in 
existence. But they want union, and they want 
principle ; and I doubt their success. However, 
they will try, probably, and if they do, it will be a 
good cause. No Italian can hate an Austrian more 
than I do : unless it be the English, the Austrians 
seem to me the most obnoxious race under the sky. 

" But I doubt if any thing be done, it won't be so 
quietly as in Spain. To be sure, revolutions are 
not to be made with rose water, where there are 
foreigners as masters. 

" Write while you can ; for it is but the toss up 
of a paul that there will not be a row that will 
somewhat retard the mail by-and-by. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXXIV. 

TO MR. HOPPER. 

"Ravenna, April 18, 1820. 

" I have caused you to write to Siri and Wilhalm 
to send with Yincenza, in a boat, the camp-beds and 



swords left in their care when I quitted Venice. 
There are also several pounds of Manton's best pow- 
der in a japan case ; but unless I felt sure of getting 
it away from V. without seizure, I won't have it 
ventured. I can get it in here, by means of an ac- 
quaintance in the customs, who has offered to get it 
ashore for me ; but should like to be certiorated of 
its safety in leaving Venice. I would not lose it 
for its weight in gold — there is none such in Italy, 
as I take it to be. 

" I wrote to you a week or so ago, and hope you 
are in good plight and spirits. Sir Humphrey Davy 
is here, and was last night at the cardinal's. As I 
had been there last Sunday, and yesterday was 
warm, I did not go, which I should have done, if I 
had thought of meeting the man of chemistry. He 
called this morning, and I shall go in search of him 
at Corso time. I believe to-day, being Monday, 
there is no great conversazione, and only the family 
one at the Marchese Cavalli's, where I go as a rela- 
tion sometimes, so that, unless he stays a day or 
two, we should hardly meet in public. 

"The theatre is to open in May for the fair, if 
there is not a row in all Italy by that time, — the 
Spanish business has set them all a constitutioning, 
and what will be the end no one knows — it is also 
necessary thereunto to have a beginning. 

" Yours, &c." 

"P. S. My benediction to Mrs. Hoppner. How 
is your little boy ? Allegra is growing, and has in- 
creased in good looks and obstinacy." 



LETTER CCCCXXXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, April 23, 1830. 

"The proofs don't contain the last stanzas of 
canto second, but end abruptly with the one hun- 
dred and fifth stanza. 

" I told you long ago that the new cantos* were 
not good, and I also told you a reason. Recollect, 
I do not oblige you to publish them ; you may sup- 
press them, if you like, but I can alter nothing. I 
have erased the six stanzas about those two impos- 
tors, * * * * (which I suppose will give you 
great pleasure,) but I can do no more. I can neither 
recast, nor replace ; but I give you leave to put it 
all into the fire, if you like, or not to publish, and I 
think that's sufficient. 

" I told you that I wrote on with no good-will — 
that I had been, not frightened, but hurt by the 
outcry, and, besides, that when I wrote last Novem- 
ber, I was ill in body, and in very great distress of 
mind aboug some private things of my own ; but 
you would have it : so I sent it to you, and to make it 
lighter, cut it in two — but I can't piece it together 
again. I can't cobble : I must ' either make a spoon 
or spoil a horn,' — and there's an end ; for there's no 
remeid : but I leave you free will to suppress the 
whole, if you like it. 

"About the Morgante Maggiore, I icon't have a 
line omitted. It may circulate, or it may not; but 
all the criticism on earth shan't touch a line, unless 
it be because it is badly translated. Now you say, 
and I say, and others say, that the translation is a 
good one; and so it shall go to press as it is. Pulci 
must answer for his own irreligion : I answer for the 
translation only. 

****** 

" Pray let Mr. Hobhouse look to the Italian next 
time in the proofs : this time, while I am scribbling 
to you, they are corrected by one who passes for the 
prettiest woman in Romagna, and even the Marches, 
as f;ir as Ancona, be the other who she may. 

•' rain glad you like my answer to your inquiries 



900 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



about Italian society. It is fit you should like 
something, and be d d to you. 

" My love to Scott. I shall think higher of 
knighthood ever after for his being dubbed. By- 
the-way, he is the first poet titled for his talent in 
Britain : it has happened abroad before now ; but 
on the continent titles are universal and worthless. 
Why don't you send me Ivanhoe and the Monas- 
tery ? I have never written to Sir Walter, for I 
know he has a thousand things, and I a thousand 
nothings to do ; but I hope to see him at Abbots- 
ford before very long, and I will sweat his claret for 
him, though Italian abstemiousness has made my 
brain but a shilpit concern for a Scotch sitting 
'inter pocula.'* I love Scott, and Moore, and all 
the better brethren ; but I hate and abhor that pud- 
dle of water-worms whom you have taken into 
your troop. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. You say that one-half is very good : you 
are wrong ; for, if it were, it would be the finest 
poem in existence. Where is the poetry of which 
one-half is good ? is it the JEneid ? is it Mi /ton's 1 
is it Dryderist is it any one's except Pope's and 
Goldsmith's, of which all is good ? and yet these 
last two are the poets your pond poets would ex- 
plode. But if one-half of the two new cantos be 
good in your opinion, what the devil would you 
have more ? No — no / no poetry is generally good 
— only by fits and starts — and you are lucky to get a 
sparkle here and there. You might as well want a 
midnight all stars as rhyme all perfect. 

" We are on the verge of a row here. Last night 
they have overwritten all the city walls with ' Up 
the republic ! ' and ' Death to the Pope ! ' &c., &c. 
This would be nothing in London, where the walls 
are privileged. But here it is a different thing : 
they are not used to such fierce political inscriptions, 
and the police is all on the alert, and the Cardinal 
glares pale through all his purple. 

" April 24th, 1820, 8 o'clock, P. M. 

" The police have been, all noon and after, search- 
ing for the mscribers, but have caught none as yet. 
They must have been all night about it, for the 
' Live republics — Death to Popes and Priests,' are 
innumerable, and plastered over all the palaces : 
ours has plenty. There is ' Down with the Nobili- 
ty,' too ; they are down enough already, for that 
matter. A very heavy rain and wind having come 
on, I did not go out and ' skirr the country ; ' but 
I shall mount to-morrow, and take a canter among 
the peasantry, who are a savage, resolute race, al- 
ways riding with guns in their hands. I wonder 
they don't suspect the serenaders, for they play 
on the guitar here all night, as in Spain, to their 
mistresses. 

" Talking of politics, as Caleb Quotem says, 
pray look at the conclusion of my Ode oi* Waterloo, 
written in the year 1815, and comparing it with the 
Duke de Berri's catastrophe in 1820, tell me if I 
have not as good a right to the character of 'Vates,' 
in both senses of the word, as Fitzgerald and Cole- 
ridge ? 

( Crimson tears will follow yet — ' 

and have not they ? 

" I can't pretend to foresee what will happen 
among you Englishers at this distance, but I vatici- 
nate a row in Italy ; in whilk case, I don't know 
that I won't have a finger in it. I dislike the Aus- 
trians, and think the Italians infamously oppressed ; 
and if they begin, why, I will recommend ' the 
erection of a sconce upon Drumsnab,' like Dugald 
Dalgetty." 



See Beppo, stanza lxxvi. 



LETTER CCCCXXXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, May 8, 1S!20. 

" From your not having written again, an inten- 
tion which your letter of the 7th ultimo indicated, 1 
have to presume that the ' Prophecy of Dante ' haa 
not been found more worthy than its predecessors 
in the eyes of your illustrious synod. In that case, 
you will be in some perplexity ; to and which, I 
repeat to you, that you are not to consider yourself 
as bound or pledged to publish any thing because it 
is mine, but always to act according to your own 
views, or opinions, or those of your friends ; and to 
be sure that you in no degree offend me by ' declin- 
ing the article,' to use a technical phrase. The 
prose observations on John Wilson's attack,* I do 
not intend for publication at this time ; and I send 
a copy of verses to Mr. Kinnaird, (they were written 
last year on crossing the Po,)f which must not be 
published either. I mention this, because it is 
probable he may give you a copy. Pray recollect 
this, as they are mere verses of society, and written 
upon private feelings and passions. And, more- 
over, I can't consent to any mutilations or omis- 
sions of Pulci : the original has been ever free from 
such in Italy, the capital of Christianity, and the 
translation may be so in England ; though you will 
think it strange that they should have allowed such 
freedom for many centuries to the Morgante, while 
the other day they confiscated the whole transla- 
tion of the fourth canto of Childe Harold, and have 
persecuted Leoni, the translator — so he writes me, 
and so I could have told him, had he consulted me 
before its publication. This shows how much more 
politics interest men in these parts than religion. — 
Half a dozen invectives against tyranny confiscate 
Childe Harold in a month ; and eight-and-twenty 
cantos of quizzing monks and knights, and church 
government, are let loose for centuries. I copy Le- 
oni's account. 

" 'Non ignorera forse che la mia versione del 4° 
canto del Childe Harold fu confiscata in ogni parte : 
ed io stesso ho dovuto soffrir vessaxioni altrettanto 
ridicole quanto illiberali, ad arte che alcuni versi 
fossero esclusi dalla censura. Ma siccome il divieto 
non fa d'ordinario che accrescere la curiosita cosi 
quel carme sull'Italia e ricercato piu che mai, e 
penso di farlo ristampare in Inghilterra senza nulla 
escludere. Sciagurata condizione di questa mia 
patria ! se patria si pu5 chiamare una terra cosi 
avvilita dalla fortuna, dagli uomini, da se mede- 
sima.' 

" Rose will translate this to you. Has he had his 
letter ? I enclosed it to you months ago. 

"This intended piece of publication I shall dis- 
suade him from, or he may chance to see the inside 
of St. Angelo's. The last sentence of his letter is 
the common and pathetic sentiment of all his coun- 
trymen. 

" Sir Humphrey Davy was here last fortnight, and 
I was in his company in the house of a very pretty 
Italian lady of rank, who, by way of displaying her 
learning in presence of the great chemist, then 
describing his fourteenth ascension of Mount Vesu- 
vius, asked 'if there was not a similar volcano in 
Ireland?' My only notion of an Irish volcano 
consisted of the lake of Killarney, which I natu- 
rally conceived her to mean ; but on second thoughts 
I divined that she alluded to /celand and to Hecla 
— and so it proved, though she sustained her volcan- 
ic topography for some time with all the amiable 
pertinacity of ' the feminie.' She soon after turned 
to me, and asked me various questions about Sir 
Humphrey's philosophy, and I explained as well as 
an oracle his skill in gasen safety lamps, and un- 
gluing the Pompeian MSS. ' But what do you call 



* See Letter to the editor of Elacltwood's Magazine. 
f See Poems, p. 572. 



LETTERS. 



901 



him ? ' said she. ' A great chemist,' quoth I. ' What 
can he do ? ' repeated the lady. ' Almost any thing,' 
said I. ' Oh, then, mio caro, do pray beg him to 
give me something to dye my eyebrows black. I 
have tried a thousand things, and the colors all 
come oft'; and besides, they don't grow; can't he 
invent something to make them grow ? ' All this 
with the greatest earnestness ; and what you will be 
surprised at, she is neither ignorant nor a fool, but 
really well educated and clever. But they speak 
like children, when first out of their convents ; 
and, after all, this is better than an English blue- 
stocking. 

"I did not tell Sir Humphrey of this last piece of 
philosophy, not knowing how he might take it. — 
Davy was much taken with Ravenna, and the 
PRIMITIVE Italianism of the people, who are un- 
used to foreigners : but he only staid a day. 

" Send me Scott's novels and some news. 

" P. S. I have begun and advanced into the 
second act of a tragedy on the subject of the Doge's 
conspiracy, (i. e. the story of Marino Faliero ;) but 
my present feeling is so little encouraging on such 
matters that I begin to think I have mined my tal- 
ent out, and proceed in no great phantasy of finding 
a new vein. 

" P. S. I sometimes think (if the Italians don't 
rise) of coming over to England in the autumn 
after the coronation, (at which I would not appear 
on account of my family schism,) but as yet I can 
decide nothing. The place must be a great deal 
changed since I left it, now more than four years 
ago." 



LETTER CCCCXXXVII. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, May 20, 1320. 

"Murray, my dear, make my respects to Thomas 
Campbell,* and tell him from me, with faith and 
friendship, three things that he must right in his 
poets : Firstly, he says Anstey's Bath Guide char- 
acters are taken from Smollett. 'Tis impossible : 
— the Guide was published in 1766, and Humphrey 
Clinker in 1771 — dunque, 'tis Smollett who has taken 
from Anstey. Secondly, he does not know to whom 
Cowper alludes when he says that there was one 
who ' built a church to God, and then blasphemed 
his name : '-it was ' Deo erexit Voltaire,'' to whom 
that maniacal Calvinist and coddled poet alludes. — 
Thirdly, he misquotes and spoils a passage from 
Shakspeare, ' to gild refined gold, to paint the lily,' 
&c. ; for lily he puts rose, and bedevils in more 
words than one the whole quotation. 

" Now, Tom is a fine fellow ; but he should be 
correct : for the first is an injustice, (to Antsey), the 
second an ignorance, and the third a blunder. Tell 
him all this, and let him take it in good part ; for I 
might have rammed it into a review and rowed him 
— instead of which, I act like a Christian. 

" Yo,urs, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, May 20, IS20. 

" lirst and foremost, you must forward my letter 
to Moore dated '2d January, which I said you might 
or en, but desired you to forward. Now, you should 
really not forget these little things, because they do 
mischief among friends. You are an excellent man, 



See Don Juan, canto v., note ix. 



a great man, and live among great men, hut do pray 
recollect your absent friends and authors. 

"In the first place, your packets; then a letter 
from Kinnaird, on the most urgent business ; an- 
other from Moore, about a communication to Lady 
Byron of importance ; a fourth from the mother of 
Alkgra; and fifthly, at Ravenna, the Contessa G. 
is on the eve of being divorced. — But the Italian 
public are on our side, particularly the women, — and 
the men also, because they say that he had no busi- 
ness to take the business up now after a year of tol- 
eration. All her relations (who are numerous, high 
in rank and powerful) are furious against him for 
his conduct. I am warned to be on my guard, as he 
is very capable of employing sicarii — this is Latin 
as we'll as Italian, so you can understand it ; but I 
have arms, and don't mind them, thinking that I 
could pepper his ragamuffins, if they don't come un- 
awares, and that if they do, one may as well end that 
way as another ; and it would besides serve you as 
an advertisement. 

' Man may escape from rope or gun, &c, 
But he who takes woman, woman, woman, 1 &c. 

" Yours." 
" P. S. I have looked over the press, but heaven 
knows how. Think what I have on hand, and the 
post going out to-morrow. Do you remember the 
epitaph on Voltaire ? 

' Ci-git l'enfant gate,' &.C. 

' Here lies the Bpoil'd child 
Of the world which he spoil'd.' 

The original is in Grimm and Diderot, &c, &c, <xc 



LETTER CCCCXXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, May 24, 1S20. 

" I wrote to you a few days ago. There L also a 
letter of January last for you at Murray's which 
will explain to you why I am here. Murray ought 
to have forwarded it long ago. I enclose you an 
epistle from a countrywoman of yours at Paris, 
which has moved my entrails. You will have the 
goodness, perhaps, to inquire into the truth of her 
story, and I will help her as far as I can, — though 
not in the useless way she proposes. Her letter is 
evidently unstudied, and so natural, that the orthog- 
raphy is also in a state of nature. 

" Here is a poor creature, ill and solitary, who 
thinks, as a last resource, of translating you or me 
into French ! Was there ever such a notion ? It 
seems to me the consummation of despair. Pray 
inquire, and let me know, and, if you could draw a 
bill on me here for a few hundred francs, at your 
banker's I will duly honor it, — that is, if she is not 
an impostor. If not, let me know, that I may get 
something remitted by my banker Longhi, of Bo- 
logna, for I have no correspondence, myself, at Paris; 
but tell her she must not translate ; — if she does, it 
will be the height of ingratitude. 

" I had a letter (not of the same kind, but in 
French and flattery) from a Madame Sophie Gail, of 
Paris, whom I take to be the spouse of a Gallo- 
Greek of that name. Who is she ? and what is 
she? and how came she to take an interest in my 
poeshie or its author ? If you know her, tell her, 
with my compliments, that, as I only read French, 
I have not answered her letter; but would have 
done so in Italian, if I had not thought it would 
look like an affectation. I have just been scolding 
my monkey for tearing the seal of her letter, and 
spoiling a mock book, in which I put rose leaves. 
1 had a civet-cat the other day, too ; but it run away 



902 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



after scratching my monkey's cheek, and I am in 
search of it still. It was the fiercest beast I ever 
saw, and like * * in the face and manner. 

" I have a world of things to say ; but as they are 
not come to a denouement, I don't care to begin 
their history till it is wound up. After you went I 
had a fever, but got well again without bark. Sir 
Humphrey Davy was here the other day, and liked 
Ravenna very much. He will tell you any thing you 
may wish to know about the place and your humble 
servitor. 

" Your apprehensions (arising from Scott's) were 
unfounded. There are no damages in this country, 
but there will probably be a separation between them, 
as her family, which is a principal one, by its con- 
nexions, are very much against him, for the whole 
of his conduct ; — and he is old and obstinate, and 
she is young and a woman, determined to sacrifice 
every thing to her affections. I have given her 
the best advice, viz., to stay with him, — pointing out 
the state of a separated woman, (for the priests 
won't let lovers live openly together, unless the hus- 
band sanctions it,) and making the most exquisite 
moral reflections, — but to no purpose. She says, 
' I will stay with him, if he will let you remain with 
me. It is hard that I should be the only woman in Ro- 
magna who is not to have her Amico ; but, if not, I 
will not live with him ; and as for the consequences, 
love,' &c, &c, &c, — you know how females reason 
on such occasions. 

" He says he has let it go on, till he can do so no 
longer. But he wants her to stay and dismiss me; 
for "he doesn't like to pay back her dowry and to 
make an alimony. Her relations are rather for the 
separation, as they detest him — indeed, so does 
every body. The populace and the women are, as 
usual, all for those who are in the wrong, viz., the 
lady and her lover. I should have retreated, but 
honor and an erysipelas which has attacked her, 
prevent me, — to say nothing of love, for I love her 
most entirely, though not enough to persuade her 
to sacrifice every thing to a frenzy. ' I see how it 
will end ; she will be the sixteenth Mrs. Shuffle ton.' 

"My paper is finished, and so must this letter. 
" Yours ever, 
"B. 

" P. S. I regret that you have not completed 
the Italian Fudges. Pray, how come you to be still 
in Paris ? Murray has four or five things of mine in 
hand — the new Don Juan, which his back-shop synod 
don't admire ; — a translation of the first canto of 
Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, excellent ; — a short 
ditto from Dante, not so much approved ; — the 
Prophecy of Dante, very grand and worthy, &c., 
&c, &c. ; — a furious prose answer to Blackwood's 
Observations on Don Juan, with a savage Defence 
of Pope — likely to make a row. The opinions 
above I quote from Murray and his Utican senate ; 
— you will form your own, when you see the things. 

" You will have no great chance of seeing me, 
for I begin to think I must finish in Italy. But, if 
you come my way, you shall have a tureen of maca- 
roni. Pray tell me about yourself and your in- 
tents. 

" My trustees are going to lend Earl Blessington 
sixty thousand pounds (at six per cent.) on a Dub- 
lin mortgage. Only think of my becoming an Irish 
absentee ! 



LETTER CCCCXL. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

" Ravenna, May 25, 1820. 

"A German named Ruppsecht has sent me, 
heaven knows why, several Deutsche Gazettes, of 
all which I understand neither word nor letter. I 
have sent you the enclosed to beg you to translate 



to me some remarks, which appear to be Goethe's, 
upon Manfred ! — and if I may judge by two notes of 
admiration (generally put after something ridicu- 
lous by us), and the word ' ht/pocondrisch,' are any 
thing but favorable. I shall regret this, for I should 
have been proud of Goethe's good word; but I 
shan't alter my opinion of him, even though he 
should be savage. 

" Will you excuse this trouble, and do me this 
favor ? — never mind — soften nothing — I am literary 
proof — having had good and evil said in most mod- 
ern languages. " Believe me, &c." . 



LETTER CCCCXLI. 



TO Mil. MOORE. 



"I have received a Parisian letter from W. W., 
which I prefer answering through you, if that 
worthy be still at Paris, and, as he says, an occa- 
sional visiter of yours. In November last he wrote 
to me a well-meaning letter, stating, for some rea- 
sons of his own, his belief that a reunion might be 
effected between Lady B. and myself. To this I 
answered as usual ; and he sent me a second letter, 
repeating his notions, which letter I have never 
answered, having had a thousand other things to 
think of. He now writes as if he believed that he 
had offended me, by touching on the topic ; and I 
wish you to assure him that I am not at all so,— 
but on the contrary, obliged by his good-nature. 
At the same time acquaint him the thing is impos- 
sible. You know this, as well as I, — and there let 
it end. 

" I believe that I showed you his epistle in 
autumn last. He asks me if I have heard of my 
'laureate' at Paris,* — somebody who has written ' a 
most sanguinary Epitre' against me ; but whether 
in French, or Dutch, or on what score, I know not, 
and he don't say, — except that (for my satisfaction) 
he says it is the best thing in the fellow's volume. 
If there is any thing of the kind that I ought to 
know, you will doubtless tell me. I suppose it to 
be something of the usual sort ; — he says, he don't 
remember the author's name. 

"I wrote to you some ten days ago, and expect 
an answer at your leisure. 

" The separation business still continues, and all 
the world are implicated, including priests and car- 
dinals. The public opinion is furious against him, 
because he ought to have cut the matter short at 
first, and not waited twelve months to begin. 
He has been trying at evidence, but can get none 
sufficient; for what would make fifty divorces in 
England won't do here — there must be the most de- 
cided proofs. * * * 

"It is the first cause of the kind attempted in 
Ravenna for these two hundred years ; for, though 
they often separate, they assign a different motive. 
You know that the continental incontinent are 
more delicate than the English, and don't like pro- 
claiming their coronation in a court, even when no- 
body doubts it. 

"All her relations are furious against him. The 
father has challenged him — a superfluous valor, for 
he don't fight, though suspected of two assassina- 
tions — one of the famous Monzoni of Forli. Warn- 
ing was given me not to take such long rides in the 
Pine Forest without being on my guard ; so I take 
my stiletto and a pah - of pistols in my pocket 
during my daily rides. 

" Iwon't stir from this place till the matter is 
settled one way or the other. She is as femininely 
firm as possible ; and the opinion is so much against 
him, that the advocates decline to undertake his 
cause, because they say that he is either a fool or a 



Mr. Lamartine. 



LETTERS. 



903 



rogue — fool, if he did nut discover the liaison till 
now ; and rogue, if he did know it, and waited, for 
some bad end, to divulge it. In short, there has 
been nothing like it since the days of Guido di Po- 
lenta's family, in these parts. 

" If the man has me taken off, like Polonius, ' say 
he made a good end' — for a melodrame. The prin- 
cipal security is, that he has not the courage to 
spend twenty scudi — the average price of a clean- 
handed bravo — otherwise there is no want of op- 
portunity, for I ride about the woods every evening, 
with one servant, and sometimes an acquaintance, 
who latterly looks a little queer in solitary bits of 
bushes. 

" Good-by. — "Write to yours ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXLII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, June 7, 1820. 

"Enclosed is something which will interest you, 
to wit, the opinion of the greatest man of Germany 
perhaps of Europe — upon one of the great men of 
your advertisements (all ' famous hands,' as Jacob 
Tonson used to say of his ragamuffins) — in short, a 
eritique of Goethe's upon Manfred. There is the 
original, an English translation, and an Italian one ; 
keep them all in your archives, for the opinions of 
such as Goethe, whether favorable or not, are al- 
ways interesting — and this is more so, as favorable. 
His Faust I never read, for I don't know German ; 
but Matthew Monk Lewis in 1816, at Coligny, 
translated most of it to me vive voce, and I was 
naturally much struck with it ; but it was the 
Steinbach and the Jungfrau, and something else, 
much more than Faustus, that made me write Man- 
fred. The first scene, however, and that of Faus- 
tus, are very similar. Acknowledge this letter. 

" Yours ever. 

"P. S. I have received Ivanhoe ; — good. Pray 
send me some tooth-powder and tincture of myrrh, 
by Waite, &c, RicciardeMo should have been trans- 
lated literally, or not at all. As to puffing Whistle- 
craft, it won't do. I'll tell you why some day or 
other. Cornwall's a poet, but spoiled by the de- 
testable schools of the day. Mrs. Hemans is a 
poet also, but too stiltified and apostrophic, — and 
quite wrong. Men died calmly before the Chris- 
tian era, and since, without Christianity : — witness 
the Romans, and lately, Thistlewood, Sandt, and 
Lovel — men who ought to have been weighed doion 
with their crimes, even had they believed. A death- 
bed is a matter of nerves and constitution, and not 
of religion. Voltaire was frightened, Frederick of 
Prussia not : Christians the same, according to 
their strength rather than their creed. What does 
IJ * * H * * mean by his stanza ? which is octave, 
got drunk, or gone mad. — He ought to have his 
ears boxed with Thor's hammer for rhyming so fan- 
tastically." 



LETTER CCCCXLIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



Music assists my memory through the ear, not 
through the eye ; I mean, that her quavers perplex 
me i.. ion paper, but they are a help when heard. 
And thus I was glad to see the words without their 
borrowed robes ; — to my mind they look none the 
worse for their nudity. 

" The biographer has made a botch of your life — 
calling your father ' a venerable old gentleman,' 
and prattling of ' Addison,' and dowager count- 
esses.' If that dammed fellow was to write my life, 
I would certainly take his. And then at the Dub- 
lin dinner, you have ' made a speech,' (do you re- 
collect, at Douglas K.'s. 'Sir, he made me a 
speech ?') too complimentary to the ' living poets,' 
and somewhat redolent of universal praise. I am 
but too well oft' in it, but * * * 

* * * * 

" You have not sent me any poetical or personal 
news of yourself. Why don't you complete an Ital- 
ian Tour of the Fudges ? I have just been turning 
over Little, which I knew by heart in 1803, being 
then in my fifteenth summer. Heigho ! I believe 
all the mischief I have ever done, or sung, has 
been owing to that confounded book of yours. 

" In my last I told you of a cargo of ' Poeshie,' 
which I had sent to M. at his own impatient dShc ; 
— and, now he has got it, he don't like it, and de- 
murs. Perhaps he is right. I ha,ve no great 
opinion of any of my last shipment, except a trans- 
lation from Piilci, which is word for word, and verse 
for verse. 

" I am in the third act of a tragedy ; but whether 
it will be finished or not, I know not : I have, at 
this present, too many passions of my own on hand 
to do justice to those of the dead. Besides the 
vexations mentioned in my last, I have incurred a 
quarrel with the Pope's carabiniers, or gens- 
d armerie, who have petitioned the cardinal against 
my liveries, as resembling too nearly their own lousy 
uniform. They particularly object to the epaulettes, 
which all the world with us have upon gala days. 
My liveries are of the colors conforming to my 
arms, and have been the family hue ever since the 
year 1066. 

"I have sent a trenchant reply, as you may sup- 
pose ; and have given to understand that, if any 
soldados of that respectable corps insult my ser- 
vants, I will do likewise by their gallant com- 
manders ; and I have directed my ragamuffins, six 
in number, who are tolerably savage, to defend 
themselves, in case of agression : and, on holydays 
and gaudy days, I shall arm the whole set, including 
myself, in case of accidents or treachery. I used 
to play pretty well at the broadsword, once upon a 
time, at Angelo's ; but I should like the pistol, our 
national buccaneer weapon, better, though I am 
out of practice at present. However, I can ' wink 
and hold out mine iron.' It makes me think (the 
whole thing does) of Romeo and Juliet — ' now, 
Gregory, remember thy smashing blow.' 

"All these feuds, however, with the cavalier for 
his wife, and the troopers for my liveries, are very 
tiresome to a quiet man, who does his best to please 
all the world, and longs for fellowship and good- 
will. Pray write. " I am yours, &c." 



" Ravenna, June 9, 1820. 

" Galignani has just sent me the Paris edition of 
your works, (which I wrote to order,) and I am glad 
to see my old friends with a French face. I have 
been skimming and dipping, in and over them, like 
a swallow, and as pleased as one. It is the first 
time that I had seen the melodies without music ; 
and I don't know how, but I can't read in a music- 
book — the crotchets confound the words in my head, 
though I recollect them perfectly when sung. 



LETTER CCCCXLIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, July 13, 18'JO. 

"To remove or increase your Irish anxiety about 
my being ' in a whisp,' * I answer your letter forth- 
with ; premising that as I am a ' 117// of the wisp,' I 
may chance to "flit out of it. But, first, a word on 
the Memoir;— I have no objection, nay, I would 
rather that one correct copy was taken and depos 



An Irish phrase for Leii 



904 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ited in honorable hands, in case of accidents 
happening to the original ; for you know that I 
have none, and have never even re-read, nor, indeed, 
read at all what is there written ; I only know that 
I wrote it with the fullest intention to be ' faithful 
and true' in my narrative, but not impartial — no, 
by the Lord ! I can't pretend to be that, while I 
feel. But I wish to give every body concerned the 
opportunity to contradict or correct me. 

"I have no objection to any proper person seeing 
what is there written, — seeing it was written, like 
every thing else, for the purpose of being read, 
however much many writings may fail in arriving at 
that object. 

"With regard to 'the whisp,' the Pope has 
pronounced their separation. The degree came 
yesterday from Babylon, — it was she and her friends 
who demanded it, on the grounds of her husband's 
(the noble Count Cavalier's) extraordinary usage. 
He opposed it with all his might, because of the 
alimony, which has been assigned, with all her 
goods, chattels, carriage, &c, to be restored by 
him. In Italy they can't divorce. He insisted on 
her giving me up, and he would forgive every thing 
— even the adultery which he swears that he can 
proV%by 'famous vvinesses.' But, in this country, 
the very courts hold such proofs in abhorrence, the 
Italians being as much more delicate in public 
than the English, as they are more passionate in 
private. 

" The friends and relatives, who are numerous 
and powerful, reply to him — ' You yourself are 
either fool or knave, — fool, if you did not see the 
consequences of the approximation of these two 
young persons, — knave, if you connive at it. Take 
your choice, — but don't break out (after twelve 
months of the closest intimacy, under your own 
eyes and positive sanction) with a scandal, which 
can only make you ridiculous and her unhappy.' 

" He swore that he thought our intercourse was 
purely amicable, and that / was more partial to him 
than to her, till melancholy testimony proved the 
contrary. To this they answer, that ' Will of this 
wisp ' was not an unknown person, and that 
' clamosa Fama ' had not proclaimed the purity of 
my morals ; — that her brother, a year ago, wrote 
from Rome to warn him, that his wife would 
infallibly be led astray by this ignis fatuus, unless 
he took proper measures, all of which he neglected 
to take, &c, &c. 

" Now, he says, that he encouraged my return to 
Ravenna, to see 'in quanti piedi di acqua siamo,' 
and he has found enough to drown him in. In 
short, 

" Cc ne fut pas le tout ; sa f -mme se plaignil — 
Proc£ — La parentes se joint en excuse et (lit 
due du Docteur venoit tout le mauvais menace ; 
Que cet homme etoit fou, que sa femme etoit sage. 
On fit casser le manage.' 

It is but to let the women alone, in the way of con- 
flict, for they are sure to win against the field. She 
returns to her father's house, and I can only see her 
under great restrictions — such is the custom of the 
country. The relations behaved very well ; — I offered 
any settlement, but they refused to accept it, and 
swear she shan't live with G. , (as he has tried to 
prove her faithless,) but that he shall maintain her; 
unci, in fact, a judgment to this effect came yester- 
day. I am, of course, in an awkward situation 
enough. 

" I have heard no more of the carabiniers who 
protested against my liveries. They are not popu- 
lar, those same soldiers, and, in a small row, the 
other night, one was slain, another wounded, and 
divers put to flight, by some of the Romagnuole 
youth, who are dexterous, and somewhat liberal of 
the knife. The perpetrators are not discovered, but 
I hope and believe that none of my ragamuffins were 
in it, though they are somewhat savage, and secret- 
ly armed, like most of the inhabitants. It is then- 
way, and saves sometimes a good deal of litigation. 



" There is a revolution at Naples. If so, it will 
probably leave a card at Ravenna in its way to Lom- 
bardy. 

" Your publishers seem to have used you like 
mine. Murray has shuffled, and almost insinuated 
that my last productions are dull. Dull, sir ! — 
damme, dull ! I believe he is right. He begs for 
the completion of my tragedy on Marino Faliero, 
none of which has yet gone to England. The fifth 
act is nearly completed, but it is "dreadfully long — 
forty sheets of long paper, four pages each — about- 
one hundred and fifty when printed ; but ' so full 
of pastime and prodigality ' that I think it will do. 

" Pray send and publish your poem upon me ; and 
don't be afraid of praising me too highly. I shall 
pocket my blushes. 

" ' Not actionable ! ' — Chantre d'enfer /* — by * * 
that's ' a speech,' and I won't put up with it. A 
pretty title to give a man for doubting if there be 
any such place ! 

"So my Gail is gone — and Miss Mahowy won't 
take woney. I am very glad of it — I like to be 
generous free of expense. But beg her not to trans- 
late me. 

" Oh, pray tell Galignani that I shall send him a 
screed of doctrine if he don't be more punctual. 
Somebody regularly detains two, and sometimes 
four, of his messengers by the way. Do, pray, 
entreat him to be more precise. News are worth 
money in this remote kingdom of the Ostrogoths. 

" Pray, reply. I should like much to share some 
of your champagne and La Fitte, but I am too Ital- 
ian^ for Paris in general. Make Murray send my 
letter to you if it is full of epigrams. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, July 17, 1820. 

"I have received some books, and Quarterlies, 
and Edinburghs, for all ^uch I am grateful ; they 
contain all I know of Er^land, except by Galigna- 
ni's newspaper. 

"The tragedyf is completed, but now comes the 
task of copy and correction. It is very long, (forty- 
two sheets of long paper, of four pages each,) and I 
believe must make more than one hundred and forty 
or one hundred and fifty pages, besides many his- 
torical extracts as notes, which I mean to append. 
History is closely followed. Dr. Moore's account is 
in some respects false, and in all foolish and flip- 
pant. None of the chronicles (and I have consulted 
Sanuto, Sandi, Navagero, and an anonymous Siege 
of Zara, besides the histories of Laugier, Dara, Sis- 
mondi, &c.) state, or even hint, that he begged his 
life ; they merely say that he did not deny the con- 
spiracy. He was one of their great men, — com- 
mander at the siege of Zara, — beat eighty thousand 
Hungarians, killing eight thousand, and at the 
same time kept the town he was besieging in order, 
— took Capo d'lstria, — was ambassador at Genoa, 
Rome, and finally Doge, where he fell for treason, 
in attempting to alter the government, by what 
Sanuto calls a judgment on him for, maiiy years 
before, (when podesta and captain of Treviso,) 
having knocked down a bishop, who was sluggish 
in carrying the host at a procession. He ' saddles 
him,' as Thwackum did Square, 'with a judgment;' 
but he does not mention whether he had been pun- 
ished at the time for what would appear very strange, 
even now, and must have been still more so in an 
age of papal power and glory. Sanuto says, that 
Heaven took away his senses for this buffet, and 



* The title given him by M. Lamaniue, in one of his poems, 
f Marino Faliero. 



LETTERS. 



905 



induced him to conspire. ' Pero fu permesso clie il 
Faliero perdette 1' intelletto,' &c. 

" I do not know what your parlor-boarders will 
think of the drama I have founded upon this extra- 
ordinary event. The only similar one in history is 
the story of Agis, King of Sparta, a prince, with 
the commons against the aristocracy, and losing his 
life therefor. But it shall be sent when copied, 

" I should be glad to know why your Quarterm? 
Reviewers, at the close of ' the Fall of Jerusalem,' 
accuse me of Manicheism ? a compliment to which 
the sweetener of ' one of the mightiest spirits ' by 
no means reconciles me. The poem they review is 
very noble; but could they not do justice to the 
writer without converting him into my religious 
antidote ? I am not a Manichean, nor an Any- 
chean. _ I should like to know what harm my 
' poeshies ' have done ? I can't tell what people 
mean by making me a hobgoblin." 



LETTER CCCCXLVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

11 Ravenna, August 31, 1820. 

"lhave 'put my soul' into the tragedy, (as you 

if it;) but you know that there are d d souls as 

well as tragedies. Recollect that it is not a politi- 
cal play, though it may look like it : it is strictly 
historical. Read the history and judge. 

" Ada's picture is her mother's. I am glad of it 
— the mother . made a good daughter. Send me 
Gilford's opinion, and never mind the Archbishop. 
I can neither send you away, nor give you a hundred 
pistoles, nor a better taste ; I send you a tragedy, 
and you asked for ' facetious epistles ; ' a little like 
your predecessor, who advised Dr. Prideaux to ' put 
some more humor into his Life of Mahomet.' 

" Bankes is a wonderful fellow. There is hardly 
one of my school or college contemporaries that has 
not turned out more or less celebrated. Peel, Pal- 
merston, Bankes, Hobhousj, Tavistock, Bob Mills, 
Douglas Kinnaird, &c, &c., have all talked and 
been talked about. 

****** 

" We ire here going to fight a little next month, 
if the Huns don't cross the Po, and probably if they 
do. I can't say more now. If any thing happens 
you have matter for a posthumous work in MS. ; sc 
pray be civil. Depend upon it, there will be savage 
work, if once they begin here. The French courage 
proceeds from vanity, the German from phlegm, the 
Turkish from fanaticism and opium, the Spanish 
from pride, the English from coolness, the Dutch 
from obstinacy, the Russian from insensibility, but 
the Italian from anger ; so you see that they will 
spare nothing." 



know. As to reform, I did reform— what would you 
have ? ' Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.' 
I verily believe that nor you, nor any man of poeti- 
cal temperament, can avoid a strong passion of 
some kind. It is the poetry of life. What should 
I have known or written, had I been a quiet, mer- 
cantile politician, or a lord in waiting ? A man 
must travel and turmoil, or there is no existence. 
Besides, I only meant to be a cavalier servente, 
and had no idea it would turn out a romance, in the 
Anglo fashion. 

" However, I suspect I know a thing or two of 
Italy— more than Lady Morgan has picked up in 
her posting. What do Englishmen know of Ital- 
ians beyond their museums and saloons — and some 
hack * *, en passant t Now, I have lived in the 
heart of their houses, in parts of Italy freshest and 
least influenced by strangers,— have seen and be- 
come (pars magna fui) a portion of their hopes, 
and fears, and passions, and am almost inoculated 
into a family. This is to see men and things as 
they are. 

"You say that I called you ' quiet 'f— I don't 
recollect any thing of the sort. On the contrary 
you are always in scrapes. 

" What think you of the Queen ? I hear Mr. 
Hoby says, ' that it makes him weep to see her, she 
reminds him so much of Jane Shore.' 

" Mr. Hoby, the bootmaker's heart is quite sore, 
For seeing the Queen makes him think of Jane Shore; 
And, in fact, 

Pray, excuse this ribaldry. What is your poem 
about ? Write and tell me all about it and you. 

"Yours, &c." 
" P. S. Did you write the lively quiz on Peter 
Bell ? It has wit enough to be yours, and almost 
too much to be any body else's now going. It was 
in Galignani the other day or week." 



LETTER CCCCXLVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, August 31, 1820. 

" D — n your ' mezzo cammin '* — you should say 
' the prime of life,' a much more consolatory phrase. 
Besides, it is not correct. I was born in 1788, ami 
consequently am but thirty-two. You are mistaken 
on another point. The ' Sequin Box ' never came 
into requisition, nor is it likely to do so. It were 
better that it had, for then a man is not bound, you 



• 1 had congratulated him upon arriving at what Dante calls the 
lammiiL " of life, the age of thirty-three. — Moore. 

114 



LETTER CCCCXLVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, September 7, 1820. 

" In correcting the proofs you must refer to the 
manuscript, because there are in it various readings. 
Pray attend to this, and choose what Gifford thinks 
best. Let me hear what he thinks of the whole. 

" You speak of Lady * *'s illness ; she is not of 
those who die : — the amiable only do ; and those 
whose death would do good live. Whenever she is 
pleased to return, it may be presumed she will take 
her ' divining rod ' along with her : it may be of 
use to her at home, as well as to the ' rich man ' of 
the Evangelists. 

" Pray, do not let the papers paragraph me back 
to England. They may say what they please, any 
loathsome abuse but that. Contradict it. 

" My last letters will have taught you to expect 
an explosion here : it was primed and loaded, but 
they hesitated to fire the train. One of* the cities 
shirked from the league. I cannot write more at 
large for a thousand reasons. Our ' puir hill folk ' 
offered to strike, and raise the first banner, but Bo- 
logna paused ; and now 'tis autumn, and the season 
half over. ' Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! ' The Huns 
are on the Po ; but if once they pass it on their way 
to Naples, all Italy will be behind them. The dogs 
— the wolves — may they perish like the host of 
Sennacherib ! If you want to publish the Prophecy 
of Dante, you never will have a better time." 



* 1 had mistaken the concluding words of his letter of the 9t.li of Ju 
Moore. 



906 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCCXLIX. 

TO MB. MUHKAY. 

" Ravenna, Sept. 11, 1820. 

" Here is another historical note for you. I want 
to be as near truth as the drama can be. 

"Last post I sent you a note fierce as Faliero 
himself,* in answer to a trashy tourist, who pre- 
tends that he could have been introduced to me. 
Let me have a proof of it, that I may cut its lava 
into some shape. 

" What Girford says is very consolatory, (of the 
first act.) English, sterling genuine English, is a 
desideratum among you, unci. I am glad that I have 
got so much left ; though Heaven knows how I 
retain it ; I hear none bad from my valet, and his is 
Nottinghamshire ; and I sec none but in your new- 
publications, and their's is no language at all, but 
jargon. Even your * * * * is terribly stilted and 
affected, with ' very, very ' so soft and pamby. 

" Oh ! if ever I do come among you again, I will 
give you such a ' Baviad and M;eviad ! ' not as good 
as- the old, but even better merited. There never 
was such a set as your ragamuffins, (I meant not 
yours only, but every body's.) What with the 
Cockney's, and the Lakers, and the followers of 
Scott, and Moore, and Byron, you are in the very 
uttermost decline and degradation of literature. I 
can't think of it without all the remorse of a mur- 
derer. I wish that Johnson were alive again to 
crush them ! " 



LETTER CCCCL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Sept. 14, 1320. 

" What ! not a line ? Well, have it in your own 
way. 

" I wish you would inform Perry that his stupid 
paragraph is the cause of all my newspapers being 
stopped in Paris. \ The fools believe me in your 
infernal country, and have not sent on their ga- 
zettes, so that 1 know nothing of your beastly trial 
of the Queen. 

"I cannot avail myself of Mr. Gifford's remarks, 
because I have received none, except on the first 
act. "Yours, &c. 

" P. S. So, pray, beg the editors of papers to 
say any thing blackguard they please; but not to 
put me among their arrivals. They do me more 
mischief by such nonsense than all their abuse can 
do." 



LETTER CCCCLI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Sept. 21, 1820. 

" So you are at your old tricks again. This is 
the second packet I have received unaccompanied 
by a single line of good, bad, or indifferent. It is 
strange that you have never forwarded any farther 
observations of Gifford's. How am I alter or 
amend, if I hear no farther? or does this silence 
mean that it is well enough as it is, or too bad to 
be repaired ? if the last, why do you not say so at 
once, instead of playing pretty, while you know 
that soon or late you must out with the truth. 

"Yours, &c. 

" P. S. My sister tells me, that you sent to her 



* See notes to Marino Faliero. 

f It had ueen reported that he had arrived in London to attend the 
Queen's trial. 



to inquire where I was, believing in my arrival, 
' driving a curricle,' &c, &c, into Palace-yard. Do 
you think me a coxcomb or a madman, to be capa 
ble of such an exhibition ? My sister knew ma 
better, and told you, that could not be me. You 
might as well have thought me entering on 'a pal* 
horse,' like Death in the Revelations." 



LETTER CCCCLII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Sept, 23, 1830. 

" Get from Mr. Hobhouse, and send me a proof 
(with the Latin) of my Hints from Horace : it has 
now the nonum premuture in annum complete for 
its production, being written at Athens in 1811. I 
have a notion that, with some omissions of names 
and passages, it will do ; and I could put my late 
observations for Pope among the notes, with the 
date of 1820, and so on. As far as versification 
goes, it is good ; and on looking back to what I 
wrote about that period, I am astonished to see how 
little I have trained on. I wrote better then than 
now ; but that comes of my having fallen into the 
atrocious bad taste of the times. If I can trim it 
for present publication, what with the other things 
you have of mine, you will have a volume or two of 
variety at least, for there will be all measures, styles, 
and topics, whether good or no. I am anxious to 
hear what Gilford thinks of the tragedy ; pray let 
me knew. I really do not know what to think 
myself,. 

" If the Germans pass the Po, they-will be treated 
to a mass out of the Cardinal de Retz's Breviary. 
* * 's a fool, and could not understand this : Frere 
will. It is as pretty a conceit as you would wish to 
see on a summer's day. 

" Nobody here believes a word of the evidence 
against the queen. The very mob cry shame against 
their countrymen, and say that for half the money 
spent upon the trial, any testimony whatever may 
be brought out of Italy. This you may rely upon 
as fact. I told you as much before. As to what 
travellers report, what are travellers f Now I have 
lived among the Italians — not Florenced, and Romed, 
and galleried, and conversationed it for a few months, 
and then home again ; but been of their families, 
and friendships, and feuds, and loves, and councils, 
and correspondence, in a part of Italy least known 
to foreigners, — and have been among them of all 
classes, from the Conte to the Contadine ; and you 
may be sure of what I say to you. 

"Yours, &o " 



LETTER CCCCLIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY*. 



" Ravenna, Sept. 28, 1820. 

" I thought that I had told you long ago, that it* 
never was intended nor written with any view to the 
stage. I have said so in the preface too. It is too 
long and too regular for your stage, the persons too 
few, and the unity too much observed. It is more 
like a play of Alfieri's than of your stage, (I say 
this humbly in speaking of that great man;) but 
there is poetry, and it is equal to Manfred, though I 
know not what esteem is held of Manfred. 

' I have now been nearly as long out of England 
as I was there during the time I saw you frequently. 
I came home July 14th, 1811, and left again Apri 1 
25th, 1816: so that Sept. 28th, 1820, brings me 
within a very few months of the same duration of 



Marino Fajiero. 



LETTERS. 



907 



time of my stay and my absence. In course, I can 
know nothing of the public taste and feelings, but 
from what I glean from letters, &c. Both seem to 
be as bad as possible. 

"I thought Anastasius excellent: did I not say 
so? Matthews's Diary most excellent ; it, and For- 
syth, and parts of Hobhouse, are all we have of 
truth or sense upon Italy. The letter to Julia very 
good indeed. I do not despise ******; but if 
she knit blue stockings instead of wearing them, it 
would be better. You are taken in by that false, 
stilted, trashy style, which is a mixture of all the 
styles of the day, which are all bombastic, (I don't 
except my own — no one has done more through 
negligence to corrupt the language ;) butit is neither 
English nor poetry. Time will show. 

" I am sorry Gifford has made no farther remarks 
beyond the first act: does he think all the English 
equally sterling as he thought the first ? You did 
right to send the proofs ; I was a fool ; but I do 
really detest the sight of proofs : it is an absurdity ; 
but comes from laziness. 

"You can steal the two Juans into the world 
quietly tagged to the others. The play as you will 
— the Dante too ; but the Pulci I am proud of: it is 
superb ; you have no such translation. It is the 
best thing I ever did in my life. I wrote the play 
from beginning to end, and not a single scene voith- 
■jut interruption, and being obliged to break off in 
(lie middle ; for I had my hands full, and my head, 
too, just then ; so it can be no great shakes — I mean 
the play ; and the head too, if you like. 

" P. S. Politics here still savage and uncertain. 
However, we. are all in our 'bandaliers' to join the 
' Highlanders if they cross the Forth,' i. e., to crush 
the Austrians if they pass the Po. The rascals ! — 
and that dog Liverpool, to say their subjects are 
happy ! If ever I come back, I'll work some of 
these ministers. 

" Sept. 29. 

" I open my letter to say that on reading more of 
the four volumes on Italy, where the author says 
' declined an introduction,' I perceive (horresco re- 
ferensj it is written by a WOMAN ! ! ! In that 
case you must suppress my note and answer,* and 
ail I have said about the book and the writer. I 
never dreamed of it until now, in my extreme wrath 
at that precious note. I can only say that I am 
sorry that a lady should say any thing of the kind. 
What I would have said to one of the other sex you 
know already. Her book too (as a she book) is not 
a bad one ; but she evidently don't know the Ital- 
ians, or rather don't like them, and forgets the 
causes of their misery and profligacy, (Matthews 
and Forsyth are your men for the truth and tact,) 

and has gone over Italy in company always a 

bad plan : you must be alone with people to know 
them well. Ask her, who was the ' descendant of 
Lad:/ M. W. Montague,' and by whom ? by Alga- 
rotti' ? 

" I suspect that in Marino Faliero, you and yours 
won't like the politics which are perilous to you in 
these times ; but recollect that it is not a political 
play, and that I was obliged to put into the mouths 
of the characters the sentiments upon which they 
acted. I hate all things written like Pizarro, to 
represent France, England, and so forth. All I 
have done is meant to be purely Venetian, even to 
the very prophecy of its present state. 

" Your Angles in general know little of the Ital- 
ians, who detest them for their numbers and their 
Genoa, treachery. Besides, the English travellers 
have not been composed of the best company. How 
could they ? — out of one hundred thousand, how 
many gentlemen were there, or honest men ? 

"Mitchell's Aristophanes is excellent. Send me 
the rest of it. 

" These fools will force me to write a book about 
Italy myself, to give them ' the loud lie.' They 



See Letter ccccxlv. 



prate about assassination ; what is it but the origin 
of duelling — and ' a wild justice,' as Lord Bacon 
calls it ? It is the fount of the modern point of 
honor in what the laws can't or won't reach. Every 
man is liable to it more or less, according to cir- 
cumstances or place. For instance, I am living 
here exposed to it daily, for I have happened tc 
make a powerful and unprincipled man my enemy ; 
— and I never sleep the worse for it, or ride in less 
solitary places, because precaution is useless, and 
one thinks of it as of a disease which may or may 
not strike. It is true, that there are those here, 
who, if he did, would ' live to think on't ; ' but that 
would not awake my bones : I should be sorry if it 
would, were they once at rest." 



LETTER CCCCLIV 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Sbr». 60, 1820. 

" You will have now received all the acts, cor- 
rected, of the Marino Faliero. What you say of 
the ' bet of one hundred guineas,' made by some 
one who says that he saw me last week, reminds 
me of what happened in 1810 ; you can easily ascer- 
tain the fact, and it is an odd one. 

" In the latter end of 1811, I met one evening at 
the Alfred my old school and form-fellow, (for we 
were within two of each other, he the higher, though 
both very near the top of our remove >) Peel, the 
Irish Secretary. He told me that, in 1810, he met 
me, as he thought, in St. James' street, but we 
passed without speaking. He mentioned this, and 
it was denied as impossible ; I being then in Tur 
key. A day or two afterwards, he pointed out to 
his brother a person on the opposite side of the way : 
— ' There,' said he, ' is the man whom I took for 
Byron.' His brother instantly answered, ' Why it 
is Byron, and no one else.' But this is not all : — I 
was seen by some body to write down nig name 
among the inquirers after the king's health, then 
attacked by insanity. Now, at this very period, as 
nearly as I could make out, I was ill of a strong 
fever at Patras, caught in the marshes near Olym- 
pia, from the malaria. If I had died there, this 
would have been a new ghost story for you. You 
can easily make out the accuracy of this from Peel 
himself, who told it in detail. I suppose you will 
be of the opinion of Lucretius, who (denies the im- 
mortality of the soul, but) asserts that from the 
' flying off of the surfaces of bodies, these surfaces 
or cases, like the coats of an onion, are sometimes 
seen entire when they are separated from it, so that 
the shapes and shadows of both the dead and living 
are frequently beheld.' 

" But if they are, are their coats and waistcoats 
also seen ? I do not disbelieve that we may be two 
by some unconscious process, to a certain sign, but 
which of these two I happen at present to be, I 
leave you to decide. I only hope that t'other me be- 
haves like a gemman. 

" I wish you would get Peel asked how far I am 
accurate in my recollection of what he told me ; 
for I don't like to say such things without author- 
ity. 

"lam not sure that I was not spoken with. 
but this also you can ascertain. I have written 
to you such letters that I stop. 

"Yours, &c. 

" P. S. Last year (in June, 1819) I met at Count 
Mosti's, at Ferrara, an Italian, who asked me ' if I 
knew Lord Byron ? ' I told him no, (no one knows 
himself, you know.) ' Then,' says he, ' I do ; I met 
him at Naples the other day.' I pulled out my 
card and asked him if that was the way he spelled 
his name : he answered, yes. I suspect that it was 
a blackguard navy surgeon, who attended a young 



508 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



travelling madman about, and passed himself for a 
lord at the post-houses. He was a vulgar dog — 
quite of the cockpit order — and a precious repre- 
sentative I must have had of him, if it was even so ; 
but I don't know, He passed himself off as a gen- 
tleman, and squired about a Countess * * (of this 
place) then at Venice, an ugly battered woman, of 
bad morals even for Italy." 



LETTER CCCCLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Sbre 80, 1820. 

"Foscolo's letter is exactly the thing wanted; 
firstly, because he is a man of genius ; and, next, 
because he is an Italian, and therefore the best 
judge of Italics. Besides, 

' He's more an antique Roman than a Dane; ' 

that is, he is more of the ancient Greek than of 
the modern Italian. Though ' somewhat,' as Du- 
gal Dalgetty says, ' too wild and salvage, (like 
'Ronald of the Mist,') 'tis a wonderful man, and 
my friends Hobhouse and Rose both swear to him ; 
and they are good judges of men and of Italian hu- 
manity. 

* Here are in all two worthy voices gaiu'd : ' 

Gifford says it is good ' sterling, genuine English,' 
and Foscolo says that the characters are right Ve- 
netian. Shakspeare and Otway had a million of ad- 
vantages over me besides the incalculable one of 
being dead from one to two centuries, and having 
been both born blackguards, (which are such 
attractions to the gentle living reader ;) let me then 
preserve the only one which I could possibly have — 
that of having been at Venice, and entered more 
into the local spirit of it. I claim no more. 

" I know what Foscolo means about Calendaro's 
spitting at Bertram ; that's national — the objection, 
I mean. The Italians and French, with those 'flags 
of abomination,' their pocket-handkerchiefs, spit 
there, and here, and every where else — in your face 
almost, and therefore object to it on the stage as too 
familiar. But we who spit nowhere — but in a man's 
face when we grow savage — are not likely to feel 
this. Remember Massinger, and Kean's Sir Giles 
Overreach — 

' Lord ! Uius 1 spit at thee and at thy counsel I ' 

Besides, Calendaro does not spit in Bertram's face ; 
he spits at him, as I have seen the Mussulmans do 
upon the ground when they are in a rage. Again, 
he does not in fact despise Bertram, though he affects 
it, — as we all do, when angry with one we think our 
inferior. He is angry at not being allowed to die 
in his own way, (although not afraid of death;) 
and recollect that he suspected and hated Bertram 
from the first. Israel Bertuccio, on the other hand, 
is a cooler and more concentrated fellow : he acts 
upon principle and impulse; Calendaro upon impulse 
and example. 

" So there's argument for you. 

" The Doge repeats ; — true, but it is from engross- 
ing passion, and because he sees different persons, 
and is always obliged to recur to the cause upper- 
most in his mind. His speeches are long ; — true, 
but I wrote for the closet, and on the French and 
Italian model rather than yours, which I think not 
very highly of, for all your old dramatists who are 
long enough, too, God knows : — look into any of 
them. 

" I return you Foscolo's letter, because it alludes 
also to his private affairs. I am sorry to see such 
a man in straits, because I know what they are, or 
what they were. I never met but three men who 



would have held out a finger to me : one was your- 
self, the other William Bankes, and the other a 
nobleman long ago dead : but of these the first was 
the only one who offered it while I really wanted it ; 
the second from good-will — but I was not in need of 
Bankes's aid, and would not have accepted it if I 
had, (though I love and esteem him ;) — and the third 



" So you see that I have seen some strange things 
in my time. As for your own offer, it was in 1815, 
when I was in actual uncertainty of five pounds. I 
rejected it ; but I have not forgotten it, althoughf 
you probably have. 

" P. S. Foscolo's Ricciardo was lent, with the 
leaves uncut, to some Italians, now in villeggiatura, 
so that I have had no opportunity of hearing their 
decision, or of reading it. They seized on it as 
Foscolo's, on account of the beauty of the paper 
and printing, directly. If I find it takes, I will 
reprint it here. The Italians think as highly of 
Foscolo as they can of any man, divided and mis- 
erable as they are, and with neither leisure at pres- 
ent to read, nor head nor heart to judge of any 
thing but extracts from French newspapers and the 
Lugano Gazette. 

" We are all looking at one another, like wolves 
on their prey in pursuit, only waiting for the first 
falling on to do unutterable things. They are a 
great world in chaos or angels in hell, which you 
please ; but out of chaos came paradise, and out of 
hell — I don't know what; but the devil went in 
there, and he was a fine fellow once, you know. 

" You need never favor me with any periodical 
publication, except the Edinburgh, Quarterly, and 
an occasional Blackwood ; or now and then a Month- 
ly Review : for the rest I do not feel curiosity 
enough to look beyond their covers. 

" To be sure I took in the editor of the British 
finely. He fell precisely into the glaring trap laid 
for him. It was inconceivable how he could be so 
absurd as to imagine us serious with him. 

"Recollect, that if you put my name to 'Don 
Juan ' in these canting days, any lawyer might op- 
pose my guardian right of my daughter in chancery, 
on the plea of its containing the parody ; — such are 
the perils of a foolish jest. I was not aware of this 
at the time, but you will find it correct, I believe ; 
and you may be sure that the Noels would not let it 
slip. Now I prefer my child to a poem at any time, 
and so should you, as having half a dozen. 

" Let me know your notions. 

" If you turn over the earlier pages of the Hun- 
tingdon peerage story, you will see how common a 
name Ada was in the early Plantagenet days. I 
found it in my own pedigree in the reign of John 
and Henry, and gave it to my daughter. It was 
also the name of Charlemagne's sister. It is in an 
early chapter of Genesis, as the name of the wife 
of Lantech ; and I suppose Ada is the feminine 
of Ada?n. It is short, ancient, vocalic, and had 
been in my family, for which reason I gave it to my 
daughter." 



LETTER CCCCLVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, 8ure 12o, 1820. 

" By land and sea carriage a considerable quanti- 
ty of books have arrived ; and I am obliged and 
grateful : but ' medio de fonteleporum, surgit amari 
aliquid,' &c, &c. ; which, being interpreted, means, 

" I'm thankful lor your hooks, dear Murray ; 
But why not send Scott's Monastery ? 

the only book in four living volumes that I would 



• The paragraph is left thus imperfec 
| See Letter eclxxxix. 



oihe original. 



LETTERS. 



909 



give a baiocolo to see — 'bating the rest of the same 
author, and an occasional Edinburgh and Quarterly, 
as brief chroniclers of the times. Instead of this, 
here are Johnny Keats's * * poetry, and three nov- 
els, by God knows whom, except that there is 
p e g * * *' s name to one of them — a spinster whom 
I thought we had sent back to her spinning. Cray- 
on is very good ; Hogg's Tales rough but racy, and 
welcome. 

" Books of travel are expensive, and I don't want 
them, having travelled already ; besides, they lie. — 
Thank the author of 'The Profligate' for his (or 
her) present. Pray send me no more poetry but 
what is rare and decidedly good. There is such a 
trash of Keats and the like upon my tables that I 
am ashamed to look at them. I say nothing against 
your parsons, your Smith's, and your Croly's — it is 
all very fine — but pray dispense me from the plea 
sure. Instead of poetry if you will favor me with a 
few soda powders, I shall be delighted ; but all prose 
('bating travels and novels not by Scott) is wel- 
come, especially Scott's Tales of My Landlord, and 
so on. 

" In the notes to Marino Faliero, it may be as well 
to say that ' Benintende ' was not really of the Ten, 
but merely Grand Chancellor, a separate office, (al- 
though important :) it was an arbitrary alteration of 
mine. The Doges too were all buried in St. Mark's 
before Faliero. It is singular that when his pre- 
decessor, Andrea Dandolo died, the Ten made a law 
that all the future Doges should be buried with their 
families, in their oion churches, — one would think by 
a kind of presentiment. So that all that is said of 
his ancestral Doges, as buried at St. John's and 
Paul's, is altered from ( the fact, they being in St. 
Mark's. Make a note of this, and put Editor as the 
subscription to it. 

" As I make such pretensions to accuracy, I should 
not like to be twitted even with such trifles on that 
score. Of the play they may say what they please, 
but not so of my costume and dram. pers. they 
having been real existences. 

" I omitted Foscolo in my list of living Venetian 
worthies in the notes, considering him as an Italian 
in general, and not a mere provincial like the rest; 
and as an Italian I have spoken of him in the pre- 
face to canto fourth of Childe Harold. 

"The French translation of us ! ! ! oime! omie ! — 
and the German ; but I don't understand the latter, 
and his long dissertation at the end about the 
Fausts. Excuse haste. Of politics it is not safe to 
speak, but nothing is decided as yet. 

" I am in a very fierce humor at not having Scott's 
Monastery. — You are too liberal in quantity, and 
somewhat careless of the quality, of your missives. 
All the Quarterlies (four in number) I had had be- 
fore from you, and two of the Edinbugh ; but no 
matter, we shall have new ones by-and-by. No 
more Keats, I entreat : — flay him alive ; if some of 
you don't, I must skin him myself. There is no 
bearing the drivelling idiotism of the manikin. 

" I don't feel inclined to care farther about ' Don 
Juan.' What do you think a very pretty Italian 
lady said to me the other day ?. She had read it in 
the French, and paid me some compliments, with due 
drawbacks, upon it. I answered that what she 
said was true, but that I suspected it would live 
longer than Childe Harold. — ' Ah, but,' (said she,) 
* I icou/d rather have the fame of Childe Harold for 
three years than an immortality of Don Juan ! ' 
The truth is that it is too true, and the women 
hate many things which strip off the tinsel of sen- 
timent, and they are right, as it would rob them of 
their weapons. I never knew a woman who did not 
hate De Grammont' s Memoirs for the same reason : 
even Lady * * used to abuse them. 

" Rose's work I never received. It was seized at 
Venice. Such is the liberality of the Huns, with 
their two hundred thousand men, that they dare 
not let such a volume as his circulate " 



LETTER CCCCLVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, 8bre ISo, 1820. 

" The Abbot has just arrived ; many thanks ; at 
also for the Monastery — when you send, it ! ! ! 

" The Abbot will have a more than ordinary in- 
terest for me, for an ancestor of mine by the mo- 
ther's side, Sir J. Gordon of Gight, the handsomest 
of his day, died on a scaffold at Aberdeen for his 
loyalty to Mary, of whom he was an imputed para- 
mour as well as her relation. His fate was much 
commented on in the Chronicles of the times. If I 
mistake not, he had something to do with her es- 
cape from Loch Leven, or with 'her captivity there. 
But this you will know better than I. 

" I recollect Loch Leven as it were but yesterday. 
I saw it in my way to England, in 1798, being then 
ten years of age. My mother who was as haughty as 
Lucifer with her descent from the Stuarts, and her 
right line from the old Gordons, not the Seyton Gor- 
dons, as she disdainfully termed the ducal branch, 
told me the story, always reminding me how supe- 
rior her Gordons were to the southern Byrons, — 
notwithstanding our Norman, and always masculine 
descent, which has never lapsed into a female, 
as my mother's Gordons had done in her own per- 
son. 

" I have written to you so often lately that the 
brevity of this will be welcome. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, 8bre 17o, 1820. 

"Enclosed is the Dedication of Marino Faliero 
to Goethe. Query, — is his title Baron or not ? I 
think yes. Let me know your opinion, and so 
forth. 

" P. S. Let me know what Mr. Hohhouse and 
you have decided about the two prose letters and 
their publication. 

"I enclose you an Italian abstract of the German 
translator of Manfred's Appendix, in which you 
will perceive quoted what Goethe says of the whole 
body of English poetry, (and not of me in particu- 
lar.) On this the Dedication is founded, as ycu will 
perceive, though I had thought of it before, for I 
look upon him as a great man." 

" ' Dedication to Baron Goethe, Sec, &c, Sec. 
'"Sir, , 

"' In the Appendix to an English work lately 
translated into German and published at Leipsic, a 
judgment of yours upon English poetry is quoted as 
follows : " That in English poetry, great genius, 
universal power, a feeling of profundity, with suffi- 
cient tenderness and force, are to be found ; but 
that altogether these do not constitute poets," &c, 
&c. 

" ' I regret to see a great man falling into a great 
mistake. This opinion of yours only proves that 
the " Dictionary of ten thousand living English au- 
thors " has not been translated into German. You 
will have read, in your friend Schlegel's version, the 
dialogue in Macbeth — 

" There are ten tiiousaivl ! 
Macbeth. Gecsc, villain ? 
Answer. Aullior's sir." 

Now, of these " ten thousand authors," there are 
actually nineteen hundred and eighty-seven poets, 
all alive at this moment, whatever their works may 
be, as their booksellers well know ; and among these 
there are several who possess a far greater reputa 






910 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tion than mine, although considerably less than 
yours. It is owing to this neglect on the part of 
your German translators that you are not aware of 
the works of * * * * * 

" ' There is also another, named * * * 



" ' I mention these poets by way of sample to 
enlighten you. They form but two bricks of our 
Babel, (Windsor bricks, by-the-way,) but may serve 
for a specimen of the building. 

" ' It is, moreover, asserted that " the predomi- 
nant character of the whole body of the present 
English poetry is a disgust and contempt for life." 
But I rather suspect that, by one single work of 
prose, you yourself have excited a greater contempt 
for life than all the English volumes of poesy that 
ever were written. Madame de Sta^l says, that 
" Werther has occasioned more suicides than the- 
most beautiful woman ; " and I really believe that 
he has put more individuals out of this world than 
Napoleon himself, — except in the way of his profes- 
sion. Perhaps, illustrious sir, the acrimonious 
judgment passed by a celebrated northern journal 
upon you in particular, and the Germans in general, 
has rather indisposed you towards English poetry as 
well as criticism. But you must not regard our crit- 
ics, who are at bottom good-natured fellows, con- 
sidering their two professions — taking up the law 
in court, and laying it down out of it. No one can 
more lament their hasty and unfair judgment, in 
your particular, than I do ; and I so expressed my- 
self to your friend Schlegel, in 1816, at Copet. 

"' In behalf of my "ten thousand" living bre- 
thren, and of myself, I have thus far taken notice of 
an opinion expressed with regard to " English po- 
etry " in general, and which merited notice, because 
it was yours. 

" ' My principal object in addressing you was to 
testify my sincere respect and admiration of a man, 
who, for half a century, has led the literature of a 
great nation, and will go down to posterity as the 
first literary character of his age. 

" ' You have been fortunate, sir, not only in the 
writings which have illustrated your name, but in 
the name itself, as being sufficiently musical for the 
articulation of posterity. In this you have the ad- 
vantage of some of your countrymen, whose names 
would perhaps be immortal also — if any body could 
pronounce them. 

" ' It may, perhaps, be supposed, by this appa- 
rent tone of levity, that I am wanting in intention- 
al respect towards you ; but this will be a mistake : 
I am always flippant in prose. Considering you, as 
I really and warmly do, in common with all your 
own, and with most other nations, to be by far the 
first literary character which has existed in Europe 
6ince the death of Voltaire, I felt, and feel, desirous 
to inscribe to you the following work, — not as being 
either a tragedy or a poem, (for I cannot pronounce 
upon its pretensions to be either one or the other, 
or both, or neither,) but as a mark of esteem and 
admiration from a foreigner to the man who has 
been hailed in Germany "the great Goethe." 
" ' I have the honor to be, 

" ' With the truest respect, 
" ' Your most obedient 

" ' And very humble servant, 

" ' Byron.' " 



" Ravenna, 8bre Ho, 1820. 

" P. S. I perceive that in Germany, as well as in 
Italy, there is a great struggle about what they call 
1 Classical, and 'Romantic,' — terms which were not 
subjects of classification in England, at least when 
I left it four or five years ago. Some of the English 
scnoblers, it is true, abused Pope and Swift, but the 
reason was that they themselves did not know how 
to write either prose or verse ; but nobody thought 



them worth making a sect of. Perhaps there may 
be something of the kind sprung up lately, but I 
have not heard much about it, and it would be such 
bad taste that I shall be very sorry to believe it." 



LETTER CCCCLIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, October 17, 1820. 

" You owe me two letters — pay them. I want to 
know what you are about. The summer is over, 
and you will be back to Paris. Apropos of Paris, 
it was not Sophia Gail, but Sophia Gay — the Eng- 
lish word Gay — who was my correspondent. Can 
you tell who she is, as you did of the defunct * * ? 

" Have you gone on with your poem ? I have 
received the French of mine. Only think of being 
traduced into a foreign language in such an abomi- 
nable travesty ! It is useless to rail, but one can't 
help it. 

" Have you got my m,emoir copied ? I have begun 
a continuation. Shall I send it you as far as it is 
gone ? 

" I can't say any thing to you about Italy, for the 
government here look upon me with a suspicious 
eye, as I am well informed. Pretty fellows ! — as if 
I, a solitary stranger, could do any mischief. It is 
because I am fond of rifle and pistol shooting, I 
believe ; for they took the alarm at the quantity of 
cartridges I consumed, — the wiseacres ! 

" You don't deserve a long letter — nor a letter at 
all— for your silence. You have got a new Bourbon, 
it seems, whom they have christened ' Dieu-donne ;' 
perhaps the honor of the present may be disputed. 

Did you write the good lines on , the 

Laker ? * * 

"The queen has made a pretty theme for 
the journals. Was there ever such evidence pub- 
lished ? AV T hy it is worse than ' Little's Poems' or 
'Don Juan.' If you don't write soon, I will 'make 
you a speech.' "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, 81>re 25, 1820. 

" Pray forward the enclosed to Lady Byron. It 
is on business. 

"In thanking you for the Abbot, I made four 
grand mistakes. Sir John Gordon was not of Gight, 
but of Bogagieht, and a son of Huntley's. He suf- 
fered not for his loyalty, but in an insurrection. He 
had nothi?iy to do with Loch Leven, having been 
dead some time at the period of the Queen's con- 
finement : and, fourthly, I am not sure that he was 
the Queen's paramour or no, for Robertson does 
not allude to this, though Walter Scott does, in the 
list he gives of her admirers (as unfortunate) at 
the close of ' the Abbot.' 

" I must have made all these mistakes in recol- 
lecting my mother's account of the matter, although 
she was more accurate than I am, being precise 
upon points of genealogy, like all the aristocratical 
Scotch. She had a long list of ancestors, like Sir 
Lucius O'Trigger's, most of whom are to be found 
in the old Scotch Chronicles, Spalding, &c, in arms 
and doing mischief. I remember well passing Loch 
Leven, as well as the Queen's Ferry : we were on 
our way to England in 1798. " Yours. 

'„' You had better not publish Blackwood and 
the Robert's prose, except what regards Pope ; — you 
have let the time slip by." 



LETTERS. 



911 



LETTER CCCCLXI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, 9bre 4, 1820. 

" I have received from Mr. Galignani the en- 
closed letters, duplicates, and receipts, which ex- 
plain themselves.* As the poems are your property, 
by purchase, right, and justice, all matters of pub- 
lication, &c, &c, are for you to decide upon. I 
know not how far my compliance with Mr. Galig- 
nani's request might be legal, and I doubt that it 
would not be honest. In case you choose to ar- 
range with him, I enclose the permits to you, and 
in so doing I wash my hands of the business alto- 
gether. I sign them merely to enable you to exert 
the power you justly possess more properly. I will 
have nothing to do with it farther, except, in my 
answer to Mr. Galignani, to state that the letters, 
&c, &c, are sent to you, and the causes thereof. 

" If you can check these foreign pirates, do ; if 
not, put the permissive papers in the fire. I can 
have no view nor object whatever, but to secure to 
you your property. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I have read part of the Quarterly just ar- 
rived ; Mr. Bowles shall be answered : he is not quite 
correct in his statement about English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers. They support Pope, I see, in 
the Quarterly : let them continue to do so ; it is a 
sin, and a shame, and a damnation to think that 
Pope ! ! should require it — but he does. Those 
miserable mountebanks of the day, the poets, dis- 
grace themselves and deny God in running down 
Pope, the most faultless of poets, and almost of 
men." 



LETTER CCCCLXII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, Nov. 5, 1S20. 

" Thanks for your letter, which hath come some- 
what costively, — but better late than never. Of it 
anon. Mr. Galignani, of the press, hath, it seems, 
been sub-planted and sub-pirated by another Parisian 
publisher, who has audaciously printed an edition 
of L. B.'s Works, at the ultra-liberal price of ten 
francs, and (as Galignani piteously observes) eight 
francs only for booksellers ! ' horresco referens.' 
Think of a man's whole works producing so little ! 

" Galignani sends me, post haste, a permission 
for him from me, to publish, &c, &c, which permit 
I have signed and sent to Mr. Murray, of Albe- 
marle street. Will you explain to G. that I have 
no right to dispose of Murray's works without his 
leave ? and therefore I must refer him to M. to get 
the permit out of his claws — no easy matter I sus- 
pect. I have written to G. to say as much ; but a 
word of mouth from a 'great brother author' would 
convince him that I could not honestly have com- 
plied with his wish, though I might legally. What 
I could do I have done, viz., signed the warrant and 
sent it to Murray. Let the dogs divide the carcass, 
if it is killed to their liking. 

" I am glad of your epigram. It is odd that we 
should both let our wits run away with our senti- 
ments ; for I am sure that we are both Queen's men at 
bottom. But there is no resisting a clinch — it is so 
clever ! Apropos of that — we have a ' dipthong' 
also in this part of the world — not a Greek, but a 
Spanish one — do you understand me ? — which is 
about to blow up the whole alphabet. It was first 
pronounced at Naples, and is spreading ; but we are 



* Mr. Galignani had applied to Lord Byron with the view of procuring 
from liirn such leg;d right over those works of his of which he had hitherto 
been the sole publisher h\ France, as would enable htm to prevent others, in 
uture, from usurping the same privilege. 



nearer the barbarians ; who are in great force on 
the Po, and will pass it, with the first legitimate 
pretext. 

"There will be the devil to pay, and there is no 
saying who will or who will not be set down in his 
bill. If 'honor should come unlooked for' to any 
of your acquaintance, make a melody of it, that his 
ghost, like poor Yorick's, may have the satisfaction 
of being plaintively pitied — or still more nobly com- 
memorated, like ' Oh breathe not his' name.' In case 
you should not think him worth it, here is a chant 
for you instead — 

" When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, 
Let him combat for that of his neighbors ; 
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, 
And get knock'd on Hie head for hi3 labors. 

" To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, 
And is always as nobly requited ; 
Then battle for freedom wherever you can, 

And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted. 

" So you have gotten the letter of ' Epigrams'~I 
am glad of it.* You will not be so, for I shall send 
you more. Here is one I wrote for the endorse- 
ment of ' the Deed of Separation' in 1816 ; but the 
lawyers objected to it, as superfluous. It was 
written as we were getting up the signing and seal- 
ing. * * has the original. 

"Endorsement to the Deed of Separation, in the 
April of 1816. 

M A year age you swore, fond she [ 
' To love, to honor,' and so forth : 
Such was the vow you pledged to me, 
And here's exactly what 'tis worth. 

" For the anniversary of January 2, 1821, I have 
a small grateful anticipation, which, in case of ac- 
cident, I add — 

" To Penelope, January 2, 1821. 

" This day, of all our days, has done 
The worst for me and you — 
'Tis just six years since we were ong, 
And Jive since we were two. 

" Pray, excuse all this nonsense ; for I must talk 
nonsense just now for fear of wandering to more 
serious topics, which, in the present state of things, 
is not safe by a foreign post. 

" I told you in my last, that I had been going on 
with the ' Memoirs,' and have got as far as twelve 
more sheets. But I suspect they will be interrupted. 
In that case I will send them on by post, though I 
feel remorse at making a friend pay so much for 
postage, for we can't frank here beyond the frontier. 

" I shall be glad to hear of the event of the 
Queen's concern. As to the ultimate effect, the 
most inevitable one to you and me (if they and we 
live so long) will be that the Miss Moores and Miss 
Byrons will present us with a great variety of 
grandchildren by different fathers. 

" Pray, where did you get hold of Goethe's Flo- 
rentine husband-killing story ? upon such matters, 
in general, I may say, with Beau Clincher, in reply 
to Errand's wife — 

" ' Oh the villain, he hath murdered my poor 
Timothy ! 

" ' Clincher. Damn your Timothy ! — I tell you, 
woman, your husbaud has murdered me — he has 
carried away my fine jubilee clothes.' 

" So Bowles has been telling a story, too, ('tis in 
the Quarterly,) about the woods of ' Maderia,' and 
so forth. I shall be at Bowles again, if he is not 
quiet. He misstates, or mistakes, in a point or two. 
The paper is finished and so is the letter. 

" Yours, &c." 



Letter ccccxiii. 



912 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCCLXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, 9bre 9, 1820. 

" The talent you approve of is an amiable one, 
and might prove a ' national service,' but unfortu- 
nately I must be angry with a man before I draw 
his real portrait; and I can't deal in 'generals,' so 
that I trust never to have provocation enough to 
make a gallery. If ' the parson' had not by many 
little dirty sneaking traits provoked it, I should 
have been silent, though I had observed him. 
Here follows an alteration : put — 

" Devil, with such delight in damning, 
Th.u if at the resurrection 
Unto him the free election 
Of his future could be given, 
'Twould be rather Hell lhau Heaven ; 

that is to say, if these two new lines do not tQo 
much lengthen out and weaken the amiability of the 
original thought and expression. You have a 
discretionary power about showing. I should think 
that Croker would not disrelish a sight of these 
light little humorous things, and may be indulged 
now and then. 

" Why, I do like one or two vices, to be sure; 
but I can back a horse and fire a pistol ' without 
thinking or blinking' like Major Sturgeon ; I have 
fed at times for two months together on sheer bis- 
cuit and water, (without metaphor ;) I can get over 
seventy or eighty miles a day riding post, and swim 
Jive at a stretch, as at Venice, in 1818, or at least I 
could do, and have done it oxce. 

"I know Henry Matthews; he is the image, to 
the very voice, of his brother Charles, only darker 
— his cough his in particular. The first time I ever 
met him was in Scrope Davies's room after his 
brother's death, and I nearly dropped, thinking 
that it was his ghost. I have also dined with him 
in his rooms at King's College. Hobhouse once 
purposed a similar memoir ; but I am afraid the 
letters of Charles's correspondence with me (which 
are at Whitton with my other papers) would hardly 
do for the public ; for our lives were not over strict, 
and our letters somewhat lax upon most subjects. 
* * * * * 

" Last week I sent you a correspondence with 
Galignani, and some documents on your property. 
You have now, I think, an opportunity of checking, 
or at least limiting, those French republications. 
You may let all your authors publish what they 
please against me and mine. A publisher is not, 
and cannot be responsible for all the works that 
issue from his printer's. 

" The ' White Lady of Arvenel,' is not quite so 
good as a real well authenticated (' Dona Bianca') 
White Lady of Colalto, or spectre in the Marca 
Trivigiana, who has been repeatedly seen. There 
is a man (a huntsman) now alive who saw her also. 
Hoppner could tell you all about her, and so can 
Rose, perhaps. I myself have no doubt of the fact, 
historical and spectral. She always appeared on 
particular occasions, before the deaths of the family, 
&c, &c. I heard Madame Bcnzoni say, that she 
knew a gentleman who had seen her cross his room 
at Colalto Castle. Hoppner saw and spoke with 
the huntsman, who met her at the chase, and never 
hunted afterward. She was a girl attendant, who, 
one day dressing the hair of a Countess Colalto, 
was seen by her mistress to smile upon her husband 
in the glass. The Countess had her shut up in the 
wall of the castle, like Constance de Beverly. Ever 
after, she haunted them and all the Colaltos. She 
is described as very beautiful and fair. It is well 
authenticated. 



LETTER JCCCLXIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, 9bre 18, 1820. 

" The death of Waite* is a shock to the — teeth, 
as well as to the feelings of all who knew him. 
Good God, he and Blakef both gone ! I left them 
both in the most robust health, and little thought 
of the national loss in so short a time as five years. 
They were both as much superior to Wellington iu 
rational greatness, as he who preserves the hair and 
the teeth is preferable to ' bloody blustering war- 
rior' who gains a name by breaking heads and 
knocking out grinders. Who succeeds him ? 
Where is tooth-powder, mild, and yet efficacious — 
where is tincture — where are clearing-roote and 
brushes now to be obtained ? Pray obtain what in- 
formation you can upon these ' Twsculan ques- 
tions.' My jaws ache to think on't. Poor fellows ! 
I anticipated seeing both again ; and yet they are 
gone to that place where both teeth and hair last 
longer than they do in this life. I have seen a 
thousand graves opened, and always perceived, that 
whatever was gone, the teeth and hair remain with 
those who h-d died with them. Is not this odd ? 
They go the very first things in youth, and yet last 
the longest in the dust, if people will but die to pre- 
serve them ! It is a queer life, and a queer death, 
that of mortals. 

" I knew that Waite had married, but little 
thought that the other decease was so soon to over- 
take him. Then he was such a delight, such a 
coxcomb, such a jewel of a man ! There is a tailor 
at Bologna so like him ! and also at the top of his 
profession. Do not neglect this commission. Wlio 
or what can replace him ? What says the public ? 

" I remand you the preface. Don't forget that 
the Italian extract from the Chronicle must be 
translated. With regard to what you say of re- 
touching the Juans and the Hints, it is all very 
well ; but I can't furbish. I am like the tiger, (in 
poesy,) if I miss the first spring I go growling back 
to my jungle. There is no second : I can't correct ; 
I can't, and I won't. Nobody ever succeeds in it, 
great or small. Tasso remade the whole of his 
Jerusalem ; but who ever reads that version ? all 
the world goes to the first. Pope added to ' The 
Rape of the Lock,' but did not reduce it. You 
must take my things as they happen to be. If they 
are not likely to suit, reduce their estimate accord- 
ingly. I would rather give them away than hack 
and hew them. I don't say that you are not right ; 
I merely repeat that I cannot better them. I must 
' either make a spoon or spoil a horn ;' and there's 
an end. "Yours. 

' P. S. Of the praises of that little * * * Keats, 
I shall observe, as Johnson did when Sheridan the 
actor got a. pension, ' What ! has he got a pension ? 
Then it is time that I should give up mine ! ' No- 
body could be prouder of the praise of the Edinburgh 
than I was, or more alive to their censure, as I 
showed in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. At 
present, all the men they have ever praised are de- 
graded by that insane article. Why don't they re- 
view and praise ' Solomon's Guide to Health ? ' 
it is better sense and as much poetry as Johnny 
Keats. 

" Bowles must be bowled down. 'Tis a sad match 
at cricket if he can get any notches at Pope's ex- 
pense. If he once get into ' Lord's ground,' (to 
continue the pun, because it is foolish,) I think I 
could beat him in one innings. You did not know, 
perhaps, that I was once (not metaphorically, but 
really J a good cricketer, particularly in batting, and 
I played in the Harrow match against the Etonians 
in 1805, gaining more notches (as one of our chosen 
eleven) than any, except Lord Ipswich and Brook- 
man, on our side." 

• His dentist. 

t A celebrated hair-dresser. 



LETTERS. 



913 



LETTER CCCCLXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, 9bre 12, 1820. 

" What yon said of the late Charles Skinner Mat- 
.hews has set me to my recollections ; but I have 
net been able to turn up-any thing which would do 
e r the purposed memoir of his brother, even if he 
had previously done enough during his life to sanc- 
tion the introduction of anecdotes so merely person- 
al. He was, however, a very extraordinary man, 
and would have been a great one. No one ever suc- 
ceeded in a more surpassing degree than he did, as 
far as lie went. He was indolent too ; but whenever 
lie stripped, he Overthrew all antagonists. His con- 
quests will be found registered at Cambridge, partic- 
-larly his Downing one, which was hotly and highly 
contested, and yet easily icon. Hobhouse was his 
most intimate friend, and can tell you more of him 
than any man. William Bankes also a great deal. 
I myself recollect more of his oddities than of his 
academical qualities, for we lived most together at a 
very idle period of my life. When I went up to 
Trinity in 180,5, at the age of seventeen and a half, 
I was miserable and untoward to a degree. I was 
wretched at leaving Harrow, to which I had become 
attached during the last two years of my stay there ; 
wretched at going to Cambridge instead of Oxford, 
(there were no rooms vacant at Christchurch,) 
wretched, from some private domestic circumstances 
of different kinds, and consequently about as unso- 
cial as a wolf taken from the troop. So that, al- 
though I knew Matthews, and met him often then 
at Bankes's, (who was my collegiate pastor, and mas- 
ter, and patron,) and at Rhodcs's, Milnes's, Price's, 
Dick's, Macnamara's, Farrell's, Galley Knight's, 
and others of that set of contemporaries, yet I was 
neither intimate with him nor with any else, except 
my old schoolfellow Edward Long, (with' whom 'I 
used to pass the day in riding and swimming,) and 
William Bankes, who was good-naturedly tolerant 
of my ferocities. 

" It was not till 1807, after I had been upwards of 
a year away from Cambridge, to which I had return- 
ed again to reside for my degree, that I became one 
of Matthews's familiars, by means of Hobhouse, who, 
after hating me for two years, because I ' wore a 
white hat and a gray coat, and rode a gray horse,' 
(as he says himself,) took me into his good graces 
because I had written some poetry. I had always 
lived a good deal, and got drunk occasionally, in 
their company ; but now we became really friends in 
a morning. Matthews, however, was not at this 
period resident in college. I met him chiefly in 
London, and at uncertain periods at Cambridge. 
Hobhouse, in the mean time, did great things : he 
founded the Cambridge ' Whig Club,' (which he 
seems to have forgotten,) and the ' Amicable Socie- 
ty,' which was dissolved in consequence of the 
members constantly quarrelling, and made himself 
very popular with 'us youth,' and no less formida- 
ble to all tutors, professors, and heads of colleges. 
William Bankes was gone; while he stayed he ruled 
the roast, or rather the roasting, and was father of 
all mischiefs. 

" Matthews and I, meeting in London, and else- 
where, became great cronies. He was not good- 
tempered — nor am I — but with a little tact his tem- 
per was manageable, and I thought him so superior 
a man, that I was willing to sacrifice something to 
his humors, which were often, at the same time, 
amusing and provoking. What became of his pa- 
pers, (and he certainly had many,) at the time of his 
death, was never known. I mention this by the way, 
fearing to skip it over, and as he tcrote remarkably 
well, both in Latin and English. We went down 
to Newstead together, where I had got a famous 
cellar, and monks' dresses from a masquerade ware- 
house. We were a company of some seven or eight, 
with an occasional neighbor or so for visitors, and 
115 



used to sit up late in our friars' dresses, drinking 
Burgundy, claret, champagne, and what not, out ot 
the skull-cup, and all sorts of glasses, and buffoon- 
ing all round the house, in our conventual gar- 
ments. Matthews always denominated me 'the 
Abbot,' and never called me by any other name in 
his good humors, to the day of his deaih. The har- 
mony of these our symposia was somewhat inter- 
rupted, a few days after our assembling, by Mat- 
thews's threatening to throw ' bold Webster,'" (as he 
was called, from winning a foot-match, and a horse- 
match, the first from lp»\vich to London, and the 
second from Brightelmstone,) by threatening to 
throw ' bold Webster ' out of a window, in conse- 
quence of I know not what commerce of jokes 
ending in this epigram. Webster came to me and 
said, that ' his respect and regard for me as host 
would not permit him to call out any of my guests, 
and that he should go to town next morning.' He 
did. It was in vain that I represented to him that 
the window was not high, and that the turf under 
it was particularly soft. Away he went. 

"Matthews and myself had travelled down from 
London together, talking all the way incessantly 
upon one single topic. When we got to Loughbor 
ough, I know not what chasm had made us diverge 
for a moment to some other subject, at which he 
was indignant. ' Come,' said he, ' don't let us break 
through — let us go on as we began, to our journey's 
end ; ' and so he continued, and was entertaining as 
ever to the very end. He had previously occupied, 
during my year's absence from Cambridge, my 
rooms in Trinity, with the furniture; and Jones the 
tutor in his odd way, had said on putting him in, 
' Mr. Matthews, I recommend to your attention not 
to damage any of the moveables, for Lord Byron, 
sir, is a young man of tumultuous passions .' Mat- 
thews was delighted with this ; and whenever any 
body came to visit him, begged them to handle the 
very door with caution ; and used to repeat Jones's 
admonition, in his tone and manner. There was a 
large mirror in the room, on which he remarked, 
' that he thought his friends were grown uncom- 
monly assiduous in coming to see him, but he soon 
discovered that they only came to see themselves.' 
Jones's phrase of 'tumultuous passions,' and the 
whole scene had put him into such good humor, that 
I verily believe, that I owed to it a portion of his 
good graces. 

"When at Newstead, somebody by accident rub- 
lied against one of his white silk stockings, one day 
before dinner ; of course the gentleman apologized. 
' Sir,' answered Matthews, ' it may be all very well 
for you, who have a great many silk stockings, to 
dirty other people's ; but to me, who have only this 
one pair, which I have put on in honor of the 
' Abbot' here, no apology can compensate for such 
carelessness ; besides the expense of washing.' He 
had the same sort of droll sardonic way about every 
thing. A wild Irishman named F * *, one evening 
beginning to say something at a large supper at 
Cambridge, Matthews roared out ' Silence ! ' and 
then, pointing to F * *, cried out, in the words of 
the oracle, ' Orson is endowed with reason.' You 
may easily suppose that Orson lost what reason he 
had acquired, on hearing this compliment. When 
Hobhouse published his volume of poems, the Mis- 
cellany, (wnich Matthews would call the ' Miss-sell- 
any,' ) all that could be drawn from him was, that 
the preface was ' extremely like Walsh.' Hobhouse 
thought this at first a compliment ; but we never 
could make out what it was, for all we know of 
Walsh is his Ode to' King William, and Pope's epi- 
thet of ' knowing Walsh.' When the Newstead 
party broke up for London, Hobhouse and Mat- 
thews, who were the greatest friends possible, 
agreed, for a whim, to walk together to town. They 
qurrelled by the way, and actually walked the 
latter half of their journey, occasionally passing 
and repassing, without speaking. When Matthews 
had got to Highgate, he had spent all his money but 



914 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



threepence halfpenny, and determined to spend that 
also in a pint of beer, which I believe he was drink- 
ing before a public house, as Hobhouse passed him 
(still without speaking), for the last time on their 
route. They were reconciled in London again. 

" One of Matthews's passions was ' the Fancy ; ' 
and he sparred uncommonly well. But he always 
got beaten in rows, or combats with the bare fist. 
In swimming too, he swam well ; but with effort and 
labor, .and too high out of the water; so that Scrope 
Davies and myself, of whom he was therein some- 
what emulous, always told him that he would be 
drowned if ever he came to a difficult pass in the 
water. He was so ; but surely Scrope and myself 
would have been most heartily glad that 

" ' The Dean had lived, 
And our prediction proved a lie.' 

" His head was uncommonly handsome, very like 
what Pope's was in his youth. 

" His voice, and laugh, and features are strongly 
resembled by his brother Henry's, if Henry be he of 
King's College. His passion for boxing wife so great, 
that he actually wanted me to match him with 
Dogherty, (whom I had backed and made the match 
for against Tom Belcher,) and I saw them spar to- 
gether at my own lodgings, wth the gloves on. As 
he was bent upon it, I would have backed Dogherty 
to please him, but the match went off. It was of 
course to have been a private fight in a private 
room. 

" On one occasion, being too late to go home and 
dress, he was equipped by a friend, (Mr. Bailey, I 
believe,) in a magnificently fashionable and some- 
what exaggerated shirt and neckcloth. He pro- 
ceeded to the Opera, and took his station in Fop's 
Alley. During the interval between the opera and 
the ballet, an acquaintance took his station by him, 
and saluted him : ' Come round,' said Matthews, 
* come round.' ' Why should I come round ? ' said 
the other ; ' you have only to turn your head — I am 
close by you.' ' That is exactly what I cannot do,' 
answered Matthews : ' don't you see the state I am 
in ? ' pointing to his buckram shirt-collar, and in- 
flexible cravat ; and there he stood with his head 
always in the same perpendicular position during 
the whole spectacle. 

" One evening, after dining together, as we were 
going to the opera, I happened to have a spare 
opera ticket, (as subscriber to a box,) and presented 
it to Matthews. ' Now sir,' said he to Hobhouse, 
afterward, ' this I call courteous in the Abbot — 
another man would never have thought that I 
might do better with half a guinea than throw it to 
a door-keeper ; but here is a man not only asks me 
to dinner, but gives me a ticket for the theatre.' 
These were only his oddities, for no man was more 
liberal, or more honorable in all his' doings and 
dealings than Matthews. He gave Hobhouse and 
me, before we set out for Constantinople, a most 
splendid entertainment, to which we did ample 
justice. One of his fancies was dining at all sorts 
of out-of-the-way places. Somebody popped upon 
him, in I know not what coffee-house in the Strand 
— and what do you think was the attraction ? Why, 
that he paid a shilling (I think) to dine toith his hat 
on. This he called his ' hat house,' and used to 
boast of the comfort of being covered at meal- 
times. 

" When Sir Henry Smith was expelled from 
Cambridge for a row with a tradesman named 
4 Hiron,' Matthews solaced himself with shouting 
under Hiron's windows every evening, 

* Ah me I what perils do environ 
The man who meddles with hoi Hiron.' 

"He was also of that band of profane scoffers, 
who, under the auspices of * * * *, used to rouse 
Lort Mansel (late bishop of Bristol) from his slum- 
bers in the lodge of Trinity, and when he appeared 



at the window foaming with wrath, and crying out 
' I know you, gentlemen, I know you ! ' were wont 
to reply, ' We beseech thee to hear us, good Lort— 
good Lort deliver us!' (Lort was his Christian 
name.) As he w r as very free in his speculations 
upon all kinds of subjects, although by no means 
cither dissolute or intemperate in his conduct, and 
as I was no less independent, our conversation and 
correspondence used to alarm our friend Hobhouse 
to a considerable degree. 

****** 

" You must be almost tired of my packets, which 
will have cost a mint of postage. 

" Salute Gilford and all my friends. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXYI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. ■ 

" Ravenna, 9bre 23, 1320. 

" The ' Hints,' Hobhouse says, will require a 
good deal of slashing to suit the times, which will 
be a work of time, for I don't feel at all laborious 
just now. Whatever effect they are to have would 
perhaps be greater in a separate form, and they 
also must have my name to them. Now, if you 
publish them in the same volume with Don Juan, 
they identify Don Juan as mine, which I don't 
think worth a chancery suit about my daughter's 
guardianship, as in your present code a facetious 
poem is sufficient to take away a man's right over 
his family. 

" Of the state of things here it would be difficult 
and not very prudent to speak at large, the Huns 
opening all letters. I wonder if they can read them 
when they have opened them ; if so, they may see, 
in my most legible hand, that I think them 

DAMNED SCOUNDRELS AND BARBARIANS, and THEIR 

emperor A fool, and themselves more fools than 
he ; all which they may send to Vienna for any 
thing that I care. They have got themselves 
masters of the Papal police, and are bullying away; 
but some day or other they will pay for all : it may 
not be very soon, because these unhappy Italians 
have no consistency among themselves ; but I sup- 
pose that Providence will get tired of them at last 
****** 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCOCLXVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, Dec. 9, 1820. 

" Besides this letter, you will receive three pack- 
ets, containing, in all, eighteen more sheets of 
Memoranda, which, I fear, will cost you more in 
postage than they will ever produce by being print- 
ed in the next century. Instead of waiting so long, 
if you could make any thing of them now in the 
way of reversion, (that is, after my death,) I should 
be very glad, — as, with all due regard to your pro- 
geny, I prefer you to your grandchildren. Would 
not Longman or Murray advance you a certain sum 
now, pledging themselves not to have them pub- 
lished till after ?ny decease, think you ? — and what 
say you ? 

"Over these latter sheets I would leave you a dis- 
cretionary power; because they contain, perhaps, a 
thing or two which is too sincere for the public. If 
I consent to your disposing of the reversion now , 
where would be the harm ? Tastes may change. I 
would, in your case, make my essay to dispose of 
them, not publish, now; and if you (as is most 
likely) survive me, add what you please from your 



LETTERS. 



915 



own knowledge, and, above all, contradict any thing, 
if I have »«'.s-stated ; for my first object is the truth, 
even at my own expense. 

"I have some knowledge of your countryman, 
Muley Moloch, the lecturer. He wrote to me seve- 
ral letters upon Christianity, to convert me ; and, if 
I had not been a Christian already, I should proba- 
bly have been now, in consequence. I thought 
there was something of wild talent in him, mixed 
with a due leaven of absurdity, — as there must be 
in all talent let loose upon the world without a 
martingale. 

"The ministers seem still to persecute the Queen 
******** m it they won't go out, the 

sons of b es. Damn reform — I want a place — 

what say you ? You must applaud the honesty of 
the declaration, whatever you may think of the 
intention. 

" I have quantities of paper in England, original 
and translated — tragedy, &c, &c. ; and am now 
copying out a fifth canto of Don Juan, one hundred 
and forty-nine stanzas. So that there will be near 
three thin Albemarle, or two thick volumes of all 
sorts of my Muses. I mean to plunge thick, too, 
into the contest upon Pope, and to lay about me 
like a dragon till I make manure of * * * for the 
top of Parnassus. 

" Those rogues are right — ice do laugh at fathers 
— eh ? don't we ?* You shall see — you shall see 
what things I'll say, an' it pleases Providence to 
leave us leisure. But in these parts they arc all 
going to war ; and there is to be liberty, and a row, 
and a constitution — when they can get them. But 
I won't talk politics — it is low. Let us talk of the 
Queen, and her bath, and her bottle — that's the 
only ihoiley now-a-days. 

"if there are any acquaintances of mine, salute 
them. The priests here are trying to persecute me, 
— but no matter. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXVIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Dec. 9, 1820. 

"I open my letter to tell you a fact, which will 
show the state of this country better than I can. 
The tommandantf of the troops is now lying dead 
in my house. He was shot at a little past eight 
o'clock, about two hundred pates from my door. I 
was putting on my great-coat to visit Madame la 
Contessa G. when I heard the shot. On coming 
into tl e hall, 1 found all my servants on the bal- 
cony, exclaiming that a man was murdered. I 
immediately ran down, calling on Tita (the bravest 
of them) to follow me. The rest wanted to binder 
us from going, as it is the custom for every body 
here, it seems, to run away from ' the stricken deer.' 

" However, down we ran, and found him lying on 
his back, almost, if not quite, dead, with five 
wounds, one in the heart, two in the stomach, one 
in the finger, and the other in the arm. Some 
soldiers cocked their guns, and wanted to hinder 
me from passing However, we passed, and I found 
Diego, the adjutant, crying over him like a child — 
a surgeon, who said nothing of his profession — a 
priest, sobbing a frightened prayer — and the com- 
mandant, all this time, on his back, on the hard, 
cold pavement, without light or assistance, or any 
thing around him but confusion and dismay. 

" As nobody could, or would, do any thing but 
howl and pray, and as no one would stir a finger to 
move him, for fear of consequences, I lost my pa- 



* He here alludes to a humorous article, of which I had told him, in 
Blackwood's Magazine, where the poets of the day were all grouped to- 
gether in a variety of fantastic shapes, with " Lord Byron and little Moore 
laughing behind, as if they would split," it the rest of the fraternity.— Moore. 

) See Don Juan, canto v., stanza xxxiii. 



tience — made my servant and a couple of the mob 
take up the body — sent off two soldiers to the guard 
— despatched Diego to the Cardinal with the news, 
and had the commandant carried up stairs into my 
own quarter. But it was too late, he was gone — 
not at all disfigured — bled inwardly — not above an 
ounce or two came out. 

"I had him partly stripped — made the surgeon 
examine him, and examined him myself. He had 
been, shot by cut balls, or slugs. I felt one of the 
slugs, which had gone through him, all but the 
skin. Every body conjectures why he was killed, 
but no one knows how. The gun was found close 
by him — an old gun, half filed down. 

" He only said, ' O Dio ! ' and ' Gesu ! * two or 
three times, and appeared to have suffered little. 
Poor fellow ! he was a brave officer, but had made 
himself much disliked by the people. I knew him 
personally, and had met him often at conversazioni 
and elsewhere. My house is full of soldiers, dra- 
goons, doctors, priests, and all kinds of persons, — 
though I have now cleared it, and clapped sentinels 
at the doors. To-morrow the body is to be moved. 
The town is in the greatest confusion, as you may 
suppose. 

" You are to know that, if I had not had the body 
moved, they would have left him there till morning 
in the street, for fear of consequences. I would not 
choose to let even a dog die in such a manner, 
without succor ; — and, as for consequences, I care 
for none in a duty. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. The lieutenant on duty by the body is 
smoking his pipe with great composure. — A queer 
people this." 



LETTER CCCCLXIX. 

TO ME. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Dec. 25, 1830. 

" You will or ought to have received the packet 
and letters which I remitted to your address a fort- 
night ago, (or it may be more days,) and I shall be 
glad of an answer, as, in these times and places, 
packets per post are in some risk of not reaching 
their destination. 

" I have been thinking of a project for you and 
me, in case we both get to London again, which (if 
a Neapolitan war don't suscitate) may be calculated* 
as possible for one of us about the spring of 1821. 
I presume that you, too, will be back by that time, 
or never ; but on that you will give me some index. 
The project, then, is for you and me to set up joint- 
ly a newspaper — nothing more nor less — weekly, or 
so, with some improvement or modifications upon 
the plan of the present scoundrels, who degrade 
that department, — but a newspaper, which we will 
edit in due form, and, nevertheless, with some at- 
tention. 

"There must always be in it a piece of poesy 
from one or other of us tico, leaving room, however, 
for such dilettanti rhymers as may be deemed worthy 
of appearing in the same columns ; but this must be 
a sine qua non; and also as much prose as we can 
compass. We will take an office — our names not 
announced, but suspected — and, by the blessing of 
Providence, give the age some new lights upon pol- 
icy, poesy, biography, criticism, morality, theology, 
and all other isms, ality, and olo(jy whatsoever. 

" Why, man, if we were to take to this in good 
earnest, your debts would be paid off in a twelve- 
month, and by dint of a little diligence and prac- 
tice, I doubt not that we could distance the com- 
mon-place blackguards, who have so long disgraced 
common sense and the common reader. They have 
no merit but practice and impudence, both of whicfc 
we may acquire, and, as for talent and culture, the 
devil's in't if such proofs as we have given of botk 
can't furnish out something better than the ' fune- 



916 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ral baked meats ' which have coldly set forth the 
breakfast table of all Great Britain for so many 
years. Now, what think you ? Let me know; and 
recollect that, if we take to such an enterprise, we 
must do so in good earnest. Here is a hint, — do 
you make it a plan. We will modify it into as lite 
rary and classical a concern as you please, only let 
us put out our powers upon it, and it will mos 
likely succeed. But you must live in London, and 
I also, to bring it to bear, and we must keep it a 
secret. 

" As for the living in London, I would make 'that 
not difficult to you, (if you would allow me,) until 
we could see whether one means or other (the sue 
cess of the plan, for instance) would not make it 
quite easy for you, as well as for your family ; and 
in any case, we should have some fun, composing 
correcting, supposing, inspecting, and supping to- 
gether over our lucubrations. If you think this 
worth a thought, let me know, and I will begin to 
lay in a small literary capital of composition for 
the occasion. "Yours ever, affectionately, 

"B. 

" P. S. If you thought of a middle plan between 
a Spectator and a newspaper, why not ? — only not 
on a Sunday. Not that Sunday is not an excellent 
day, but is engaged already. We will call it the 
' Tenda Rossa,' the name Tassoni gave an answer 
of his in a controversy, in allusion to the delicate 
hint of Timour the Lame, to his enemies, by a 
' Tenda ' of that color, before he gave battle. Or 
we will call it ' Gli,' or ' I Carbonari,' if it so please 
you — or any other name full of ' pastime and prodi- 
gality,' which you may prefer. ****** 
Let me have an answer. I conclude poetically, with 
the bellman, ' A merry Christmas to you ! ' " 



LETTER CCCCLNX 



TO MR. MOORE. 



ADDRESS 

TO THE NEAPOLITAN GOVERNMENT. 
[Translation from the original Italian.] 

" An Englishman, a friend to liberty, having un- 
derstood that the Neapolitans permit even foreign- 
ers to contribute to the good cause, is desirous that 
they should do him the honor of accepting a thou- 
sand louis, which he takes the liberty of offering. 
Having already, not long since, been an ocular 
witness of the despotism of the barbarians in the 
States occupied by them in Italy, he sees, with the 
enthusiasm natural to a cultivated man, the gene- 
rous determination of the Neapolitans to assert 
their well-worn independence. As a member of the 
English House of Peers, he would be a traitor to 
the principles which placed the reigning family of 
England on the throne, if he were not grateful for 
the noble lesson so lately given both topeople and 
to kings. The offer which he desires to make is 
small in itself, as must always be that presented 
from an individual to a nation ; but he trusts that 
it will not be the last they will receive from his 
countrymen. His distance from the frontier, and 
the feeling of his personal incapacity to contribute 
efficaciously to the service of the nation, prevents 
him from proposing himself as worthy of the low- 
est commission, for which experience and talent 
might be requisite. But if, as a mere volunteer, 
his presence were not a burden to whomsoever he 
might serve under he would repair to whatever 
place the Neapolitan government might point out, 
there to obey the orders and participate in the dan- 
gers of his commanding officer, without any other 
motive than that of sharing the destiny of a brave 
nation, defending itself against the self-called Holy 
Alliance, which but combines the vice of hypocrisy 
with despotism." 



" Ravenna, Jan. 2, 1820. 

"Your entering into my project for the Memoir 
is pleasant to me. But 1 doubt (contrary to my 
dear Mad e MacF * *, whom I always loved, and 
always shall — not only because I really did feel at- 
tached to her personally, but because she and about 
a dozen others of that sex were all who stuck by mt 
in the grand conflict of 1815) — but I doubt, I say, 
whether the Memoir could appear in my lifetime ;— 
and, indeed, I had rather it did not, for a man 
always looks dead after his Life has appeared, and I 
should certes not survive the appearance of mine. 
The first part I cannot consent to alter, even al- 
though Mad e de StaeTs opinion of Benjamin Con- 
stant, and my remarks upon Lady Caroline's beauty, 
(which is surely great, and I suppose that I ha"ve 
said so — at least, I ought,) should go down to our 
grandchildren in unsophisticated nakedness. 

"As to Madame de Stagl, I am by no means 
bound to be her beadsman — she was always more 
civil to me in person than during my absence. Our 
dear defunct friend, Matthew Lewis, who was too 
great a bore ever to lie, assured me, upon his tire- 
some word of honor, that, at Florence, the said 
Madame de Stael was oj>en-mouthed against me; 
and, when asked, in Switzerland, why she had 
changed her opinion, replied, with laudable sincer- 
ity, that I had named her in a sonnet with Voltaire, 
Rousseau, &c, &c, and that she could not help it, 
through decency. Now, I have not forgotten this, 
but I have been generous, — as mine acquaintance, 
the late Captain Whitby of the navy, used to say to 
his seamen (when ' married to the gunner's daiifrh- 
ter') — 'two dozen, and let you off easy.' The ' two 
dozen ' were with the cat-'-nine-tails ; — the ' let you 
off easy ' was rather his own opinion than that of 
the patient. 

" My acquaintance with these terms and practice 
arises from my having been much conversant with 
ships of war and naval heroes in the years of my 
voyages in the Mediterranean. Whitby was in the 
gallant action off Lissa in 1811. He was brave, but 
a disciplinarian. AVhen he left his frigate, he left a 
parrot, which was taught by the crew the following 
sounds (It must be remarked that Captain Whit- 
by was the image of Fawcett the actor in voice, face, 
and figure, and that he squinted.) 

" The parrot loquitur. 

" ' Whitby ! Whitby ! funny eye ! funny eye !' two 
dozen, and iet you off easy. Oh you ! ' 

" Now, if Madame de B. has a parrot, it had bet- 
ter be taught a French parody of the same sounds. 

" With regard to our purposed journal, I will call 
it what you please, but it should be a newspaper, to 
make it pay. We can call it ' The Harp,' if you 
like — or any thing. 

" I feel exactly as you do about our 'art,' but it 
comes over me in a kind of rage every now and 
then, like * * * * and then, if I 
don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that 
regular, uninterrupted love of writing, which you 
describe in your friend, I do not understand it. I 
feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but 
never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think com- 
position a great pain. 

" I wish, you to think seriously of the journal 
scheme — for I am as serious as one can be, in this 
world, about any thing. As to matters here, they 
are high and mighty — but not for paper. It is 
much about the state of things between Cain and 
Abel. There is, in fact, no law or government at 
ill; and it is wonderful how well things go on with- 
out them. Excepting a few occasional murders, 
■{every body killing whomsoever he pleases, and 
being killed, in turn, by a friend, or relative, of the 
defunct,) there is as quiet a society and as merry 
a Carnival as can be met with in a tour through 



LETTERS. 

like habit in these 



917 



Europe. There is nothing 
things. 

" I shall remain here till May or June, and, 
unless ' honor comes unlooked for,' we may per- 
haps meet, in France or England, within the year. 

" Yours, &c. 

" Of course, I cannot explain to you existing 
circumstances, as they open all letters. 

" Will you set me right about your cursed 
' Champs Elysces ? ' — are they ' es ' or ' ees ' for the 
adjective ? I know nothing of French, being all 
Italian. Though I can read and understand 
French, I never attempt to speak it ; for I hate it. 
From the second part of the Memoirs cut what you 
please." i 



LETTER CCCCLXXI. 



TO MR. MUIUt.YY. 



"Ravenna, January 4, 1821. 

" I just see, by the papers of Galignani, that 
there is a new tragedy of great expectation by Barry 
Cornwall.* Of what I have read of his works I 
liked the Dramatic Sketches, but thought his 
Sicilian story and Marcian Colonna, in rhyme, quite 
spoiled, by I know not what affectation of Words- 
worth, and Moore, and myself, — all mixed up into 
a kind of chaos. I think him very likely to produce 
a good tragedy, if he keep to a natural style, and 
not play tricks to form harlequinades for an audi- 
ence. As he (Barry Cornwall is not his true name) 
was a schoolfellow of mine, I take more than co 
mon interest in his success, and shall be glad to 
hear of it speedily. If I had been aware that he 
was in that line, I should have spoken of him in 
the preface to Marino Faliero. He will do a world's 
wonder if he produce a great tragedy. I am, how- 
ever, persuaded, that this is not to be done by 
following the old dramatists, — who are full of gross 
faults, pardoned only for the beauty of their lan- 
guage, — but by writing naturally and regularly, and 
producing regular tragedies, like the Greeks; but 
not in imitation, — merely the outline of their con- 
duct, adapted to our own times and circumstances, 
and of course no chorus. 

""You will laugh, and say, ' Why don't you do 
so ? ' I have, you see, tried a sketch in Marino 
Faliero ; but many people think my talent ' essen- 
tially undramatic,' and I am not at all clear that 
they are not right. If Marino Faliero don't fall — 
in the perusal — I shall, perhaps, try again, (but not 
for the stage) ; and as I think that love is not the 
principal passion for tragedy, (and yet most of ours 
turn upon it,) you will not find me a popular writer. 
Unless it is love, furious, criminal, and hapless, it 
ought not to make a tragic subject. When it is 
melting and maudlin, it does, but it ought not to do ; 
it is then for the gallery and second-price boxes. 

" If you want to have a notion of what I am 
trying, take up a translation of any of the Greek 
tragedians. If I said the original, it would be an 
impudent presumption of mine ; but the transla- 
tions are so inferior to the originals that I think I 
may risk it. Then judge of the ' simplicity of 

Slot,' &c, and do not judge me by your old mad 
ramatists, which is like drinking usquebaugh and 
then proving a fountain. Yet, after all, I suppose 
that you do not mean that spirits is a nobler element 
than a clear spring bubbling in the sun ? and this I 
take to be the difference between the Greeks and 
those turbid mountebanks — always excepting Ben 
Johnson, who was a scholar and a classic. Or, take 
up a translation of Alfieri, and try the interest, &c, 
if these my new attempts in the old line, by him in 
English; and then tell me fairly your opinion. But 



don't measure me by your own old or new tailors' 
yards. Nothing so easy as intricate confusion of 
plot and rant. Mrs. Centlivre, in comedy, has ten 
times the bustle of Congreve ; but are they to be 
compared ? and yet she drove Congreve from the 
theatre." 



LETTER CCCCLXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



* See Don Juan, canto xi., etanza lix. 



" Ravenna, January 19, 1821. 

" Yours of the 29th ultimo hath arrived. I must 
really and seriously request that you will beg of 
Messrs. Harris or Elliston to let the Doge alone: it 
is ho* 1 an acting play; it will not serve their pur- 
pose; it will destroy yours, (the sale); and it will 
distress me. It is not courteous, it is hardly even 
gentlemanly, to persist in this appropriation of a 
man's writings to their mountebanks. 

"I have already sent you by last post a short 
protest to the pul lie, (against this proceeding) ; in 
case that they persist, which I trust that they will 
not, you must then publish it in the newspapers. I 
shall not let them off with that only, if they go on ; 
but make a longer appeal on that subject, and state 
what I think the injustice of their mode of behavior. 
It is hard that I should have all the buffoons in 
Britain to deal with— -pirates who will publish, and 
players who will aet — when there are thousands of 
worthy men who can neither get bookseller nor 
manager for love nor money. 

" You never answered me a word about Galignani. 
If you mean to use the two documents, do; if not, 
burn them. I do not choose to leave them in any 
one's possession ; suppose some one found them 
without the letters, what would they think f why, 
that / had been doing the opposite of what I have 
done, to wit, referred the whole thing to you — an 
act of civility, at least, which required saying, 'I 
have received your letter.' I thought that you 
might have some hold upon those publications by 
this means ; to me it can be no interest one way or 
the other. 

" The third canto of Don Juan is ' dull,' but you 
must really put up with it : if the first two and the 
two following are tolerable, what do you expect ? 
particularly as I neither dispute with you on it as a 
matter of criticism or as a matter of business. 

" Besides, what am I to understand ? you, and 
Douglas Kinnaird, and others, write to me, that 
the first two published cantos are among the best 
that I ever wrote, and are reckoned so ; Augusta 
writes that they are thought ' execrable ' (bitter 
word that for an author — eh, Murray ?) as a com- 
position even, and that she had heard so much 
against them that she would never read them, and 
never has. Be that as it may, I can't "alter ; that is 
not my forte. If you publish the three new ones 
without ostentation, they may perhaps succeed. 

"Pray publish the Dante and the Pulci, (the 
Prophecy of Dante, I mean.) I look upon the Pulci 
as my grand performance. The remainder of the 
' Hints,' where be they ? Now, bring them all out 
about the same time, otherwise 'the variety' you 
wot of will be less obvious. 

"I am in bad humor: — some obstructions in 
business with those plaguy trustees, who object to 
an advantageous loan which I was to furnish to a 
nobleman on mortgage because his property is in 
Ireland, have shown me how a man is treated in 
his absence. Oh, if I do come back, I will make 
those who little dream of it spin, — or they or I 
shall go down." * * * * 



918 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCCLXXIII. 



TO MR; MURRAY. 

"January 20, 1821. 

" I did not think to have troubled you with the 
plague and postage of a double letter this time, but 
I have just read in an Italian paper, ' That Lord 
Byron has a tragedy coming out,' &c, &c., &c, 
and that the Courier and Morning Chronicle, &c, 
&c, are pulling one another to pieces about him, 
&c. 

" Now I do reiterate and desire, that every thing 
may be done to prevent it from coming out on any 
theatre, for which it never was designed, and on 
which (in the present state of the stage of London) 
it could never succeed. I have sent you my appeal 
by last post, which you tnust publish' in case of 
need ; and I require you even in your own name (if 
my honor is dear to you) to declare that such 
representation would be contrary to my wish and to 
my judgment. If you do not wish to drive me mad 
altogether, you will hit upon some way to prevent 
this. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I cannot conceive how Harris or Elliston 
should be so insane as to think of acting Marino 
Faliero ; they might as well act the Prometheus of 
-lEschjdus. I speak of course humbly, and with 
the greatest sense of the distance of time and merit 
between the two performances ; but merely to show 
the absurdity of the attempt. 

"The Italian paper speaks of a 'party against 
it : ' to be sure there would be a party. Can you 
imagine, that after having never flattered man, nor 
beast, nor opinion, nor politics, there would not be 
a party against a man, who is also a popular writer 
— at least a successful ? Why, all parties would be 
a party against." 



LETTER CCCCLXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, January 20, 1821. 

" If Harris or Elliston persist, after the remon- 
strance which I desired you and Mr. Kinnaird to 
make on my behalf, and which I hope will be suffi- 
cient — but if, I say, they do persist, then I pray you 
to present in person the enclosed letter to the Lord 
Chamberlain : I have said in person, because other- 
wise I shall have neither answer nor knowledge that 
it has reached its address, owing to the ' insolence 
of office.' 

" I wish you would speak to Lord Holland, and 
to all my friends and,yours, to interest themselves 
in preventing this cursed attempt at representation. 

" God help me ! at this distance, I am treated 
like a corpse or a fool by the few people that I 
thought I could rely upon ; and I was a fool to 
think any better of them than of the rest of man- 
kind. 

" Pray write. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I have nothing more at heart (that is, in 
literature) than to prevent this drama from going 
upon the stage : in short, rather than permit it, it 
must be suppressed altogether, and only forty copies 
struck off privately for presents to my friends. 
What cursed fools those speculating buffoons must 
be not to see that it is unfit for their fair — or their 
booth ! " 



LETTER CCCCLXXV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, January 22, 1821. 

" Pray get well. I do not like your complaint. 
So, let me have a line to say you are up and doing 
again. To-day I am thirty-three years of age. 



" Through life's road, tic, &c* 



" Have you heard that the ' Braziers' Company' 
have, or mean to present an address at Brandenburgh- 
house, ' in armor,' and with all possible variety ani 
splendor of brazen apparel ? 

" The Eraziers, it seems, are preparing to pass 

An address, and present it themselves all in brass — 

A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry, 

They'll find where they're going much more than they carry. 

There's an ode for you, is it not ? — worthy 

"Of * * * *, the grand metaquizzical poet, 

A man of vast merit, though few people know it ; 
The perusal of whom (as I told you at Meslri) 
1 owe, in great part, to my passion for pastry. 

" Mesti, and Fusina are the ' trajects, or common 
ferries,' to Venice ; but it was from Fusina that you 
and I embarked, though ' the wicked necessity of 
rhyming ' has made me press Mestri into the 
voyage. 

"So, you have had a book dedicated to you ? I 
am glad of it, and shall be very happy to see the 
volume. 

" I am in a peck of troubles about a tragedy of 
mine, which is fit only for the (* * * * *) closet, 
and which it seems that the managers, assuming a 
right over published poetry, are determined to 
enact, whether I will or no. with their own altera- 
tions by Mr. Dibdin, I presume. I have written to 
Murray, to the Lord Chamberlain, and to others, to 
interfere and preserve me from such an exhibition. 
I want neither the impertinence of their hisses nor 
the insolence of their applause. I write only for the 
reader, and care for nothing but the silent approba- 
tion of those who close one's book with good humor 
and quiet contentment. 

" Now if you would also write to our friend Perry, 
to beg of him to mediate with Harris and Elliston 
to forbear this intent, you will greatly oblige me. 
The play is quite unfit for the stage, as a single 
glance will show them, and, I hope, has shown 
them ; and, if it were ever so fit, I will never have 
any thing to do willingly with the theatres. 

" Yours ever, in haste, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, January 27, 1821. 

" I differ frdm you about the Dante, which I think 
should be published with the tragedy. But do as 
you please : you must be the best judge of your 
own craft. I agree with you about the title. The 
play may be good or bad, but I flatter myself that 
it is original as a picture of that kind of passion, 
which to my mind is so natural, that I am con- 
vinced that I should have done precisely what the 
Doge did on those provocations. 

" I am glad of Foscolo's approbation. 

" Excuse haste. I believe I mentioned to j'ou 
that 1 forget what it was, but no matter. 

" Thanks for your compliments of the year. I 
hope that it will be pleasanter than the last. I 
speak with reference to England only, as far as 
regards myself, where I had every kind of disap- 
pointment — lost an important lawsuit — and the 
trustees of Lady Byron refusing to allow of an 
advantageous loan to be made from my property to 
Lord Blessington, &c, etc., by way of closing the 
four seasons. These, and a hundred other such 
things, made a year of bitter business for me in 
England. Luckily, things were a little pleasanter 
for me here, else I should have taken the liberty of 
Hannibal's ring. 



• Given in his Journal, page 1004. 



LETTERS. 



919 



" Pray thank Gifford for all his goodnesses. The 
winter is as cold here as Parry's polarities. I must 
now take a canter in the forest ; my horses are 
waiting. " Yours ever and truly." 



" LETTER CCCCLXXVII. 

• TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Febuary 2, 1821. 

" Your letter of excuses has arrived. I receive 
the letter, but do not admit the excuses, except in 
courtesy, as when a man treads on your toes and 
begs your pardon the pardon is granted, but the 
joint aches, especially if there be a corn upon it. 
However, I shall scold you presently. ' 

" In the last speech of the Doge," there occurs (I 
think from memory) the phrase — 

' And Thou who makest and unmakest snns : ' 

change this to — 

' And Thou who kindlest and who quenchest suns ; * 

that is to say, if the verse runs equally well, and 
Mr. Gifford thinks expression improved. Pray have 
the bounty to attend to this. You are grown quite 
a minister of state. Mind if some of these days 
you are not thrown out. * * will not be always a 
Tory, though Johnson says the first Whig was the 
devil. 

" You have learned one secret from Mr. Gali 
nani's (somewhat tardily acknowledged) corre- 
spondence : this is, that an English author may dis 
pose of his exclusive copyright in France, — a fact 
of some consequence (in time of peace) in the case 
of a popular writer. Now I will tell you what you 
shall do, and take no advantage of you, though you 
were scurvy enough never to acknowledge my letter 
for three months. Offer Galignani the refusal of 
the copyright in France; if he refuses, appoint any 
bookseller in France you please, and I will sign any 
assignment you please, and it shall never cost you 
a sou, on my account. 

" Recollect that I will have nothing to do with it, 
except as far as it may secure the copyright to your- 
self. I will have no bargain but with the English 
booksellers, and I desire no interest out of that 
country. 

" Now, that's fair and open, and a little hand- 
somer than your dodging silence, to see what 
would come of it. You are an excellent fellow, mio 
caro Moray, but there is still a little leaven of 
Fleet street about you now and then — a crum of 
the old loaf. You have no right to act suspiciously 
with me, for I have given you no reason. I shall 
always be frank with you ; as, for instance, when- 
ever you talk with the votaries of Apollo arith- 
metically, in guineas, not pounds — to poets, as well 
as physicians, and bidders at auctions. 

" I shall say no more at present, save that I am 

"Yours, &c. 

" P. S. If you venture, as you say, to Ravenna 
this year, I will exercise the rites of hospitality 
while you live, and bury you handsomely, (though 
not in holy ground,) if you get ' shot or slashed in 
a creagh or splore,' which are frequent here of late 
among the native parties. But perhaps your visit 
may be anticipated ; I may probably come to 
your country ; in which case write to her ladyship 
the duplicate of the epistle the king of France 
wrote to Prince John." 



LETTER CCCCLXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Feb. 16, 1821. 

" In the month of March will arrive from Bar- 
celona Signor Curioni, engaged for the opera. He 
is an acquaintance of mine, and a gentlemanly 
young man, high in his profession. I must request 
your personal kindness and patronage in his favor. 
Pray introduce him to such of the theatrical people, 
editors of papers, and others, as may be useful to 
him in his profession, publicly and privately. 

"The fifth is so far, from being the last of Don 
Juan, that it is hardly the beginning. I meant to 
take him the tour of Europe, with a proper mixture 
of siege, battle end adventure, and to make him 
finish as Anacnwsis Cloots, in the French Revolu- 
tion. To how many cantos this may extend, 1 
know not nor whether (even if I live) I shall com 
plete it ; but this was my notion. I meant to have 
made him a cavalier servente in Italy, and a cause 
for a divorce in England, and a sentimental 
' Wcrther-faced man' in Germany, so as to show the 
different ridicules of the society in each of those 
countries and to have displayed him gradually gate 1 
and bias* as he grew older, as is natural. But I had 
not quite fixed whether to make him end in hell, or 
in an unhappy marriage, not knowing which would 
be the severest ; the Spanish tradition says hell ; 
but it is probably only an allegory of the other state. 
You are now in possession of my notions on the 
subject. 

" You say the Doge will not be popular : did I ever 
write for popularity '■? I defy you to show a work of 
mine (except a tale or two) of a popular style or 
complexion. It appears to me that there is room 
for a different style of the drama; neither a ser- 
vile following of the old drama, which is a grossly 
erroneous one, nor yet too French, like those who 
succeeded the old writers. It appears to me that 
good English, and a severer approach to the rules, 
might combine something not dishonorable to our 
literature. I have also attempted to make a play 
without love, and there are neither rings, nor mis- 
takes, nor starts, nor outrageous ranting villains, 
nor melodrame in it. All this will prevent its pop- 
ularity, but does not persuade me that it is therefore 
faulty. Whatever faults it has will arise from de- 
ficiency in the conduct, rather than in the concep- 
tion, which is simple and severe. 

' So you epigrammatize upon my epigramf I will 
pay you for that, mind if I don't, some day. I never 
let any one off in the long run, (icho Jirst begins.) 
Remember * * *, and see if I don't do you as good 
a turn. You unnatural publisher ! what ! quiz your 
own authors ? you are a paper cannibal ! 

" In the letter on Bowles, (which I sent by Tues- 
day's post,) after the words ' attempts had been 
made' (alluding to the republication of ' English 
Bards,') add the words, 'in Ireland;' for I believe 
that English pirates did not begin their attempts 
till after I had left England the second time. Pray 
attend to this. Let me know what you and youi 
synod think on Bowles. 

" I did not think the second seal so bad ; surely 
it is far better than the Saracen's head with which 
you have sealed your last letter; the larger in 
profile*, was surely much better than that. 

" So Foscolo says he will get you a seal cut better 
in Italy ? he means a throat — that is the only thing 
they do dexterously. The Arts — all but Canova's, 
and Morghen's, and Ovid's (I don't mean poetry) — 
are as low as need be : look at the seal which I gave 
to William Bankes, and own it. How came George 
Bankes to quote ' English Bards' in the House of 
Commons ? All the world keep flinging that poem 
in my face. 

" Belzoni m a grand traveller, and his English ia 
very prettily broken. 

" As for news, the barbarians are marching on 



520 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Naples, and if they lose a single battle, all Italy 
will be up. It will be like the Spanish row, if they 
have any bottom. 

" ' Letters opened ?' — to be sure they are, and 
that's the reason why I always put in my opinion of 
the German Austrian scoundrels. There is not 
an Italian who loathes them more than I do ; and 
whatever I could do to scour Italy and the earth of 
their infamous oppression would be done con amove 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRA.Y. 

"Ravenna, Feb. 21, 1321.- 

"In the forty-fourth page, volume first, of 
Turner's Travels, (which you lately sent me,) it is 
stated that ' Lord Byron, when he expressed such 
confidence of its practicability, seems to have for- 
gotten that Leander swam both ways, with and 
against the tide ', whereas he (Lord Byron) only 
performed the easiest part of the task by swim- 
ming with it from Europe to Asia.' I certainly 
could not have forgotten, what is known to every 
schoolboy, that Leander crossed in the night, and 
returned towards the morning. My object was, to 
ascertain that the Hellespont could be crossed at alt 
by swimming, and in this Mr. Ekenhead and myself 
both succeeded, the one in an hour and ten minutes, 
and the other in an hour and five minutes. The 
tide was not in our favor; ok the contrary, the 
great difficulty was to bear up against the current, 
which, so far from helping us into the Asiatic side, 
set us dov/r right toward the Archipelago. Neither 
Mr. Eken'j:^*, myself, nor, I will venture to add, 
any person v.n board the frigate, from Captain 
Bathurst downwards, had any notion of a difference 
of the current on the Asiatic side, of which Mr. 
Turner speaks. I never heard of it till this mo- 
ment, or I would have taken the other course. 
Lieutenant Ekenhead's sole motive, and mine also 
for setting out from the European side was, that 
the little cape above Sestos was a more prominent 
starting-place, and the frigate, which lay below, 
close under the Asiatic castle, formed a better point 
of view for us to swim towards ; and, in fact, we 
landed immediately below it. 

"Mr. Turner says, 'Whatever is thrown into 
the stream on this part of the European bank, must 
arrive at the Asiatic shore.' This is so far from 
being the case, that it must arrive in the Archi- 
pelago, if left to the current, although a strong 
wind in the Asiatic direction might have such an 
effect occasionally. 

" Mr. Turner attempted the passage from the 
Asiatic side, and failed : ' After '^ve-and-twenty 
minutes, in which he did not advance a hundred 
yards, he gave it up from complete exhaustion.' 
This is very possible, and might have occurred to 
him just as readily on the European side. He 
should have set out a couple of miles higher, and 
could then have come out below the European 
castle. I particularly stated, and Mr. Hobhouse 
has done so also, that we were obliged to make the 
real passage of one mile extend t» between three 
and four, owing to the force of the stream. I can 
assure Mr. Turner, that his success would have 
given me great pleasure, as it would have added one 
more instance to the proofs of the probability. It 
is 'not quite fair in him to infer, that because he 
failed, Leander could not succeed. There are still 
four instances on record : a Neapolitan, a young 
Jew, Mr. Ekenhead, and myself; the last done in 
the presence of hundreds of English witnesses. 



See Don Juan, canto ii., stanza cv., &c 



" With regard to the difference of the 'current, 1 
perceived none ; it is favorable to the swimmer on 
neither side, but may be stemmed by plunging into 
the sea, a considerable way above the opposite 
point of the coast which the swimmer wishes to 
make, but still bearing up against it ; it is strong, 
but if you calculate well, you may reach land. 
My own experience and that of others bids me pro- 
nounce the passage of Leander perfectly practicable. 
Any young man, in good and tolerable skill in 
swimming, might succeed in it from either side. J 
was three hours in swimming across the Tagus, 
which is much more hazardous, being two hours 
longer than the Hellespont. Of what may be done 
in swimming, I will mention one more instance. In 
1818, the Chevalier Mengaldo, (a gentleman oi 
Bassano,) a good swimmer, wished to swim with my 
friend Mr. Alexander Scott and myself. As he 
seemed particularly anxious on the subject, we in- 
dulged him. We all three started from the island 
of the Lido and swam to Venice. At the entrance 
of the Grand Canal, Scott and I were a good way 
ahead, and we saw no more of our foreign •friend, 
which, however, was of no consequence, as there 
was a gondola to hold his cloches and pick him up. 
Scott swam on till past the Rialto, where he got 
out, less from fatigue than from chill, having been 
four hours in the water, without rest or stay, ex- 
cept what is to be obtained by floating on one's 
back — this being the condition of our performance. 
I continued my course on to Santa Chiara, com- 
prising the whole of the Grand Canal, (besides the 
distance from the Lido,) and got out where the 
Laguna once more opens to Fusina. I had been in 
the water, by my watch, without help or rest, and 
never touching ground or boat, four hours and 
t went 11 minutes. To this match, and during the 
greater part of its performance, Mr. Hoppner, the 
consul-general, was witness, and it is well known 
to many others. Mr. Turner can easily verify the 
fact, if lie thinks it worth while, by referring to Mr. 
Hoppner. The distance we could not accurately 
ascertain ; it was of course considerable. 

" I crossed the Hellespont in one hour and ten 
minutes only. I am now ten years older in time and 
twenty in constitution, than I was when I passed 
the Dardanelles, and yet two years ago I was capable 
of swimming four hours and twenty minutes ; and I 
am sure that I could have continued two hours 
longer, though I had on a pair of trowsers, an ac- 
coutrement, which by no means assists the per- 
formance. My two companions were also four hours 
in the water. Mengaldo might be about thirty 
years of age ; Scott about six-and-twenty. 

" With this experience in swimming, at different 
periods of life, not only upon the spot, but else- 
where, of various persons, what is there to make me 
doubt that Leander's exploit was perfectly practi- 
cable ? If three individuals did more than the 
passage of the Hellespont, why should he have 
less ? But Mr - . Turner failed, and naturally seek- 
ing a plausible reason for his failure, lays the 
blame on the Asiatic side of the strait. He tried 
to swim directly across, instead of going higher up 
to take the vantage ; he might as well have tried to 
jiy over Mount Athos. 

" That a young Greek of the heroic times, in 
love, and with his limbs in full vigor, might have 
succeeded in such an attempt is neither wonderful 
nor doubtful. Whether he attempted it or not is 
another question, because he might have had a 
small boat to save him the trouble. 

" I am yours very truly, 
" Byron, 

" P. S. Mr. Turner says that the swimming fron 
Europe to Asia was ' the easiest part of the task. 
I doubt whether Leander found it so, as it was the 
return ; however, he had several hours between the 
intervals. The argument of Mr. Turner ' that 
higher up, or lower down the strait widens so con- 
siderably that he could save little labor by hia 



LETTERS. 



921 



stalling,' only good for indifferent swimmers ; 
a man o' jny practice or skill will always consider 
the ilis j.ce less than the strength of the stream. 
If El /ahead and myself had thought of crossing 
at the narrowest point, instead of going up to the 
Cape above it, we should have been swept down to 
Tenedos. The strait, however, is not so extremely 
wide even where it broadens above and below the 
forts. As the frigate was stationed some time in 
the Dardanelles waiting for the firman, I bathed 
often in the straits subsequently to our traject, and 
generally on the Asiatic side, without perceiving 
the greater strength, of the opposite stream by 
which the diplomatic traveller palliates his -own 
failure. Our amusement in the small bay which 
opens immediately below the Asiatic fort was to 
dive for the land tortoises, which we flung in on 
purpose, as they amphibiously crawled along the 
bottom. This does not argue any greater violence 
of current than on the European shore. With re- 
gard to the modest insinuation that we chose the 
European side as ' easier,' I appeal to Mr. Hob- 
house and Captain Bathurst if it be true or no, 
(poor Ekenhead being since dead.) Had we been 
aware of any such difference of current as is as- 
serted, we would at least have proved it, and were 
not likely to have given it up in the twenty-five 
minutes of Mr. Turner's own experiment. The 
secret of all this is, that Mr. Turner failed, and 
that we succeeded ; and he is consequently disap- 
pointed, and seems not unwilling to overshadow 
whatever little merit there might be in our success. 
Why did he not try the European side ? If lie had 
succeeded there, after failing on the Asiatic, his 
plea would have been more graceful and gracious. 
Mr. Turner may find what fault he pleases with my 
poetry, or my politics ; but I recommend him to 
leave aquatic reflections till he is able to swim 
' five-and-twenty minutes' without being 'exhausted,' 
though I believe he is the first modern Tory who 
ever swam ' against the stream' for half the time." 



BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. 



LETTER CCCCLXXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, Feb. 22, 1321 

"As I wish the soul of the late Antoine Galignani 
to rest in peace, (you will have read his death pub- 
lished by himself, in his own newspaper), you are 
requested particularly to inform his children and 
heirs, that of their ' Literary Gazette,' to which I 
subscribed more than two months ago, I have only 
received one number, notwithstanding I have writ- 
ten to them repeatedly. If they have no regard for 
me, a subscriber, they ought to have some for their 
deceased parent, who is undoubtedly no better off 
in his present, residence for his total want of atten- 
tion. If not, let me have my francs. They were 
paid by Missiaglia, the JFenetian bookseller. You 
may also hint to them that when a gentleman writes 
a letter, it is usual to send an answer. If not, I 
shall make them ' a speech,' which will comprise an 
eulogy on the deceased. • 

" We are here full of war, and within two days of 
the seat of it, expecting intelligence momently. — 
We shall now see if our Italian friends are good for 
any thing but ' shooting round a corner,' like the 
Irishman's gun. Excuse haste, — I write with my 
spurs putting on. My horses are at the door, and 
an Italian Count waiting to accompany me in my 
ride. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. Pray, among my letters, did you get one 
detailing the death of the commandant here ? He 
was killed near my door, and died in my house. 
116 



To the air of ' How now, Madame Flirt; in the Beg 
gar's Opera. 

11 Bowlts. 
ci Vv hy, how now, saucy Tom, 
If you thus must ramble, 
I will publish some 
Ramarks on Mr. Campbell. 

" Campbell. 
" Why, how now, Billy Bowles, 
4c, &c. &c. 



LETTER CCCCLXXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" March 2, 1821. 

" This was the beginning of a letter which I 
meant for Perry, but stopped short hoping that you 
would be able to prevent the theatres. Of course 
you need not send it ; but it explains to you my 
feelings on the subject. You say that ' there is 
nothing to fear, let them do what they please,' that 
is to say, that you would see me damned with great 
tranquillity. You are a fine fellow." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXII. 

TO MR. PERRY. 

" Ravenna, Jan. 22, SS21. 

" Dear Sir, 

" I have received a strange piece of news, which 
cannot be more disagreeable to your public than it 
is to me. Letters and the gazettes do me the honor 
to say, that it is the intention of some of the London 
managers to bring forward on their stage the poem 
of ' Marino Faliero,' &c., which was never intended 
for such an exhibition, and I trust will never under- 
go it. It is certainly unfit for it. I have never written 
but for the solitary reader, and require no experi- 
ments for applause beyond his silent approbation. — 
Since such an attempt to drag me forth as a gladia- 
tor in the theatrical arena is a violation of all the 
courtesies of literature, I trust that the impartial 
part of the press will step between me and this pol- 
lution. I say pollution, because every violation of 
a right is such, and I claim my right as an author 
to prevent what I have written from being turned 
into a stage-play. I have too much respect for 
the public to permit this of my own free will. Had 
I sought their favor, it would have been by a pan- 
tomine. 

"I have said that I write only for the reader. — 
Beyond this I cannot consent to any publication, or 
to the abuse of any publication of mine to the pur- 
poses of histrionism. The applauses of an audi- 
ence Would give me no pleasure ; their disapproba- 
tion might, however, give me pain. The wager is 
therefore not equal. You may, perhaps, say, ' How 
can this be ? if their disapprobation gives pain, 
their praise might afford pleasure ? ' By no means : 
the kick of an ass or the sting of a wasp may be 
painful to those who would find nothing agree- 
able in the braying of the one or the buzzing of the 
other. 

" This may not seem a courteous comparison, bu* 
I have no other ready ; and it occurs naturally 



922 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCCLXXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Marco, 1821. 

" Dear Moray, 

"In my packet of the 12th instant, in the last 
sheet, ( not the half* sheet,) last page, omit the 
sentence which (defining, or attempting to define, 
what and who are gentlemen) begins 'I should say 
at least in life that most military men have it, and 
few naval ; that several men of rank have it, and 
few lawyers,' &c., &c I say, omit the whole of that 
sentence, because, like the ' cosmogony, or creation 
of the world,' in the ' Vicar of Wakefield,' it is not 
much to the purpose. 

" In the sentence above, too, -almost at the top of 
the same page, after the words ' that there ever was, 
or can be, an aristocracy of poets,' add and insert 
these words — ' I do not mean that they should write 
in the style of the song by a person of quality, or 
parte euphuism ; but there is a nobility of thought 
and expression to be found no less in Shakspeare, 
Pope, and Burns, than in Dante, Alfieri,' &c, &c, 
and so on. Or, if you please, perhaps you had bet- 
ter omit the whole of the latter digression on the 
vulgar poets, and insert only as far as the end of 
the sentence on Pope's Homer, where 1 prefer it to 
Cowper's and quote Dr. Clarke in favor of its accu- 
racy. 

" Upon all these points, take an opinion; take 
the sense (or nonsense) of your learned visitants, 
and act thereby. I am very tractable — in prose. 

" Whether I have made out the case for Pope, I 
know not ; but I am very sure that I have been 
zealous in the attempt. If it comes to the proofs, 
we shall beat the blackguards. I will show more 
imagery in twenty lines of Pope than in any equal 
length of quotation in English poesy, and that in 
places where they least expect it. For instance, in 
his lines on Sporus, — now, do just read them over — 
the subject is of no consequence (whether it be sa- 
tire or epic) — we are talking of poetry and imagery 
from nature and art. Now mark the images sepa- 
rately and arithmetically : — 

"1. The thing of silk. 

2. Curd of ass's milk. 

3. The butterfly. 

4. The wheel. 

5. Bug with gilded wings. 

6. Painted child of dirt. 

7. Whose buzz. 

8. Well-bred spaniels. 

9. Shallow streams run dimpling. 

10. Florid impotence. 

11. Prompter. Puppet squeaks. 

12. The ear of Ere. 

13. Familiar toad. 

14. Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad. 

15. Fop at the toilet. 

16. Flatterer at the board. 

17. Amphibious thing. 

18. Now trips a lady. 

19. Now struts a lord. 
29. A cherub's face. 

21. A reptile all the rest. 

22. The Rabbins. 

23. Pride that licks the dust — 

' Beauty thai shocks you, parts that none will trust, 
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks Vie duel.' 

" Now, is there a line of all the passage without 
the most forcible imagery, (for his purpose ?) Look 
at the variety — at the poetry of the passage — at the 
imagination : there is hardly a line from which a 
painting might not be made, and is. But this is 
nothing in comparison with his higher passages in 
the Essay on Man, and many of his other poems, 
serious and comic. There never was such an unjust 



Second letter in 



outcry in this world as that which these fellows are 
trying against Pope. 

"Ask Mr. Gifford if, in the fifth act of 'the 
Doge,' you could not contrive (where the sentence 
of the Veil is passed) to insert the following lines in 
Marino Faliero's answer ? 

" Bat let it he so. It will be in vain : 

The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
Khali draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
Which glitter round it in their painted trappings, 
Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants.* 

"Yours truly, &c. 

"P. S. Upon public matters here I say little; 
you will all hear soon enough of a general row 
throughout Italy. There never was a more foolish 
step than the expedition to Naples by these fellows. 

" I wish to propose to Holmes, the miniature 
painter, to come out to me this spring. I will pay 
his expenses, and any sum in reason. I wish him 
to take my daughter's picture, (who is in a con- 
vent), and the Countess G.'s, and the head of a 
peasant girl, which latter would make a study for 
Raphael. It is a complete peasant face, but an 
Italian peasant's and quite in the Raphael Forna- 
rina style. Her figure is tall, but rather large, and 
not at all comparable with her face, which is really 
superb. She is not seventeen, and I am anxious to 
have her face while it lasts. Madame G. is also 
very handsome, but 'tis quite in a different style — 
completely blonde and fair — very uncommon in 
Italy ; yet not an English fairness, but more likely 
a Swede or a Norwegian. Her figure, too, particu- 
larly the bust, is uncommonly good. It must be 
Holmes: I like him because he takes such invete- 
rate likenesses. There is a war here ; but a solitary 
traveller, with but little baggage, and nothing to do 
with politics, has nothing to fear. Pack him up in 
the diligence. Don't forget." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXIV. • 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"Ravenna, April 3, 1321. 

"Thanks for the translation. I have sent y<r» 
some books, which I do not know whether you 
have read or no — you need not return them, \v 
any case.' I enclose you also a letter from Pisa, I- 
have neither spared trouble nor expense in the care 
of the child ; and as she was now four years old 
complete, and quite above the control of -the ser- 
vants — and as a man living without any woman at 
the head of his house cannot much attend to a 
nursery — I had no resource but to place her for a 
time (at a high pension too) in the convent of Bagna- 
Cavalli, (twelve miles off,) where the air is good, 
and where she will, at least, have her learning ad- 
vanced, and her morals and religion inculcated. I 
had also another reason ; — things were and are in 
such a state here, that I had no reason to look upon 
my own personal safety as particularly ensurable ; 
and I thought the infant best out of harm's way for 
the present. N 

" It is also fit that I should add that I by no 
means intended, or intend, to give a natural child 
an English education, because with the disadvan- 
tages of her birth, her after-settlement would be 
doubly difficult. Abroad, with a fair foreign educa- 
tion and a portion of five or six thousand pcunds, 
she might and may marry very respectably. In 
England such a dowry would be a pittance, while 
elsewhere it is a fortune. It is, besides, my wish 
that she should be a Roman Catholic, which I look 
upon as the best religion, as it is assuredly the old- 



These lineg were never inserted in the tragedy. 



LETTERS. 



923 



est of the various branches of Christianity. I have 
now explained my notions as to the place where she 
now is — it is the best I could find for the present ; 
hut I have no prejudices in its favor. 

"I do not speak of politics, because it seems a 
hopeless subject, as long as those scoundrels are 
to be permitted to bully states out of then: inde- 
pendence. Believe me 

" Yours ever and truly. 

" P. S. There is a report here of a change in 
Fiance ; but»with what truth is not yet known. 

" P. S. My respects to Mrs. H. I have the ' best 
opinion ' of her countrywomen ; and at my time of 
life, (three-and-thirty, 22d January, 1821,) that is 
to say, after the life I have led, a good opinion is 
the only rational one which a man should entertain 
of the whole sex : — up to thirty, the worst possible 
opinio* a man can have of them in general, the 
better for himself. Afterward, it is a matter of 
no importance to them-, nor to him either, what 
opinion he entertains — his day is over, or, at least 
should be. 

" You see how sober I am become. 



LETTER CCCCLXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. , 

"Ravenna, April 21, 1S21. 

" I enclose you another letter on Bowles. But I 
premise that it is not like the former, and that I am 
not at all sure how much, if any, of it should be pub- 
lished. Upon this point you can consult with Mr. 
Gifford, and think twice before you publish it at all. 
" Yours truly, 
"B. 

" P. S. You may make my subscription for Mr. 
Scott's widow, &c., thirty instead of the proposed 
ten poxmds : but do not put down my name; put 
down N. N. only. The reason is, that, as I have 
mentioned him in the enclosed pamphlet, it would 
look indelicate. I would give more, but my disap- 
pointments last year about Rochdale and the trans- 
fer from the funds render me more economical for 
the present." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVI. 

TO MR. SHELLEY. 

" Ravenna, April 26, 1821. 

" The child continues doing well, and the accounts 
are regular and favorable. It is gratifying to me 
that you and Mrs. Shelley do not disapprove of the 
step which I have taken, which is merely tempo- 
rary. 

" I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats — 
is it actually true ? I did not think criticism had 
been so killing. Though I differ from you essenti- 
ally in your estimate of his performances, I so much 
abhor all unnecessary pain, that I would rather he 
had been seated on the highest peak of Parnassus 
than have perished in such a manner. Poor fellow! 
though with such inordinate self-love he would pro- 
bably have not been very happy. I read the review 
of ' Endymion ' in. the Quarterly. It was severe, — 
but surely not so severe as my reviews in that and 
• other journals upon others. 

" I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on 
my first poem ; it was rage, and resistance, and 
redress — but not despondency nor despair. I grant 
that those are not amiable feelings ; but, in this 
world of bustle and broil, and especially in the ca- 
reer of writing, a man should calculate upon his 
powers of resistance before he goes into the arena. 



1 Expect not life: from pain nor danger free, 
Nur deem the doom of man reversed for thee.* 



" You know my opinion of that second-hand school 
of poetry. You also know my high opinion of your 
own poetry, — because it is of no school. I read 
Cenci — but, besides that I think the subject essen- 
tially ?mdramatic, I am not an admirer of our old 
dramatists, «.s models. I deny that the English 
have hitherto had a drama at all. Your Cenci, 
however, was a work of power and poetry. ' As to 
my drama, pray revenge yourself upon it", by being 
as free as I have been with yours. 

" I have not yet got your Prometheus, which I 
long to see. I have heard nothing of mine, and do 
not know that it is yet published. I have published 
a pamphlet on the Pope controversy, which you will 
not like. Had I known that Keats was dead — or 
that h#was alive and so sensitive — I should have 
omitted some remarks upon his poetry, to which I 
was provoked by his attack upon Pope, and my dis- 
approbation of his own style of writing. 

" You want me to undertake a great poem, — 1 
have not the inclination nor the power. As I grow 
older, the indifference — not to life, for we love it by 
instinct — but to the stimuli of life, increases. Be- 
sides, this late failure of the Italians has latterly 
disappointed me for many reasons, — some public, 
some personal. My respects to Mrs. S. 

" Yours ever. 

"P. S. Could not you and I contrive to meet 
this summer ? Could not you take a run here 
alone f " 



LETTER CCCCLXXXV11. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, April 26, 1821. 

" I sent you by last postis a large packet, which 
will not do for publication, (I suspect,) being, as 
the apprentices say, 'damned low.' I put off also 
for a week or two sending the Italian scrawl which 
will form a note to it. The reason is, that letters 
being opened, I wish to ' bide a wee.' 

" Well, have you published the tragedy ? and does 
the letter take ? 

"Is it true what Shelley writes me, that poor 
John Keats died at Rome of' the Quarterly Review ? 
I am very sorry for it, though I think he took the 
wrong line as a poet, and was spoiled by Cockney- 
fying, and suburbing, and versifying Tooke's Pan- 
theon and Lempriere's Dictionary. I know, by 
experience, that a savage review is hemlock to a 
sucking author; and the one on me (which pro- 
duced "the English Bards, &c.) knocked me down — 
but I got up again. Instead of bursting a blood- 
vessel, I drank three bottles of claret, and begun an 
answer, finding that there was nothing in the article 
for which I could lawfully knock Jeffrey on the 
head, in an honorable way. However, I would not 
be the person who wrote the homicidal article for 
all the honor and glory in the world, though I by 
no means approve of that school of scribbling which 
it treats upon. 

"You see the Italians have made a sad business 
of it — all owing to treachery and disunion among 
themselves. It has given me grea,t vexation. The 
execrations heaped upon the Neapolitans by the 
other Italians are quite in unison with those of the 
rest of Europe. " Yours, &c. 

"P. S. Your latest packet of books is on its 
way here, but not arrived. Kenilworth excellent. 
Thanks for the pocket-books, of which I have made 
presents to those ladies who like cuts, and land- 
scapes, and all that. I have got an Italian book 01 
two which I should like to send you if I had an op, 
portunity. 



924 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



' I am not at present in the very highest health, 
— spring, probably ; so I have lowered my diet and 
taken to Epsom salts. 

" As you say my prose is good, why don't yon 
treat with Moore for the reversion of the Memoirs ? 
—conditionally, recollect ; not to be published before 
decease. He lias the permission to dispose of them, 
and I advised him to do so." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, April 28, 1821. 

" You cannot have been more disappointeTl than 
myself, nor so much deceived. I have been so at 
some personal risk also, which is not yet done away 
with. However, no time nor circumstances shall 
alter my tone nor my feelings of indignation against 
tyranny triumphant. The present business has 
been as much a work of treachery as of cowardice, 
— though both may have done their part. If ever 
you and I meet again, I will have a talk with you 
upon the subject. At-present, for obvious reasons, 
I can write but little, as all letters are opened. In 
mine they shall always find my sentiments, but 
nothing that can lead to the oppression of others. 

" You will please to recollect that the Neapolitans 
are nowhere now more execrated than in Italy, and 
not blame a whole people for the vices of a province. 
That would be like condemning Great Britain be- 
cause they plunder wrecks in Cornwall. 

" And now let us be literary; — a sad falling off, 
but it is always a consolation. If ' Othello's occu- 
pation ' be gone, let us take to thefcext best; and, 
if we cannot contribute to make mankind more free 
and wise, we may amuse ourselves and those who 
like it. What are you writing ? I have been scrib- 
bling at intervals, and Murray will be publishing 
about now. , 

" Lady Noel has, as you say, been dangerously 
ill ; but it may console you to learn that she is dan- 
gerously well again. 

"I have written a sheet or two more of Memo- 
randa for you; and I kept a little journal for about 
a month or two, till I had filled the paper-book. I 
then left it off, as things grew busy, and, afterward, 
too gloomy to set down without a painful feeling. 
This I should be glad to send you, if I had an op- 
portunity ; but a volume, however small, don't go 
well by such posts as exist in this inquisition of a 
country. 

" I have no news. As a very pretty woman said 
to me a few nights ago, with the tears in her eyes, 
as she sat at the harpsichord, ' Alas ! the Italians 
must now return to making operas.' I fear that 
and macaroni are their forte, and ' motley their 
only wear.' However, there are some high spirits 
among them still. Pray write, 

" And believe me, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, May 3, 1821. 

" Though I wrote to you on the 28th ultimo, I 
must acknowledge yours of this day, with the 
lines.* They are sublime, as well as beautiful, 
and in your very best mood and manner. They are 
also but too true. However, do not confound the 
scoundrels at the heel of the boot with then betters 



' Ay, down to the dust with them, sla 



; they are," &c, &c. 



at the top of it. I assure you that there are some 
loftier spirits. 

" Nothing, however, can better than your poem, 
or more deserved by the lazzaroni. They are now 
abhorred and disclaimed nowhere more than here. 
We will talk over these things (if Ave meet) some 
day, and I will recount my own adventures, some of 
which have been a little hazardous, perhaps. 

" So you have got the letter on Bowles ? I do 
not recollect to have said any thing of you that 
could offend, — certainly, nothing intentionally. As 
for * *, I meant him a compliment. I wrote the 
whole off-hand, without copy or correction, and ex- 
pecting then every day to be called irito the field. 
What have I said of you ? I am sure I forget. It 
must be something of regret for your approbation 
of Bowles. And did you not approve, as he says ? 
Would I had known that, before ! I w-oulcL have 
given him some more gruel. My intention was to 
make fun of all these fellows,; but how I succeeded, 
I don't know. 

" As to Pope, I have always regarded him as the 
greatest name in our poetry. Depend upon it, the 
rest are barbarians. He is a Greek Temple, with 
a Gothic Cathedral on one hand, and a Turkish 
Mosque and all sorts of fantastic pagodas and con- 
venticles about him. You may call Shakspeare 
and Milton pyramids, if you please, but I prefer the 
Temple of Theseus or the Parthenon to a mountain 
of burnt brick-work. 

" The Murray has written to me but once, the clay 
of its publication, when it seemed prosperous. But 
I have heard of late from England but rarely. Of 
Murray's other publications (of mine) I know 
nothing, — nor whether he has published. He was 
to have done so a month ago. I wish you would do 
something, or that we were together. 

" Ever yours and affectionately, 



LETTER CCCCXC. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, May 10, 1821. 

"I have just got your packet. I am obliged to 
Mr. Bowles, and Mr. Bowles is obliged to me, for 
having restored him to good humor. He is to write, 
and you to publish, what you please, — motto and 
subject. I desire nothing but fair play for all par 
ties. Of course, after the new tone of Mr. Bowles 
you will not publish my defence of Gilchrist : il 
would be brutal to do so after his urbanity, for it is. ' 
rather too rough, like his own attack upon Gilchrist. 
You may tell him what I say there of his Missiona- 
ry, (it is praised, as it deserves.) However, and if 
there are any passages not personal to Bowles, and 
yet bearing upon the question, you may add them 
to the reprint (if it is reprinted) of my first letter 
to you. Upon this consult Gifford ; and, above all, 
don't let any thing_ be added which can personally 
affect Mr. Bowles. 

" In the enclosed notes, of course, what I say of 
the democracy of poetry cannot apply to Mr. Bowles, I 
but to the Cockney and water washing-tub schools. 

" I hope and trust that Elliston won't be permit- 
ted to act the drama ! Surely he might have the 
grace to wait for Kean's return before he attempted 
it ; though, even then, I should bfc as much against 
the attempt as ever. 

' I have got a small packet of books, but neither 
Waldegrave, Oxford, nor Scott's novel's among 
them. Why don't you republish Hodgson's Childa 
Harold's Monitor and Latino-mastix ? they are ex- 
cellent. Think of this, — they are all for Pope. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTERS. 



025 



LETTER CCCCXCI. 



TO MR. HOPPXER. 



"Ravenna, May 11, 1821. 

" If I had but known your notion about Switzer- 
land before, I should have adopted it at once. As 
it is, I shall let the child remain in her convent, 
where she seems healthy and happy, for the present; 
but I shall feel much obliged if you will inquire, 
when you are in the cantons, about the usual and 
better modes of education there for females, and let 
me know the result of your opinions. It is some 
consolation that both Mr. and Mrs. Shelley have 
written to approve entirely my placing the child 
with the nuns for the present. I can refer to my 
whole conduct, as having neither spared care, kind- 
ness, nor expense, since the child was sent to me. 
The people may say what they please, I must con 
tent myself with not deserving (in this instance) 
'that they should speak ill. 

" The place is a country town, in a good air, 
where there is a large establishment for education, 
and many children, some of considerable rank, 
placed in it. As a country town, it is less liable 
to objections of every kind. It has always appeared 
to me, that the moral defect in Italy does not pro- 
ceed from a conventual education, — because, to my 
certain knowledge, they came out of their convents 
innocent even to ignorance of moral evil, — but to 
the state of society into which they are directly 
plunged on coming out of it. It is like educating 
an infant on a mountain-top, and then taking him 
to the sea and throwing him into it and desiring 
him to swim. The evil, however, though still too 
general, is partly wearing away, as the women are 
more permitted to marry from attachment; this is, 
I believe, the case also in France. And, after all, 
what is the higher society of England ? According 
to my own experience, and to all that I have seen 
and heard, (and I have lived there in the very high- 
est and what is called the best,) no way of life can 
be more corrupt. In Italy, however, it is, or rather 
was, more systematized, but now, they themselves 
are ashamed of regular serventism. In England, 
the only homage which they pay to virtue is hypoc- 
risy. I speak of course, of the tone of high life, — 
the middle ranks may be very virtuous. 

" I have not got any copy (nor have yet had) of 
the letter on Bowles ; of course I should be delight- 
ed to send it to you. How is Mrs. H. ? well again, 
I hope. Let me know when you set out. I regret 
that I cannot meet you in the Bernese Alps this 
summer, as I once hoped and intended. With my 
best respects to madam, " I am ever, &c. 

" P. S. I gave to a musicianer a letter for you 
sometime ago ; has he presented himself? Perhaps 
you could introduce him to the Ingrams and other 
dilettanti. He is simple and unassuming — two 
strange things in his profession — and he fiddles 
like Orpheus himself or Amphion ; 'tis a pity that 
he can't make Venice dance away from the brutal 
tyrant who tramples upon it." 



' LETTER CCCCXCII. 

"TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Mar 14, 1821. 

"A Milan paper states that the play has been 
represented and universally condemned. As re- 
monstrance has been vain, complaint would be use- 
less. I presume, however for your own sake, (if 
not for mine,) that you and my other friends will 
have at least published my different protests against 
its being brought upon the stage at all ; and have 
shown that Elliston (in spite of the writer) forced 
it upon the theatre. It would be nonsense to say 
that this has not vexed me a good deal, but I am 



not dejected, and I shall not take the usual resource 
of blaming the public, (which was in the right,) or 
my friends for not preventing — what they could not 
help, nor I neither — a forced representation by a 
speculating manager, ft is a pity, that you did 'not 
show them its unfitness for the stage before the play 
was published, and exact a promise from the mana- 
gers not to act it. In case of their refusal, we would 
not have published it at all. But this is too late. 

" Yours. 

"P. S. I enclose Mr. Bowles's letters; thank 
him in my name for their candor and kindness. — 
Also a letter for Hodgson, which pray forward. The 
Milan paper states that I 'broutdd forward the 
play!!!' This is pleasanter still. But don't let 
yourself be worried about it ; and if (as is likely) 
the folly of Elliston checks the sale, I am ready to 
make anv deduction, or the entire cancel of your 
agreement. 

" You will of course not publish my defence of 
Gilchrist, as after Bowles's good humor upon the 
subject, it would be too savage. 

"Let me hear from you the particulars; for, as 
yet, I have only the simple fact. 

" If you knew what I have had to go through 
here, on account of the failure of these rascally 
Neapolitans, you would be amused: but it is now 
apparently over. They seemed disposed to throw 
the whole project and plans of these parts upon me 
chiefly." 



LETTER CCCCXCIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" May 14, 1821. 

"If any part of the letter to Bowles has (unin- 
tentionally, as far as I remember the contents) 
vexed you, you are fully avenged ; for I see by an 
Italian paper, that, notwithstanding all my remon- 
strances through all my friends, (and yourself 
among the rest,) the managers persisted in attempt- 
ing the tragedy, and that it has been ' unanimously 
hissed ! ! ' This is the consolatory phrase of the 
Milan paper, (which detests me cordially, and 
abuses me, on all occasions, as a Liberal,) with the 
addition, that I ' brought the play out ' of my own 
good-will. 

" All this is vexatious enough, and seems a sort 
of dramatic Calvinism — predestined damnation, 
without a sinner's own fault. I took all the pains 
poor mortal could to prevent this inevitable catas- 
trophe — partly by appeals of all kinds up to the 
Lord Chamberlain, and partly to the fellows them- 
selves. But, as remonstrance was vain, complaint 
is useless. I do not understand it — for Murray's 
letter of the 21th, and all his preceding ones, gave 
me the strongest hopes that there would be no re- 
presentation. As yet, I know nothing but the fact, 
which I presume to be true, as the date is Paris, and 
the 30th. They must have been in a hell of a hurry 
for this damnation, since I did not even know that 
it was published ; and, without its being first pub- 
lished, the histrions could not have got hold of it. 
Any one might have seen, at a glance, that it was 
utterly impracticable for the stage; and this little 
accident will by no means enhance its merit in the 
closet. 

" Well, patience is a virtue, and, I suppose, prac- 
tice will make it perfect. Since last year, (spring, 
that is,) I have lost a lawsuit, of great importance, 
on Rochdale collieries — have occasioned a divorce — 
have had my poesy disparaged by Murray and the 
critics — my fortune refused to be placed on an ad- 
vantageous settlement (in Ireland) by the trustees 
— my life threatened last month — (they put about a 
paper here to excite an attempt at my assassination, 
on account of politics, and a notion which the priests 
disseminated that I was in a league against the Ger- 



926 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



mans) — and, finally, my mother-in-law recovered 
last fortnight, and my play was damned last week !* 
These are like ' the eight-and-twenty misfortunes of 
Harlequin.' But they must be borne. If I give in, 
it shall be after keeping up a spirit at least. I should 
not have cared so much about it, if our southern 
neighbors had not bungled us all out of freedom for 
these five hundred years to come. 

" Did you know John Keats ? They say that he 
was killed by a review of him in the Quarterly — if 
he be dead, which I really don't know.f I don't 
understand that yielding sensitiveness. What I 
feel (as at this present) is an immense rage for 
eight-and-fortt hours, and then, as usual — unless 
this time it shmild last longer. I must get on horse- 
back to quiet me. " Yours, &c. 

" Francis I. wrote, after the battle of Pavia, ' All 
is lost except our honor.' A hissed author may re- 
verse it — • Nothing is lost except our honor.' But 
the horses are waiting, and the paper full. I wrote 
last week to vou." 



LETTER CCCCXCIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



' Kavenna, May 19, 1821. 

" By the papers of Thursday, and two letters 
of Mr. Kinnaird, I perceive that the Italian Gazette 
had lied most Italieally, and that the drama had not 
been hissed, and that my friends had interfered to 
prevent the representation. So it seems they con- 
tinue to act it in spite of us all : for this we must 
' trouble them at 'size.' Let it by all means be 
brought to a plea : I am determined to try the right, 
and will meet the expenses. The reason of the 
Lombard lie was that the Austrians — who keep up 
an Inquisition throughout Italy, and a list of name's 
of all who think or speak of any thing but in favor 
of their despotism — have for five years past abused 
me in every form in the Gazette of Milan, &c. I 
wrote to you a week ago on the subject. 

" Now, I should be glad to know what compensa- 
tion Mr. Elliston would make me, not only for drag- 
ging my writings on the stage in fire days, but for 
being the cause that I was kept for foitr days (from 
Sunday to Thursday morning, the only post days) 
in the belief that the tragedy had been acted and 
' unanimously hissed ; ' and this with the addition 
that / ' had brought it upon the stage,' and conse- 
quently that none of my friends had attended to my 
request to the contrary. Suppose that I had burst 
a blood-vessel, like John Keats, or blown my brains 
out in a fit of rage, — neither of which would have 
been unlikely a few years ago. At present I am, 
luckily, calmer than I used to be, and yet I would 
not pass those four days over again for — I know not 
what. 

" I wrote to you to keep up your spirits, for re- 
proach is useless always, and irritating — but my 
feelings were very much hurt, to be dragged like a 
gladiator to the fate of a gladiator by that ' retia- 
rius,' Mr. Elliston. As to his defence and offers of 
compensation, what is all this to the purpose ? It 
is like Louis the XIV. who insisted upon buying 
at any price Algernon Sydney's horse, and, on his 
refusal, on taking it by force, Sydney shot his 
horse. I could not shoot my tragedy, but I would 
have flung it into the fire rather than have had it 
represented. 

" I have now written nearly three acts of another, 
intending to complete it in five,) and am more anx- 
ious than ever to be preserved from such a breach 
of all literary courtesy and gentlemanly considera- 
tion. 

" If we succeed, well; if not, previous to any fu- 



ture publication we will request a.p?vmise not to be 
acted, which I would even pay for, (as money is 
their object,) or I will not publish — which, however, 
you will probably not much regret. 

" The Chancellor has behaved nobly. You have 
also conducted yourself in the mos't satisfactory 
manner-; and I have no fault to find with any body 
but the stage-players, and their proprietors. I was 
always so civil to Elliston, personally, that he ought 
to have been the last to attempt to injure me. 

" There is a most rattling thunder-storm pelting 
away at this present writing ; so that I write neither 
by day, nor by candle, nor torch light, but by light- 
ning light : the flashes are as brilliant as the most 
gaseous glow of the gas-light company. My chim- 
ney board has just been thrown down by a gust of 
wind : I thought it was the ' Bold Thunder ' and 
'Brisk Lightning' in person. — Three of us would 
be too many. There it goes—; flash again ! but 

' I tax not you, ye elementd|fcvitli unkindness j 
1 never gave ye franks, nor calVd upon you : * 

as I have done by and upon Mr. Elliston. 

" Why do you not write? You should at least 
send me a line of particulars : I know nothing yet 
but by Galignani and the Honorable Douglas. 

" Well, and how does our Pope controversy go 
on ? and the pamphlet ? It is impossible to write 
any news : the Austrian scoundrels rummage all let- 
ters. 

"P. S. I could have sent you a good deal of gossip 
and some real information, were it not that all let- 
ters pass through the barbarians' inspection, and I 
have no wish to inform them of any thing but my 
utter abhorrence of them and theirs. They have 
only conquered by treachery, however." 



LETTER CCCCXCY. 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

" You will see here confirmation of what I told 
you the other day ! I am sacrificed in every way, 
without knowing the xehy or the wherefore. The 
tragedy in question is not (nor ever was) written 
for, or adapted to, the stage ; nevertheless, the plan 
is not romantic; it is rather regular than other- 
wise; — in point of unity of time, indeed, perfectly 
regular, and failing but slightly in unity of place. — 
You well know whether it was ever my intention to 
have it acted, since it was written at your side, and at 
a period assuredly rather more tragical to me as a 
man than as an author ; for you were in affliction and 
peril. In the mean time, I learn from your Gazette 
that a cabal and party has been formed, while I my- 
self have never taken the slightest step in the busi- 
ness. It is said that the author read it aloud ! ! !— 
here, probably, at Ravenna ? — and to whom ? per- 
haps to Fletcher ! ! ! — that illustrious literary char- 
acter, &., &c. 



LETTER CCCCXCV1. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



* See Letter ccccxcix. 

t See Don Juan, canto xL, stanza aexx. 



"Ravenna, May 20, 1821. 

" Since I wrote to you last week I have received 
English letters and papers, by which I perceive that 
what I took for an Italian truth is, after all, a French 
lie of the Gazette de France. It contains two ultra- 
falsehoods in as many lines. In the first place, 
Lord B. did not bring forward his play, but opposed 
the same ; and, secondly, it was not condemned, but 
is continued to be acted, in despite of publisher, 
author, Lord Chancellor, aud (for aught I know to 
the contrary) of audience, up to the first of May, at 
least — the latest date of my letters. 



LETTERS. 



927 



" You will oblige me, then, by causing Mr. Ga 
zette of France to contradict himself, which, I sup' 
pose, he is used to. I never answer a foreign criti- 
cism ; but this is a mere matter of fact, and not of 
opinions. I presume that you have English and 
French interest enough to do this for me — though, 
to Wsure, as it is nothing and the truth which we 
wish to state, the insertion may be more difficult. 

" As I have written to you often lately at some 
length, I won't bore you farther now, than by beg- 
ging you to comply with my request ; and I presume 
the ' esprit du corps,' (is it ' du ' or ' de ? ' for this is 
more than I know) will sufficiently urge you, as one 
of ' ours,' to set this affair in its real aspect. Be- 
lieve me always yours ever and most affectionately, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCCCXCVIL 



TO MR. HOPPNEE. 



•• Ravenna, May 25, 1821. 

" 1 am very much pleased with what you say of 
Switzerland, and will ponder upon it. I would 
rather she married there than here for that matter. 
For fortune, I shall make it all that I can spare, (if 
I live and she is correct in her conduct,) and if I die 
before she is settled, I have left her by will five 
thousand pounds, which is a fair provision out of 
England for a natural child. I shall increase 
it all I can, if circumstances permit me ; but, of 
course (like all other human things) this is very un- 
certian. 

" You will oblige me very much by interfering to 
have the facts of the play-acting stated, as these 
scoundrels appear to be organizing a system of abuse 
against me because I am in their ' list.' I care noth- 
ing for their criticism, but the matter of fact. I have 
written four acts of another tragedy, so you see 
they can't bully me. 

" You know, I suppose, that they actually keep a 
list of all individuals in Italy who dislike them — it 
must be numerous. Their suspicions and actual 
alarms, about my conduct and presumed intentions 
in the late row, were truly ludicrous — though, not 
to bore you, I touched upon them lightly. They 
believed, and still believe here, or affect to believe 
it, that the whole plan and project of rising was 
settled by me, and the means furnished, &c, &c. 
All this was more fomented by the barbarian agents, 
who are numerous here, (one of them was stabbed 
yesterday, by-the-way, but not dangerously :) — and 
although, when the Commandant was shot here be- 
fore my door in December, I took him into my house, 
where he had every assistance till he died on Fletch- 
er's bed ; and although not one of them dared to 
receive him into their houses but myself, they leav- 
ing him to perish in the night in the streets, they 
put up a paper about three months ago, denouncing 
me as the Chief of the Liberals, and stirring up per- 
sons to assassinate me. But this shall never si- 
lence nor bully my opinions. All this came from the 
German barbarians." 



LETTER CCCCXCVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Mar 25, 1821. 

" Mr. Moray, 

" Since I wrote the enclosed a week ago, and for 
some weeks before, I have not had a line from you : 
now, I should be glad to know upon what principle 
of common or wwcommon feeling, you leave me 
without any information but what I derive from gar- 
bled gazettes in English, and abusive ones in Ital- 
ian, (the Germans hating me, as a coal-heaver,) 



while all this kick-up has been going on about the 
play ? You shabby fellow ! ! ! Were it not for twe 
letters from Douglas Kinnaird, I should have beec 
as ignorant as you are negligent. 

" So, 1 hear Bowles has been abusing Hobhouse ? 
if that's the case, he has broken the truce, like 
Morillo's successor, and I will cut him out, as 
Cochrane did the Esmeralda. 

" Since I wrote the enclosed packet I have com- 
pleted (but not copied out) four acts of a new 
tragedy. When I have finished the fifth I will 
copy it out. It is on the subject of ' Surdanapalus,' 
the last king of the Assyrians. The words Queen 
and Pavilion occur, but it is not an allusion to his 
Britannic Majesty, as you may tremulously imagine. 
This you will one day se'j, (if I finish it,)' as I have 
made Sardanapalus brave, (though voluptuous, as 
history represents him,) and also as amiable as my 
poor powers could reader him: — so that it could 
neither be truth nor satire on any living monarch. 
I have strictly preserved all the unities hitherto, 
and mean to continue them in the fifth, if possible ; 
but not for the stag-:. Yours, in haste and hatred, 
you shabby corres; /indent ! " N." 



LETTER CCCCXCIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Mar 28, 1821. 

" Since my last of the 26th or 2oth, I have dashed 
off my fifth act of the tragedy called ' Sardanap- 
alus.' But now comes the copying over, which 
may prove heavy work — heavy to the writer as to 
the reader. I have written to you at least six times 
sans answer, which proves you to be a — bookseller. 
I pray you to send me a copy of Mr. Wrangham'a 
reformation of ' Langhorne's Plutarch.' I have the 
Greek, which is somewhat small of print, and the 
Italian, which is too heavy in style, and as false as 
a Neapolitan proclamation. I pray you also to send 
me a Life, published some years ago, of the Magician 
Apollonius of Tyana. It is in English, and I think 
edited or written by what Martin Marprelate calls 
' a bouncing priest.' I shall trouble you no farther 
with this sheet than with the postage. 

" Yours, &c, 

"N. 
' P. S. Since I wrote this, I determined to enclose 
it (as a half sheet) to Mr. Kinnaird, who will have 
the goodness to forward it. Besides, it saves sealing- 



LETTER D. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, May 30, 1821. 

" Dear Moray, 

"You say you have written often: I have only 
received yours of the eleventh, which is very short. 
By this post, in jive packets, I send you the tragedy 
of Sardanapalus, which is written in a rough hand: 
perhaps Mrs. Leigh can help you to decipher it. 
You will please to acknowledge it by return of post. 
You will remark that the unities are all strictly 
observed. The scene passes in the same hall 
always : the time, a summer's night, about nine 
hours, or less, though it begins before sunset and 
ends before sunrise. In the third act, when Sar- 
danapalus calls for a mirror to look at himself in 
his armor, recollect to quote the Latin passage 
from Juvenal upon Otho, (a similar character, who 
did the same thing : — Gifford will help you to it. 
The trait is perhaps too familiar, but it is historical, 
(of Otho, at least,) and natural in an effeminata 
character." 



928 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER DI. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



" Ravenna, May 31, 1821. 

" 1 enclose you another letter, which will only 
eonfirm what I have said to you. 

" About Allegra — I will take some decisive step irr 
the course of the year ; at present, she is so happy 
where she is, that perhaps she had better have her 
alphabet imparted in her convent. 

" What you say of the Dante is the first I have 
heard of it-r-all seeming to be merged in the row 
about the tragedy. Continue it ! — Alas ! what could 
Dante himself now prophecy about Italy ? I am 
glad you like it, however, but doubt that you will 
be singular in your opinion. My new tragedy is 
completed. 

"The Benzoni is right, — I ought to have men- 
tioned her humor and amiability, but I thought at 
her sixty, beauty would be most agreeable or least 
likely. However, it shall be rectified in a new 
edition ; and if any of the parties have either looks 
or qualities which they wish to be noticed, let me 
have a minute of them. I have no private or per- 
sonal dislike to Venice, rather the contrary, but I 
merely speak of what is the subject of all remarks 
and all writers upon her present state. Let me 
hear from you before you start. Believe me, 

" Ever, &c. 

" P. S. Did you receive two letters of Douglas 
Kinnaird's in an endorse from me ? Remember me 
to Mengaldo, Soranzo, and all who care that I 
should remember them. The letter alluded to in 
the enclosed, 'to the Cardinal,' was in answer to 
some queries of the government,- about a poor devil 
of a Neapolitan, arrested at Sinigaglia on suspicion, 
who came to beg of me here ; being without 
breeches, and consequently without pockets for 
halfpence, I relieved and 'forwarded him to his 
country, and they arrested him at Pesaro on sus- 
picion, and have since interrogated me (civilly and 
politely, however), about him. I sent them the 
poor man's petition, and sucb information as 1 had 
about him, which, I trust, will get him out again, 
that is to say, if they give him a fair hearing. 

" I am content with the article. Pray did you 
receive, some posts ago, Moore's lines, which I 
enclosed to you, written at Paris ? " 



LETTER DLL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, June 4, 1821. 

" You have not written lately, as is the usual 
custom with literary gentlemen, to console their 
friends with their observations in cases of magni- 
tude. I do not know whether I sent you my ' Elegy 
on the recovery of Lady Noel ; ' — 

" Behold the blessings of a lucky lot — 
My play is damn'd, ami Lady Noel not. 

" The papers (and perhaps your letters) will have 
put you in possession of Muster Elliston's dramatic 
behavior. It is to be presumed that the plav was 
fitted for the stage by Mr. Dibdin, who is the tailor 
upon such occasions, and will have taken measure 
with his usual accuracy. I hear that it is still con- 
tinued to be performed — a piece of obstinacy for 
which it is some consolation to think that the 
discourteous histrio will be out of pocket. 

"You will be surprised to hear that I have 
finished another tragedy in Jive acts, observing all 
the unities strictly. It is called ' Sardanapalus,' 
and was sent by last post to England. It is not for 
the stage, any more than the other was intended 



for it, — and I shall take better care this time that 
they don't get hold on't. 

" I have also sent, two months ago, a farther 
letter on Bowles, &c. ; but he seems to be so taken 
up with my ' respect ' (as he calls it) towards him 
in the former case, that I am not sure that it will 
be published, being somewhat too full of ' pastime 
and prodigality.' I learn from some private letters 
of Bowles's, that you were ' the gentleman in 
asterisks.' Who would have dreamed it? you see 
what mischief that clergyman has done by printing 
notes without names. How the deuse was I to 
suppose that the first four asterisks meant ' Camp- 
bell ' and not ' Pope,' and that the blank signature 
meant Thomas Moore ? You see what comes ot 
being familiar with parsons. His answers have not 
yet reached me, but I understand from Hobhouse 
that he (H.) is attacked in them. If that be the 
case, Bowles has broken the truce, (which he him- 
self proclaimed, by-the-way,) and I must have at 
him again. 

" Did you receive my letters with the two or three 
concluding sheets of Memoranda? 

" There are no news here to interest much. A 
German spy (boasting himself such) was stabbed 
last week, but not mortally. The moment I heard 
that he went about bullying and boasting, it was 
easy for me, or any one else, to foretell what would 
occur to him, which I did, and it came to .pass in 
two days after. He has got off, however, for a slight 
incision. 

" A row the other night, about a lady of the 
place, between her various lovers, occasioned a 
midnight discharge of pistols, but nobody wounded. 
Great scandal, however — planted by her lover — to be 
thrashed by her husband ; for inconstancy to her 
regular scrvente, who is coming home post about it, 
and she herself retired in confusion into the coun- 
try, although it is the acme of the opera season. 
All the women furious against her (she herself 
having been censorious) for being found out. She 
is a pretty woman — a Countess * * * * — a fine old 
Visigoth name, or Ostrogoth. 

"The Greeks! what think you? They are my 
old acquaintances — but what to think I know not. 
Let us hope, howsomever. "Yours, 

"B." 



LETTER DHL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, June 22, 1821. 

" Your dwarf of a letter came yesterday. That 
is right ; — keep to your ' magnum opus ' — magno- 
perate away. Now, if we were but together a little 
to combine our ' Journal of Trevoux ! ' But it is 
useless to sigh, and yet very natural, — for I think 
you and I draw better together, in the social line, 
than any two other living authors. 

" I foigot to ask you, if you had seen your own 
panegyric in the correspondence of Mrs. Water- 
house and Colonel Berkeley ? To be sure, their 
moral is not quite exact; but your passion is fully 
effective ; and all poetry of the Asiatic kind — I 
mean Asiatic, as the Romans called ' Asiatic orato- 
ry,' and not because the scenery is Oriental — must 
be tried by that test only. I am not quite sure that 
I shall allcw the Miss Byrons (legitimate or illegit- 
imate) to read Lalla Rookh — iu the first place, on 
account of this said passion ; and, in the second, 
that they may n't discover that there was a better 
poet than papa. 

"You say nothing of politics — but alas! what 
can be said ? 

11 Th? world is a bundle of hay, 

Mankind are the ass«s who pull, 
Each tugs it a ditlereut way, — 
And the. greatest of all is John Bull 1 



LETTERS. 



929 



'• How do you call your new project ? I have 
sent to Murray a new tragedy, yclepe'd ' Sardanap 
alus,' writ according to Aristotle — all, save the 
chorus — I could not reconcile me to that. I have 
begun another, and am in the second act ; — so you 
see I saunter on as usual. 

"Bowles's answers have reached me; but I 
can't go on disputing for ever, — particularly in a 
polite manner. I suppose he will take being silent 
for silenced. He has been so civil that I can't find 
it in my liver to be facetious with him, — else I had a 
savage joke or two at his service. 

* * * * *- * 

" I can't send you the little journal, because it is 
in boards, and I can't trust it per post. Don't 
suppose it is any thing particular; but it will 
show the intentions of the natives at that time — 
and one or two other things, chiefly personal, like 
the former one. 

" So, Longman don't bite. — It was my wish to 
have made that work of use. Could you not raise a 
sum upon it, (however small,) reserving the power 
of redeeming it on payment ? 

"Are you in Paris, or a villaging ? If you are 
in the city, you will never resist the Anglo-invasion 
you speak of. I do not see an Englishman in half 
a year ; and when I do, I turn my horse's head the 
other wa} r . The fact, which you will find in the 
last note to the Doge, has given, me a good excuse 
for quite dropping the least connexion with travel- 
lers. 

" I do not recollect the speech you speak of, but 
suspect it is not the Doge's, but one of Israel Ber- 
tuccio to Calendaro. I hope you think that Elliston 
behaved shamefully — it is my only consolation. I 
made the Milanese fellows contradict their lie, 
which they did with the grace of people used to it. 
" Yours, &c, 
"B." 



preachment in it upon any opinions. She merely 
says that she is dying, and that as I had contribu- 
ted so highly to her existing pleasure, she thought 
that she might say so, begging me to bum her letter 
— wheh, by-the-way, I can not do, as I look upon 
such a letter, in such circumstances, as better than 
a diploma from Gottingen. I once had a letter 
from Drontheim, in Norway, (but not from a dying 
woman,) in verse, on the same score of gratulation. 
These are the things which make one at times 
believe one's self a poet.* But if I must believe 
that ***** * ) ana sucn fellows, are poets also, it 
is better to be out of the corps. 

" I am now in the fifth act of ' Foscari,' being the 
third tragedy in twelve months, besides proses ; so 
you perceive that I am not at all idle. And are you, 
too, busy ? I doubt that your life at Paris draws 
too much upon your time, which is a pity. Can't 
you divide your day, so as to combine both? I 
have had plenty of all sorts of worldly business on 
my hands last year,— and yet it is not so difficult to 
give a few hours to the Muses. This sentence is so 
like * * * * that « Ever, &c. 

"If we were together, I should publish both my 
plays (periodically) in our joint journal. It should 
be our plan to publish all our best things in that 
way." 



LETTER DV. 



TO Mil. MURRAY. 



LETTER DIV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, July 5, 1821. 

" How could you suppose that I ever would allow 
any thing that could be said on your account to 
weigh with me f I only regret that Bowles had not 
said that you were the writer of that note until 
afterward, when out he comes with it in a private 
letter to Murray, which Murray sends to me. D — n 
the controversy ! 

" D— n Twizzle, 
D— n the bell, 
And d— o the fool who rung it— Well 1 
From all such pkigues I'll quickly be delivered. 

" I have had a friend of your Mr. living's * — a very 
pretty lad — a Mr. Coolidge, of Boston — only some- 
what too full of poesy and ' entusymusy.' I was 
very civil to him during his few hours' stay, and 
talked with him much of Irving, whose writings are 
my delight. But I suspect that he did not take 
quite so much to me, from his having expected to 
meet a misanthropical gentleman, in wolf-skin 
breeches, and answering in fierce m^iasyllables, 
instead of a man of this world. I can never get 
people to understand that poetry is the expression 
of excited passion, and that there is no such thing 
as a life of passion any more than a continuous 
earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who 
would ever shave themselves in such a state. 

" I have had a curious letter to-day from a girl 
in England, (I never saw her,) who says she is given 
over of a decline, but could not go ?>ut of the world 
without thanking me for the delight which my 
poesy for several years, &c., &c, &c. It is signed 
simply N. N. A., and has not a word of 'cant' or 



"Ravenna, July 6, 1821. 

" In agreement with a wish expressed by Mr. 
Hobhouse, it is my determination to omit the" stan- 
za upon the horse of Setniramis* in the fifth canto 
of Don Juan. I mention this, in case you are, or 
intend to be, the publisher of the remaining cantos. 

"At the particular request of the Contessa &., I 
have promised not to continue Don Juan. You mil 
therefore look upon these three cantos as the last 
of the poem. She had read the first two in the 
French translation, and never ceased beseeching 
me to write no more of it. The reason of this is? 
not at first obvious to a superficial observer of for- 
eign manners ; but it arises from the wish of all 
women to exalt the sentiment of the passions, and 
to keep up the illusion which is their empire. 
Now Don Juan strips off this illusion, and laughs 
at that and most other things. I never knew a 
woman who did not protect Rousseau, nor one who 
did not dislike De Grammont, Gil Bias, and all the 
comedy of the passions, when brought out naturally. 
But 'kings' blood must keep word,' ai Serjeant 
Bothwell says." 



• See Memorandu 

117 



, page 1020. 



LETTER DVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" July 14, 1821. 

"I trust that Sardanapalus will not be mistaken 
for apolitical play, which was so far from my inten- 
tion, that I thought of nothing but Asiatic history. 
The Venetian play, too, is rigidly historical. My 
object has been^to dramatize, like the Greek, (a 
modest phrase,) striking passages of history, as they 
did of history and mythology. You will find all 
this very wrclike Shakspeare ; and so much the bet- 
ter in one sense, for I look upon him to be the 
worst of models, though the most extraordinary of 
writers. It has been my object to be as simple and 
severe as Alfieri, and I have broken down the poetry 
as nearly as I could to common language. The 
hardship is, that in these times one can neither 



• See Memorandums, 
f Stanza lxi. 



930 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



speak of kings or queens without suspicion of poli- 
tics or personalities. I intended neither. 

" I am not very well, and I write in the midst of 
unpleasant scenes here : they have, without trial or 
process, banished several of the first inhabitants of 
the cities — here and all around the Roman States — 
among them many of my personal friends — so that 
every thing is in confusion and grief: it is a kind of 
thing which cannot be described without -an equal 
pain as in beholding it. 

" You are very niggardly in your letters. 

" Yours truly, 
"B." 



LETTER DVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, July 22, 13-21. 

"The printer has done wonders; — he has read 
what I cannot — my own handwriting. 

"I oppose the 'delay till winter; ' lam particu- 
larly anxious to print while the winter theatres are 
closed, to gain time, in case they try their former 
piece of politeness. Any loss shall be considered in 
our contract, whether occasioned by the season or 
other causes; but print away and publish. 

" I think they must own that I have more styles 
than one. ' Sardanapalus ' is, however, almost a 
comic character-: but for that matter, so is Richard 
the Third. Mind the unities, which are my great 
object of research. I am glad that Gifford likes it: 
as for ' the million,' you see I have carefully con- 
sulted any thing but the taste of the day for extrav- 
agant 'coups de threatre.' Any probable loss, as I 
said before, will be allowed for in our accompts. 
The reviews (except one or two, Blackwood's, for 
instance) arc cold enough ; but never mind those 
fellows : I shall send them to the right about, if I 
take it into my head. I always found the English 
baser in some things than any other nation. You 
stare, but it's true as to gratitude, — perhaps, be- 
cause they are prouder, and proud people hate obli- 
gations. 

" The tyranny of the government here is break- 
ing out. They have exiled about a thousand people 
of the best families all over the Roman "States. As 
many of my friends are among them, ] think of 
moving too, but not till I have had your answers. 
Continue your address to me here, as usual, and 
quickly. What you will not be sorry to hear is, 
that the poor of the place, hearing that I meant to 
go, got together a petition to the Cardinal to re- 
quest that he would request me to remain. I only 
heard of it a day or two ago, and it is no dishonor 
to them nor to me ; but it will have displeased the 
higher powers, who look upon me as a chief of the 
coal-heavers. They arrested a servant of mine for a 
street-quarrel with an officer, (they drew upon one 
another knives and pistols,) but as the officer was 
out of uniform, and in the wrong besides, on my 
protesting stoutly, he was released. I was not 
present at the affray, which happened by night near 
my stables. My man, (an Italian,) a very stout 
aud not over-patient perscnage, would have taken a 
fatal revenge afterwards, if I had not prevented 
him. As it was, he drew his stiktto, and, but for 
passengers, would have carbonadoed the captain, 
who, I understand, made but a poor figure in the 
quarrel, except by beginning it. He applied to me, 
and I offered him any satisfaction, either by turning 
away the man, or otherwise, because he had drawn 
a knife. He answered that a reproof would be 
sufficient. I reproved him ; and yet, after this, the 
shabby dog complained to the government, — after 
*ieing quite satisfied, as he said. This roused me, 
and I gave them a remonstrance, which had some 
effect. The captain has been reprimanded, the ser- 
vant released, and the business at present rests there. " 



LETTER DVIII. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



" Ravenna, July 23, 1821. 

"This country being in a state of proscription, 
and all my friends exiled or arrested — the whole 
family of Gamba obliged to go to Florence for the 
present — the father and son for politics — (and the 
Guiccioli because menaced with a convent, as her 
father is not here,) I have determined to remove to 
Switzerland, and they also. Indeed my life here is 
not supposed to be particularly safe — but that has 
been the case for this twelvemonth past and is 
therefore not the primary consideration. 

" I have written by this post to Mr. Hentsch, 
junior, the banker of Geneva, to provide (if pos- 
sible) a house for me, another for Gamba's family, 
(the father, son, and daughter,) on the Jura side of 
the lake of Geneva, furnished, and with stabling 
(for me at least) for eight horses. I shall bring 
Allegra with me. Could you assist me 'or Hentsch 
in his researches ? The Gambas are at Florence, 
but have authorized me to treat for them. You 
know, or do not know, that they are great patriots 
— and both — but the son in particular — very fine 
fellows. This I know, for I have seen them lately 
in very awkward situations — not pecuniary, but per- 
sonal — and they behaved like heroes, neither yield- 
ing nor retracting. 

" You have no idea what a state of oppression 
this country is in — they arrested above a thousand 
of high and low throughout Romagna — banished 
some and confined others, without trial, process, or 
even accusation!! Every body says they would 
have done the same by me if they dared proceed 
openly. My motive, however, for remaining, is be- 
cause every one of my acquaintance, to the amount 
of hundreds almost, have been exiled. 

" Will you do what you can in looking out for a 
couple of houses furnished, and conferring with 
Hentsch for us ? We care nothing about society, 
and are only anxious for a temporary and tranquil 
asylum and individual freedom. 

"Believe me, &c. 

" P. S. Can you give me an idea of the compar- 
ative expenses of Switzerland and Italy ? which I 
have forgotten. I speak merely of those of decent 
living, horses, &c, and not of luxuries or high liv- 
ing. Do not, however, decide any thing positively 
till I have your answer, as I can then know how to 
think upon these topics of transmigration, &c, 
&c, &c." 



LETTER DIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, July 30, 1821. 

"Enclosed is the best account of the Doge Fall- 
en), which was only sent to me from an old MS. the 
other day. Get it translated, and append it as a 
note to tHj next edition. You will perhaps be 
pleased to see that my conceptions of his character 
were correct, though T regret not having met with 
this extract before. 3fou will perceive that he him- 
self said exactly what he is made to say about the 
Bishop of Treviso. You will see also that ' he spoke 
very little, and those only words of rage and dis- 
dain,' after his arrest, which is the case in the play, 
except when he breaks out at the close of act fifth. 
But his speech to the conspirators is better in the 
MS. than in the play. I wish that I had met with 
it in time. Do not forget this note, with a transla- 
tion. 

" In a former note to the J uans, speaking of Vol- 
taire, I have quoted his famous ' Zaire, tu pleures,' 



LETTERS. 



931 



which is an error ; it should be ' Zaire,* vouspleurez.' 
Recollect this. 

" I am. so busy here about those poor proscribed 
exiles, who are scattered about, and with trying to 
get some of them recalled, that I have hardly time 
or patience to write a short preface, which will be 
proper for the two plays. However, I will make it 
out on receiving the next proofs. 

" Yours ever, &c 

" P. S. Please to append the letter about the 
Hellespont as a note to your next opportunity of the 
verses on Leander, &c, &c, &c, in Childe Harold. 
Don't forget it amid your multitudinous avocations, 
which I think of celebrating in a Dithyrambic Ode 
to Albemarle street. 

" Are you aware that Shelley has written an Ele- 
gy on Keats,| and accuses the Quarterly of killing 
him ? 

' Who kill'd John Keats ? ' 

' I,' says the Quarterly, 

So sarage and Tarlarly ; 
' 'Twas one of my feats.' 

1 Who shot the arrow ? ' 

' The poet-priest Milman, 

(So ready to kill man,) 
Or Soulhey or Barrow.' 

"You know very well that I did not approve of 
Keats's poetry, or principles of poetry, or of his 
abuse of Pope ; but, as he is dead, omit all that is 
said about him in MSS. of mine, or publication. 
His Hyperion is a fine monument, and will keep 
his name. I do not envy the man who wrote the 
article ; — you Review-people have no more right to 
kill than any other foot-pads. However, he who 
would die of an article in a Review would probably 
have died of something else equally trivial. The 
same thing nearly happened to Kirke White, who 
died afterward of a consumption." 



LETTER DX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, August 2, 1821. 

" I had certainly answered your last letter, though 
but briefly, to the part to which you refer, merely 
saying, ' damn the controversy ; ' and quoting some 
verses of George Colman's, not as allusive to you, 
but to the disputants. Did you receive this letter ? 
It imports me to know that our letters are not inter- 
cepted or mislaid. 

" Your Berlin dramaj is an honor, unknown since 
the days of Elkanah Settle, whose ' Emperor of 
Morocco' was represented by the court ladies, which 
was, as Johnson says, ' the last blast of inflamma- 
tion ' to poor Dryden, who could not bear it, and 
fell foul of Settle without mercy or moderation, on 
account of that and a frontispiece, which he dared 
to put before his play. 

"Was not your showing the Memoranda to** 
somewhat perilous ? Is there not a ftteetious allu- 
sion or two which might as well be reserved for 
posterity ? 

" I know Schlegel well — that is so say, I have met 
him occasionally at Copet. Is he not also touched 
lightly in the Memoranda ? In a review of Childe 
Harold, canto fourth, -three years ago, in Black- 
wood's Magazine, they quote some stanzas of an 
elegy of Schlegel's on Rome, from which they say 
that I might have taken some ideas. I give you my 
honor that I never saw it except in that criticism, 

• See Letter ccccxc. 

t This note was omitted. 

X There ha<l been, a short time before, performed at the Court of Berlin, a 
ipectacle founded on the poem of Lalla Rookh, in which the present Emperor 
of Russia personated Fcramorz, and the Empress Lalla Rookh. 



which gives, I think, three or four stanzas, sent 
them (they say) for the nonce by a correspondent— 
perhaps himself. The fact is easily proved ; for I 
don't understand German, and there was, I believe, 
no translation — at least, it was the first time that I 
ever heard of, or saw, either translation or original. 

" I remember having some talk with Schlegel 
about Alfieri, whose merit he denies. He was also 
wroth about the Edinburgh Review of Goethe, which 
was sharp enough, to be sure. He went about say- 
ing, too, of the French — ' I meditate a terrible ven- 
geance against the French — I will prove that Mo- 
liere is no poet.' ***** 

" I don't see why you should talk of ' declining.' 
When I saw you, you looked thinner, and yet 
younger, than you did when we parted several years 
before. You may rely upon this as fact. If it were 
not, I should say nothing, for I would rather not say 
unpleasant personal things to any one — but, as it 
was the pleasant truth, I tell it you. If you had led 
my life, indeed, changing climates and connexions 
— thinning yourself with fasting and purgatives — 
besides the wear and tear of the vulture passions, 
and a very bad temper, besides, you might talk in 
this way — but you! I know no man who looks so 
well for his years, or who deserves to look better 
and to be better, in all respects. You are a * * *, 
and, what is perhaps better for your friends, a good 
fellow. So, don't talk of decay, but put in for 
eighty, as you well may. 

" I am, at present, occupied principally about 
these unhappy proscriptions and exiles, which have 
taken place here on account of politics. It has 
been a miserable sight to see the general desolation 
in families. I am doing what I can for them, high 
and low, by such interest and means as I possess or 
can bring to bear. There have been thousands of 
these proscriptions within the last month in the 
Exarchate, or (to speak modernly) the Legations. 
Yesterday, too, a man got his back broken, in extri- 
cating a dog of mine from under a mill-wheel. The 
dog was killed, and the man is in the greatest dan- 
ger. I was not present — it happened before I was 
up, owing to a stupid boy taking the dog to bathe in 
a dangerous spot. I must, of course, provide for 
the poor fellow while he lives, and his family, if he 
dies. I would gladly have given a much greater 
sum than that will come to that he had never been 
hurt. Pray, let me hear from you, and excuse haste 
and hot weather. " Yours, &c. 

****** 

"You may have probably seen all sorts of attacks 
upon me in some gazettes in England some months 
ago. I only saw them, by Murray's bqunty, the 
other day. They call me ' Plagiary,' and what not. 
I think I now, in my time, have been accused of 
every thing. 

" I have not given you details of little events 
here; but they have been trying to make me out to 
be chief of a conspiracy, and nothing but their 
want of proofs for an English investigation has 
stopped them. Had it been a poor native, the sus- 
picion were enough, as it has been for hundreds. 

" Why don't you write on Napoleon ? I have no 
spirits, nor ' estro' to do so. His overthrow, from 
the beginning, was a blow on the head to me. 
Since that period, we have been the slaves of fools. 
Excuse this long letter. Ecco a translation literal 
of a French epigram. 

" Egle, beauty and poet, has two little crimes, 
She makes her own lace, and does not make her rhymes. 

"I am going to ride, having been warned not to 
ride in a particular part of the forest, on account of 
the ultra-politicians. 

' Is there no chance of your return to England, 
and of our journal ? I would have published the 
two plays in it — two or three scenes per number — 
and, indeed, all of mine in it. If you went to Eng- 
land, I would do so still." 



932 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER DXI. 



TO ME. MURRAY. 



11 Ravenna, August 10, 1821. 

"Your conduct to Mr. Moore is certainly very 
handsome ; and I would not say so if I could help 
it, for you are not at present by any means in my 
good graces. 

" With regard to additions, &c, there is a jour- 
nal which I kept in 1814, which you may ask him 
for ; also a journal which you must get from Mrs. 
Leigh, of my journey in the Alps, which contains 
all the germs of Manfred. I have also kept a small 
diary here for a few months last winter, which I 
would send you, and any continuation. You would 
find easy access to all my papers and letters, and do 
not neglect this (in case of accidents), on account of 
the mass of confusion in which they are ; for out of 
that chaos of papers you will find some curious ones 
of mine and others, if not lost or destroyed. If 
circumstances, however, (which is almost impos- 
sible,) made me ever consent to a publication in my 
lifetime, you would, in that case, I suppose, make 
Moore some advance, in proportion to the likelihood 
or non-likelihood of success. You are both sure to 
survive me, however. 

" You must also have from Mr. Moore the cor- 
respondence between me and Lady Byron, to whom 
I offered the sight of all which regards herself in 
these papers. This is important. He has her 
letter, and a copy of my answer. I would rather 
Moore edited me than another. 

" I sent you Valpy's letter to decide for yourself, 
and Stockdale's to amuse you. / am always loyal 
with you, as I was in Galignani's affair, and you 
with me — now and then. 

"I return you Moore's letter, which is very credit- 
able to him, and you, and me. " Yours, ever." 



LETTER DXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, August 16, 1S21. 

" I regret that Holmes can't or won't come : it is 
rather shabby, as I was always very civil and punc- 
tual with him. But he is but one * * more. One 
meets with none else among the English. 

" I wait the proofs of the MSS. with proper im- 
patience. 

" So you have published, or mean to publish, the 
new Juans ? Arn't you afraid of the Constitutional 
Assassination of Bridge street ? When first I saw 
the name of Murray I thought it had been yours; 
but was solaced by seeing that your synonyme is an 
attorney, and that you are not one of that atrocious 
crew. 

" I am in a great discomfort about the probable 
war, and with my trustees not getting me out of the 
funds. If the funds break, it is my intention to go 
upon the highway. All the other English profes- 
sions are at present so ungentlemanly by the con- 
duct of those who follow them, that open robbing is 
the only fair resource left to a man of any princi- 
ples ; it is even honest, in comparison, by being un- 
disguised. 

" I wrote to you by last post, to say that you had 
done the handsome thing by Moore and the Memo- 
randa. You are very good as times go, and would 
probably be still better but for the ' march of 
events,' (as Napoleon called it,) which won't permit 
any body to be better than they should be. 

" Love to Gifford. Believe me, &c. 

" P S. I restore Smith's letter, whom thank for 
his good opinion. Is the bust by Thorwaldsen ar- 
rived r 



LETTER DXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, August 23, 1821. 

" Enclosed are the two acts corrected. With re« 
gard to the charges* about the shipwreck, I think 
that I told both you and Mr. Hobhouse, years ago, 
that there was not a single circumstance of it not 
taken from fact ,• not, indeed, from any single ship 
wreck, but all from actual facts of different wrecks 
Almost all Don Juan is real life, either of my own, 
or from people I knew. By-the-way, much of the 
description of the furniture, in canto third, is taken 
from Tally's Tripoli, (pray note this,) and the rest 
from my own observation. Remember, I never 
meant to conceal this at all, and have only not 
stated it, because Hon Juan had no preface nor 
name to it. If you think it worth while to make this 
statement, do so in your own way. / laugh at such 
charges, convinced that no writer ever borrowed 
less, or made his materials more his own.f Much 
is coincidence: for instance, Lady Morgan (in a 
really excellent book, I assure you on Italy,) calls 
Venice an ocean Rome : I have the very same expres- 
sion in Foscari, and yet you know that the play was 
written months ago, and sent to England : the 
' Italy' I received only on the 16th inst. 

" Your friend, like the public, is not aware, that 
my dramatic simplicity is studiously Greek, and 
I must continue so ; no reform ever succeeded at 
first. I admire the old English dramatists ; but 
this is quite another field, and has nothing to do 
with theirs. I want to make a regular English 
drama, no matter whether for the stage or not, 
which is not my object, — but a mental theatre. 

" Yours. 

" P. S. Can't accept your courteous offer. 

" For Orford and for Waldegrave 
You gave much more than me you gave 
Which is not fairly to behave, 

My Murray. 

" Eecause if a live dog, 'tis said, 
Be worth a lion fairly Bped, 
A Hue lord must be worth two dead, 
My Murray. 

" And if, as the opinion goes, 
Verse Icuh a better * tie than prose — 
Certes, I should have more than those, 
My Murray. 

14 But now this slie-'t is nearly cramm'd, 
So, if you will, I shan't he shamiu'l, 
And, il you won't, you may lie damn'd, 
My Murray. 

"These matters must be arranged with Mr. 
Douglas Kinnaird. He is my trustee, and a man of 
honor. To him you can state all your mercantile 
reasons, which you might not like to state to me 
personally, such as, ' heavy season' — 'flat public'— 
' don't go o#' — ' lordship writes too much' — won't 
take advice' — 'declining popularity' — 'deduction 
for the trade' — ' make very little' — ' generally lose 
by him' — ' pirated edition' — ' foreign edition' — ' se- 
vere criticisms,' &c, with other hints and howls 
for an oration, which I leave Douglas, who is an 
orator, to answer. 

" You can also state them more freely to a third 
person, as between you and me they could only pro- 
duce some smart postscripts, which would not 
adorn our mutual archives. 

" I am sorry for the Queen, and that's more than 
you are." 



Some critics had accui 
See Appendix to the 



n of plagiarism. 
» Foscari." 



LETTERS. 



933 



LETTER DXIV 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, August 24, 1821. 

" fours of the 5th only yesterday, while I had 
letters of the 8th from London. Doth the post 
dabble into our letters ? Whatever agreement, you 
make with Murray, if satisfactory to you, must be 
so to me. There need be no scruple, because, 
though I used sometimes to buffoon to myself, 
loving a quibble as well as the barbarian himself, 
(Shakspeare, to wit) — ' that, like a Spartan, I would 
sell my life as dearly as possible' — it never was my 
intention to turn it to personal, pecuniary account, 
but to bequeath it to a friend — yourself — in the 
event of survivorship. I anticipated that period, 
because we happened to meet, and I urged you to 
make what was possible now by it, for reasons 
which are obvious. It has been no possible priva- 
tion to me, and therefore does not require the ac- 
knowledgments you mention. So, for God's sake, 
don't consider it like * * * * 

" By-the-way-, when you write to Lady Morgan, 
will you thank her for her handsome speeches in 
in her book about my books ? I do not know her 
address. Her work is fearless and excellent on the 
subject of Italy — pray tell her so — and I know the 
country. I wish she had fallen in with me, I could 
have told her a thing or two that would have con- 
firmed her positions. 

" I am glad that you are satisfied with Murray, 
who seems to value dead lords more than live ones. 
I have just sent him the following answer to a pro- 
position of his : — 

11 For Orford and for Waldegrave, &c. 

The argument of the above is, that he wanted to 
' stint me of my sizings,' as Lear says — that is to 
say, not to propose an extravagant price for an ex- 
travagant poem, as is becoming. Pray take his gui- 
neas by all means — I taught him that. He made 
me a filthy offer of pounds once, but I told him that, 
like physicians, poets must be dealt with in guineas, 
as being the only advantage poets could have in the 
association with them, as votaries of Apollo. I 
write to you in a hurry and bustle, which I will ex- 
pound in my next. " Yours, ever, &c. 

" P. S. You mention something, of an attorney 
on his way to me on legal business. I have had 
no warning of such an apparition. What can the 
fellow want ? I have some lawsuits and business, 
but have not heard of any thing to put me to the 
expense of a travelling lawyer. They do enough, 
in that way at home. 

" Ah, poor Queen ! but perhaps it is for the best, 
if Herodotus's anecdote is to be believed * * 

" Remember me to any friendly Angles of our 
mutual acquaintance. What are you doing ? Here 
I have had my hands full of tyrants and their 
victims. There never was such oppression, even in 
Ireland, scarcely! " 



LETTER DXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, August 31, 1821. 

"I have received the Juans, which are printed so 
carelessly, especially the fifth canto, as to be dis- 
graceful to me, and not creditable to you. It really 
must be gone over again with the manuscript, the 
errors are so gross ; — words added — changed — so as 
to make cacophony and nonsense. You have been 
careless of this poem because some of your squad 
don't approve of it ; but I tell you that it will be 
long before you see any thing half so good a9 poetry 
or writing. Upon what principle have you omitted 



the note on Bacon and Voltaire ? and one of the 
concluding stanzas sent as an addition ? — because it 
ended, I suppose, with — 

" And do not link two virtuous souls for life 
Into that moral centaur, man and wife ? 

" Now, I must say, once for all, that I will not 
permit any human being to take such liberties with 
my writings because I am absent. I desire the 
omission to be replaced (except the stanza on 
Semiramis), — particularly the stanza upon the 
Turkish marriages ; and I request that the whole 
be carefully gone over with the MS. 

" I never saw such stuff as is printed ; — GuZfeyaz 
instead of Guibeyaz, &c. Are you aware that 
Gulbeyaz is a real name and the other nonsense ? 
I copied the cantos out carefully, so that there is no 
excuse, as the printer.read, or" at least prints, the 
MS. of the plays without error. 

" If you have no feeling for your own reputation, 
pray have some little for mine. I have read over 
the poem carefully, and I tell you, it is poetry, 
Your little envious knot of parson-poets may say 
what they please : time will show that I am not in 
this instance mistaken. 

" Desire my friend Hobhouse to correct the press, 
especially of the last canto, from the manuscript as 
it is. It is enough to drive one out of one's reason 
to see the infernal torture of words from the orig- 
inal. For instance, the line — 

" And ]xiir tln.-ir rliv 

is printed — 



Venus yokes her doves — * 
" And praise their rhymes, &c. 



Also 'precarious' for '■precocious;' and this line, 
stanza 133, 

" And this strong extreme effect to tire no longer. 

Now do turn to the manuscript, and see if I ever 
wrote such a line ; it is not verse. 

" No wonder the poem should fail, (which, how- 
ever, it won't, you will see,) with such things allowed 
to creep about it. Replace what is omitted, and cor- 
rect what is so shamefully misprinted, and. let the 
poem have fair play ; and I fear nothing. 

" I see in the last two numbers of the Quarterly a 
strong itching to assail me, (see the review of ' The 
Etonian ; ') let it, and see if they shan't have 
enough of it. I do not allude to Gifford, who has 
always been my friend, and whom I do not consider 
as responsible for the articles written by others. 

" You will publish the plays when ready. I am 
in such a humor about this printing of Don Juan 
so inaccurately that I must <close this. 

"Yours. 

"P. S. I presume that you have not lost the 
stanza to which I allude ? It was sent afterward : 
look over my letters and find it." 



LETTER DXVI.f 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" The enclosed letter is written in bad humor, but 
not without provocation. However, let it (that is, 
the bad humor) go for little ; but I must request 
your serious attention to the abuses of the printer, 
which ought never to have been permitted. You 
forget that all the fools in London (the chief pur- 
chasers of your publications) will condemn in me 
the stupidity of your printer. For instance, in the 
notes to canto fifth, ' the Adriatic shore of the Bos- 



• Corrected in this edition. 

t Written in the envelope of the preceding letter. 



934 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



phorus ' instead of the Asiatic ! .' All this may 
seem little to you, so fine a gentleman, with your 
ministerial connexions, but it is serious to me, who 
am thousands of miles off, and have no opportunity 
of not proving myself the fool your printer makes 
me, except your pleasure and leisure, forsooth. 

"The gods prosper you, and forgive you, fori 
can't." 



LETTER DXVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, Sept. 3, 1821. 

" By Mr. Mawman, (a paymaster in the corps, in 
which you and I are privates,) I yesterday expedited 
to your address, under cover one, two paper books, 
containing the Giaour-nal, and a thing or two. It 
won't do — even for the posthumous public — but ex- 
tracts from it may. It is a brief and faithful chroni- 
cle of a month or so — parts of it not very discreet, 
but sufficiently sincere. Mr. Mawman saith that he 
will, in person or per friend, have it delivered to you 
in your Elysian fields. 

" If you have got the new Juans, recollect that 
there are some very gross printer's blunders, partic- 
ularly in the fifth canto, — such as ' praise ' for ' pair ' 
— ' precarious ' for ' precocious ' — ' Adriatic ' for 
' Asiatic ' — ' case ' for ' chase ' — besides gifts of addi- 
tional words and syllables, which make but a ca- 
cophonous rhythmus. Put the pen through the said, 
as I would mine through Murray's ears if I were 
along side of him. As it is, I have sent him a rat- 
tling letter, as abusive as possible. Though he is 
publisher to the ' Board of Longitude,' he is in no 
danger of discovering it. 

" I am packing for Pisa — but direct your letters 
here, till farther notice. 

" Yours ever, &c." 

[One of the " paper books " mentioned in this let- 
ter as intrusted to Mr. Mawman for me, contained 
a portion, to the amount of nearly a hundred pages 
of a prose story, relating the adventures of a young 
Andalusian nobleman, which had been begun by him, 
at Venice, in 1817, of which the following is an ex- 
tract. — Moore.] 

" A few hours afterward we were very good friends, 
and a few days after she set out for Arragon, with 
my son, on a visit to he-r .father and mother. I did 
not accompany her immediately, having been in 
Arragon before, but was to join the family in their 
Moorish chateau within a few weeks. 

"During her journey I received a very affection- 
ate letter from Donna Josepha, apprizing me of the 
welfare of herself and my son. On her arrival at 
the chateau, I received another still more affection- 
ate, pressing me, in very fond, and rather foolish 
terms, to join her immediately. As I was preparing 
to set out from Seville, I received a third — this was 
from her father, Don Josedi Cardozo, who requested 
me, in the politest manner, to dissolve my marriage. 
I answered him with equal politeness, that I would 
do no such thing. A fourth letter arrived — it was 
from Donna Josepha, in which she informed me 
that her father's letter was written by her particular 
desire. I requested the reason by return of post — 
she replied, by express, that as reason had nothing 
to do with the matter, it was unnecessary to give 
any— but that she was an injured and excellent 
woman. I then inquired why she had written to me 
the two preceding affectionate letters, requesting 
me to come to Arragon. She answered, that was 
because she believed me out of my senses — that, 
being unfit to take care of myself, I had only to set 
out on this journey alone, and make my way with 



out difficulty to Don Jose di Cardozo's, I should 
there have found the tenderest of wives and — a 
strait waistcoat. 

" I had nothing to reply to this piece of affection 
but a reiteration of my request for some lights upon 
the subject. I was answered that they would only 
be related to the Inquisition. In the mean time, 
our domestic discrepancy had become a public topic 
of discussion ; and the world, which always decides 
justly, not only in Arragon but in Andalusia, deter- 
mined that I was not only to blame, but that all 
Spain could produce nobody so blameable. My 
case was supposed to comprise all the crimes which 
could, and several which could not, be committed, 
and little less than an auto-da-fe was anticipated as 
the result. But let no man say that we are aban- 
doned by our friends in adversity — it was just the 
reverse. Mine thronged arouncTme to condemn, 
advise, and console me with their disapprobation. — 
They told me all that was, would, or could be said 
on the subject. They shook their heads — they ex- 
horted me — deplored me, with tears in their eyes, 
and — went to dinner." 



LETTER DXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Sept. 4, 1821. 

" By Saturday's post, I sent you a fierce and 
furibund letter upon the subject of the printer's 
blunders in Don Juan. I must solicit your atten- 
tion to the topic, though my wrath hath subsided 
into sullenness. 

" Yesterday I received Mr. , a friend of 

yours, and because he is a friend of yours ; and that's 
more than I would do in an English case, except for 
those whom I honor. I was as civil as I Could be 
among packages tven to the very chairs and tables, 
for I am going to Pisa in a few weeks, and have 
sent and am sending off my chattels. It regretted 
me that, my books and every thing being packed, I 
could not send you a few things I meant for you ; 
but they were all sealed and baggaged, so as to have 
made it a month's work to get at them again. I 
gave him an envelope, with the Italian scrap in it,* 
alluded to in my Gilchrist defence. Hobhouse will 
make it out for you, and it will make you laugh, 
and him too, the spelling particularly. The ' Meri- 
ca?u,' of whom they call me the ' Capo,' (or chief,) 
mean ' Americans,', which is the name given in 
Romagna to a part of the Carbonari ; that is to say, 
to the popular part, the troops of the Carbonari. — 
They are originally a society of hunters in the for- 
est, who took the name of Americans, but at pres- 
ent comprise some thousands, &c. ; but I shan't let 
you farther into the secret, which may be partici- 
pated with the post masters. Why they thought 
me their chief, I know not : their chiefs are like 
'Legion, being many.' However, it is a post of 
more honor than profit, for, now that they are per- 
secuted, it is fit that I should aid them ; and so I 
have done, as far as my means would permit. They 
will rise again some day, for these fools of the gov- 
ernment are blundering : they actually seem to know 
nothing, for they have arrested and banished many 
of their oion party, and let others escape who are not 
their friends. 

" What think'st thou of Greece ? 

" Address to me here as usual, till your hear far- 
ther from me. 

" By Mawman I have sent a Journal to Moore; 
but it won't do for the public, — at least a great deal 
of it won't ;— parts may. 

" I read over the Juans, which are excellent.— 
Your squad are quite wrong ; and so you will find 



• An anor.Tmoiu letter which he had received, threatening him with asaa» 
■nation. 



LETTERS. 



935 



by-and-by. I regtet that I do not go on with it, for 
I had all the plan for several cantos, and different 
countries and climes. You say nothing of the note 
I enclosed to you, which will explain why I agreed 
to discontinue it, (at Madame Guiccioh's request ;) 
but you are so grand, and sublime, and occupied, 
that one would think, instead of publishing for 
' the Board of Longitude,' that you were trying to 

1 " Leltme hear that Gifford is better. He can't be 
spared either by you or me." 



of the corporation, and to have entered into its 
pulses and passions, quarum partes fuimus. Both 
of us have learned by this much which nothing else 
could have taught us. "Yours. 

" P. S. I saw one of your brethren, another of 
the allied sovereigns of Grub street, the other day, 
Mawman the Great, by whom I sent due homage to 
your imperial self. To-morrow's post may perhaps 
bring a letter from you, but you are the most un- 
grateful and ungracious of correspondents. But 
there is some excuse for you, with your perpetual 
levee of politicians, parsons, scribblers, and loun- 
gers. Some day I will give you a poetical catalogue 
of them." 



LETTER DXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Sept. 12, 1821. 

««By Tuesday's post, I forwarded, in three pack- 
ets, the drama of Cain in three acts, of which I re- 
quest the acknowledgment when arrived. To the 
last speech of Eve, in the last act, (i. e where she 
curses Cain,) add these three lines to the conclud- 
ing ones — 

" May the grass wither from thy foot I the woods 
Deny thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
A grave ! the sun his light I and Heaven her God ! 

" There's as pretty apiece of imprecation for you, 
when ioined to the lines already sent, as you may 
wish to meet with in the course of your business.— 
But don't forget the addition of the above three 
lines, which are clinchers to Eve's speech. 

« Let me know what Gifford thinks, (if the play 
arrives in safety ;) for I have a good opinion of the 
piece, as poetry ; it is in my gay metaphysical style, 
and in the Manfred line. 

" You must at least commend my faculty and va- 
riety when you consider what I have done within 
the last fifteen months, with my head, too, full of 
other and of mundane matters. But no doubt you 
will avoid saying any good of it, for fear I should 
raise the price upon you : that's right : stick to bu- 
siness Let me know what your other ragamuffins 
are writing, for I suppose you don't like starting too 
many of your vagabonds at once. You may give 
them the start for any thing I care. 

« Why don't you publish my Puhi— the very best 
thin" I ever wrote— with the Italian to it ? I wish 
I was alongside of you ; nothing is ever done in a 
man's absence; every body runs counter because 
they can. If ever I do return to England, (which 
I shan't, though,) I will write a poem to which 
' English Bards,' &c, shall be new milk in com- 
parison. Your present literary world of mounte- 
banks stand in need of such an Avatar. But I am 
not yet quite bilious enough : a season or two more, 
and a provocation or two, will wind me up to the 
point, and then have at the whole set ! 

" I have no patience with the sort of trash you 
send me out by way of books ; except Scott's nov- 
els and three or four other things, I never saw such 
work, or works. Campbell is lecturmg-Mt>or,e 
idline-Southey twaddling— Wordsworth drivelling 
-Coleridge muddling-* * ^^gT 8 ?^ 1 " ^Z 
bling, squabbling, and snivelling. * * will do, if he 
don't cant too much, nor imitate Southey ; the fel-| 
low has poesy in him ; but he is envious and unhap- 
py, as all the envious are. Still he is among the 
best of the day. Barry Cornwall will do better by- 
and-by, I dare say, if he don't get spoiled by green 
tea and the praises of Pentonville and Paradise- 
row The pity of these men is, that thej never 
lived in high life, nor in solitude : there is no medi- 
um for the knowledge of the busy or the still world. 
If admitted into high life for a season, it is merely 
as spectators— they form no part of the mechanism 
thereof Now, Moore and I, the one by circum- 
stances, and the other by birth, happened to be free 



LETTER DXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Sept. 17, 1821. 

" The enclosed lines,* as you will directly per- 
ceive, are written by the Rev. W. L. Bowles. Of 
course it is for him to deny them if they are not. 

" Believe me yours ever and most affectionately, 

" B. 

" P. S. Can you forgive this ? It is only a reply 
to your lines against my Italians. Of course I will 
stand bv my lines against all men ; but it is heart- 
breaking to see such things in a people as the re- 
ception of that unredeemed ****** in an op- 
pressed country. Your apotheosis is now reduced to 
a level with his welcome, and their gratitude to 
Grattan is cancelled by their atrocious adulation of 
this, &c, &c, &c." 



LETTER DXXI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Sept. 19, 1821. 

" I am in all the sweat, dust, and blasphemy of a 
universal packing of all my things, furniture, &c, 
for Pisa, whither I go for the winter. The cause 
has been the exile of all my fellow Carbomes, and, 
among them, of the whole family of Madame G., 
who, you know, was divorced from her husband last 
week, ' on account of P. P. clerk of this parish, 
and who is obliged to join her father and relatives, 
now in exile there, to avoid being shut up in a mo- 
nastery, because the Pope's decree of separation re- 
quired her to reside in casa patema, or else, for 
decorum's sake, in a convent. As I could not say, 
with Hamlet, ' Get thee to a nunnery,' I am prepar- 
I ing to follow them. 

"It is awful work, this love, and prevents alt a 
I man's projects of good or glory. I wanted to go to 
I Greece lately (as every thing seems up here) with 
her brother, who is a very fine, brave fellow, (I have 
seen him put to the proof,) and wild about liberty. 
But the tears of a woman who has left a husband 
for a man, and the weakness of one's own heart, 
are paramount to these projects, and I can hardly 
indulge them. ~-x.ii 

" We were divided in choice between Switzerland 
and Tuscany, and I give my vote for Pisa, as nearer 
the Mediterranean, which I love for the sake ot the 
shores which it washes and for my young recollec- 
tions of 1809. Switzerland is a cursed, selfish, 
swinish country of brutes, placed in the most ro- 
mantic region of the world. I never could bear the 



• « The Irish Avater," Poems, p. 573. In this copy, the following sen- 
tence (take,, from a letlerof Curran, I. the able Life oj that true nsh.-an 
by l,.» son) is prefixed as a motto to the poem-" And Ireland, like a bast, 
nadoed elephant, kneeling ,„ receive the paltry rider ."-Lttor of Curran 
Life vol ii p. 336. At the end of the verses arc these words . ( Signed, 
W. L. 1) ' *' M. A., and written with a view to a Bishopnck. "-Moore. 



936 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



inhabitants, and still less their English visitors ; for 
which reason, after writing for some information 
about houses, upon hearing that there was a colony 
of English all over the cantons of Geneva, &c, I 
immediately gave up the thought, and persuaded 
the Gambas to do the same. 

" By last post I sent yoii ' the Irish Avatar,' 
what think you ? The last line — ' a name never 
spoke but with curses or jeers ' — must run either 
' a name only uttered with curses or jeers,' or ' a 
wretch never named but with curses or jeers.' Be- 
case as how, ' spoke ' is not grammar, except in the 
House of Commons ; and I doubt whether we can 
say ' a name spoken,' for mentioned. I have some 
doubts, too, about ' repay,' — ' and for murder repay 
with a shout and a smile.' Should it not be, ' and 
for murder repay him with shouts and a smile,' or 
' reward him with shouts and a smile ? ' 

" So, pray put your poetical pen through the MS. 
and take the least bad of the emendations. Also, 
if there be any farther breaking of Priscian's head, 
will you apply a plaster ? I wrote in the greatest 
hurry and fury, and sent it to you the day after ; so, 
doubtless, there will be some awful constructions, 
and a rather lawless conception of rhythmus. 

" With respect to what Anna Seward calls ' the 
liberty of transcript,' — when complaining of Miss 
Matilda Muggleton, the accomplished daughter of 
a choral vicar of Worcester Cathedral, who had 
abused the said ' liberty of transcript,' by inserting 
in the Malvern Mercury, Miss Seward's ' Elegy on 
the South Pole,' as her own production, with her 
own signature, two years after having taken a copy, 
by permission of the autl oress — with regard, I say, 
to the 'liberty of transciipt,' I by no means oppose 
an occasional copy to' tie benevolent few, provided 
it does not degenerate into such licentiousness of 
verb and noun as may tend to ' disparage my parts 
of speech ' by the careles?ness of the transcribblers. 

"I do not think that t) ere is much danger of the 
' King's Press being abused ' upon the occasion, if 
the publishers of journals have any regard for their 
remaining liberty of persi n. It is as pretty a piece 
of invective as ever put publisher in the way to 
' Botany.' Therefore, if they meddle with it, it is 
at their peril. As for myself, I will answer any 
jontleman — though I by no means recognize a 
' right of search ' into an unpublished production 
and unavowed poem. The same applies to things 
published sans consent. I hope you like, at least, 
the concluding lines of the joem? 

" What are you doing, ;md where are you ? in 
England ? Nail Murray — nail him to his own coun- 
ter, till he shells out the thirteens. Since I wrote 
to you, I have sent him another tragedy — 'Cain' 
by name — making three in MS. now in his hands, 
or in the printer's. It is in the Manfred, metaphys- 
ical style, and full of some Titanic declamation ; — 
Lucifer being one of the dram. pers. who takes 
Cain a voyage among the stars, and, afterwards, 
to ' Hades,' where he shows the phantoms of a 
former world, and its inhabitants. I have gone 
upon the notion of Cuvier, that the world has been 
destroyed three or four times, and was inhabited by 
mammoths, behemoths, and what not; but not by 
man till the Mosaic period, as, indeed, is proved by 
the strata of bones found ; — those of all unknown 
animals, and known, being dug out, but none of 
mankind. I have, therefore, supposed Cain to be 
shown, in the rational Preadamites, being endowed 
with a higher intelligence than man, but totally 
unlike him in form, and with much greater strength 
of mind and person. You may suppose the small 
talk which takes place between him and Lucifer 
upon these matters is not quite canonical. 

"The consequence is, that Cain comes back and 
kills Abel in a fit of dissatisfaction, partly with the 
politics of Paradise, which had driven them all out 
of it, and partly because (as it is written in Genesis) 
Abel's sacrifice was the more acceptable to the Dei- 
ty. I trust that the Rhapsody has arrived — it is in 



three acts, and entitled 'A Mystery,' according to 
the former Christian custom, and in honor of what 
it probably will remain to the reader. 

"Yours, &c." 



" September 20, 1821. 

" After the stanza on Grattan, concluding with 
' His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied,' 
will it please you to cause the printer to insert the 
following ' Addenda,' which I dreamed of during 
to-day's siesta : 

" Ever glorious Grattan I See, &c, &c. 

I will tell you what to do. Get me twenty copies 
of the whole carefully and privately printed off, as 
your lines were on the Naples affair. Send me six, 
and distribute the rest according to you own plea- 
sure. 

" I am in a fine vein, ' so full of pastime and prod- 
igality ! ' — So, here's to your health in a glass of 
grog. Pray write, that I may know by return of 
post — address to me at Pisa. The gods give you 
joy ! 

"Where are you? in Paris ? Let us hear. You 
will take care that there be no printer's name, nor 
author's, as in the Naples stanzas, at least for the 
present." t 



LETTER DXXII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



LETTER DXXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Sept. 20, 1821. 

' You need not send ' the Blues,' which is a mere 
buffoonery, never meant for publication.* 

" The papers to which I allude, in case of survi- 
vorship, are collections of letters, &c, since I was 
sixteen years old, contained in the trunks in the 
care of Mr. Hobhouse. This collection is at least 
doubled by those I have now here, all received since 
my last ostracism. To these I should wish the 
editor to have access, not for the purpose of abusing 
confidences, nor of hurting the feelings of corre- 
spondents living, nor the memories of the dead ; 
but there are things which would do neither, that I 
have left unnoticed or unexplained, and which (like 
all such things) time only can permit to be noticed 
or explained, though some are to my credit. The 
task will of course require delicacy ; but that will 
not be wanting, if Moore and Hobhouse survive me, 
and, I may add, yourself; and that you may all 
three do so is, I assure you, my very sincere wish. 
I am not sure that long life is desirable for one of 
my temper and constitutional depressions of spirits, 
which of course I suppress in society ; but which 
breaks out when alone, and in my writings, in spite 
of myself. It has been deepened, perhaps, by some 
long-past events, (I do not allude to my marriage, 
&c. — on the contrary, that raised them by the per- 
secution giving a fillip to my spirits;) but I call it 
constitutional, as I have reason to think it. You 
know, or you do not know, that my maternal grand- 
father, (a very clever man, and amiable, I am told,) 
was strongly suspected of suicide, (he was found 
drowned in the Avon at Bath,) and that another 
very near relative of the same branch took poison, 
and was merely saved by antidotes. For the first of 
these events there was no apparent cause, as he was 
rich, respected, and of considerable intellectual re- 
sources, hardly forty years of age, and not at all 
addicted to any unhinging vice. It was, however, 



See Poemj, p. 532. 



LETTERS. 



937 



but a strong suspicion, owing to the manner of his 
death and his melancholy temper. The second had 
a cause, but it does not become me to touch upon 
it : it happened when I was far too young to be 
aware of it, and I never heard of it till after the 
death of that relative, many years afterward. I 
think, then, that I may call this dejection constitu- 
tional. I had always been told that I resembled 
more my maternal grandfather than any of my 
father's family — that is, in the gloomier part of his 
temper, for he was what you call a good-natured 
man, and I am not. 

" The journal here I sent to Moore the other day ; 

but as it is a mere diary, only parts of it would ever 

do for publication. The other journal of the tour 

* in 1816, I should think Augusta might let you have 

a copy of. 

" I am much mortified that GifFord don't take to 
- my new dramas. To be sure, they are as opposite 
to the English drama as one thing can be to an- 
other ; but I have a notion that, if understood, they 
will in time find favor (though not on the stage) 
with the reader. The simplicity of plot is inten- 
tional, and the avoidance of rant also, as also the 
compression of the speeches in the more severe 
situations. What I seek to show in ' the Foscaris ' 
is the suppressed passions, rather than the rant of 
the present day. For that matter — 

( Nay, if thou'It mouth, 
I'll rani as well as thou ' — 

would not be difficult, as I think I have shown in 
my younger productions, — not dramatic ones, to be 
sure. But, as I said before, I am mortified that 
Gifford don't like them ; but J see no remedy, our 
notions on that subject being so different. How is 
he? — well, I hope; — let me know. I regret his 
demur the more that he has been always my grand 
patron, and I know no praise which would compen- 
sate me in my own mind for his censure. I do not 
mind Reviews, as I can work them at their own 
weapons. "Yours, &c." 

" Address to me at Pisa, whither I am going. 
The reason is, that all my Italian friends here have 
been-exiled, and are met there for the present, and 
I go to join them, as agreed upon, for the winter." 



LETTER DXXIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Sept, 'Z4, 1821. 

" I have been thinking over our late correspond- 
ence, and wish to propose to you the following 
articles for our future : 

" lstly. That you shall write to me of yourself, 
of the health, wealth, and welfare of all friends ; but 
of me (quoad me) little or nothing. 

" 2dly. That you shall send me soda-powders, 
tooth-powder, tooth-brushes, or any such anti- 
odontalgie or chemical articles, as heretofore, ' ad 
libitum,' upon being reimbursed for the same. 

" 3dly. That you shall not send me any modern, 
or (as they are called) new publications, in English 
whatsoever, save and excepting any writing, prose or 
verse, of (or reasonably presumed to be of) Walter 
Scott, Crabbe, Moore, Campbell, Rogers, Gifford, 
Joanna Baillie, Irving, (the American,) Hogg, Wil- 
son, (the Isle of Palms man,) or any especial single 
work of fancy which is thought to be of considera- 
ble merit ; Voyages and Travels, provided that they 
are neither in Greece, Spain, Asia Minor, Albania, 
nor Italy, will be welcome. Having travelled the 
countries mentioned, I know that what is said of 
them can convey nothing farther which I desire to 
know about them. — No other English works what- 
soever. 

" 4thly. That you send me no periodical works 
118 



whatsoever — no Edinburgh, Quarterly, Monthly, 
nor any review, magazine, or newspaper, English 
or foreign, of any description. 

"5thly. That you send me no opinions whatso 
ever, either good, bad, or indifferent, of yourself, or 
your friends, or others, concerning any work, or 
works, of mine, past, present, or to come. 

" 6thly. That all negotiations in matters pf busi- 
ness between you and me pass through the medium 
of the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, my friend and trus- 
tee, or Mr. Hobhouse, as ' Alter ego,' and tanta 
mount to myself during my absence — or presence. 

" Some of these propositions may at first seem 
strange, but they are founded. The quantity of 
trash I have received as books is incalculable, and 
neither amused nor instructed. Reviews and mag- 
azines are at the best but ephemeral and superficial 
reading : — who thinks of the grand article of last 
year in any given Review? In the next place, if 
they regard myself, they tend to increase egotism. 
If favorable, I do not deny that the praise elates, 
and if unfavorable, that the abuse irritates. The 
latter may conduct me to inflict a species of satire, 
which would neither do good to you nor to your 
friends : they may smile now, and so may you ; but 
if I took you all in hand, it would not be difficult to 
cut you up like gourds. I did as much by as pow- 
erful people at nineteen years old, and I know little 
as yet, in three-and-thirty, which should prevent 
me from making all your ribs gridirons for your 
hearts, if such were my propensity: but it is not; 
therefore let me hear none of your provocations. 
If any thing occurs so very gross as to require my 
notice, I shall hear of it from my legal friends. For 
the rest, I merely request to be left in ignorance. 

" The same applies to opinions, good, bad, or in- 
different, of persons in conversation or correspond- 
ence. These do not interrupt, but they soil, the 
current of my mind. I am sensitive enough, but 
not till I am troubled; and here I am beyond the 
touch of the short arms of literary England, except 
the few feelers of the polypus that crawl over the 
channels in the way of extract. 

" All these precautions in England would be use- 
less ; the libeller or the flatterer would there reach 
me in spite of all ; but in Italy we know little of 
literary England, and think less, except what 
reaches us through some garbled and brief extract 
in some miserable gazette. For two years (except- 
ing two or three articles cut out and sent to you by 
the post) I never read a newspaper which was not 
forced upon me by some accident, and know, upon 
the whole, as little of England as you do of Italy, 
and God knows that is little enough, with all your 
travels, &c, &c, &c. The English travellers know 
Italy as you know Guernsey : how much is that? 

" If any thing occurs so violently gross or person- 
al as requires notice, Mr. Douglas Kinnaird will let 
me know ; but of praise, I desire to hear nothing. 

" You will say, ' to what tends all this ? ' I will 
answer that ; — to keep my mind free and unbiased 
by all paltry and personal irritabilities of praise or 
censure — to let my genius take its natural direction, 
while my feelings are like the dead, who know 
nothing and feel nothing of all or aught that is 
said or done in their regard. 

" If you can observe these conditions, you will 
spare yourself and others some pain ; let me not be 
worked upon to rise up ; for if I do, it will not be 
for a little. If you cannot observe these conditions, 
we shall cease to be correspondents, — but not 
friends, for I shall always be yours and ever truly, 

" Byron. 

" P. S. I have taken these resolutions, not from 
any irritation against you or yours, but simply upon 
reflection that all reading, either praise or censure, 
of myself has done me harm. When I was in 
Switzerland and Greece, I was out of the way of 
hearing either, and how I ivrote there ! — in Italy I 
am out of the way of it too ; but latterly, partly 
through my fault, and partly through your kindness 



938 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



in wishing to send me the newest and most periodi- 
cal publications, I have had a crowd of Reviews, 
&c, thrust upon me, which have bored mc with 
their jargon, of one kind or another, and taken off 
my attention^from greater objects. You have also 
sent me a parcel of trash of poetry, for no reason 
that I can conceive, unless to provoke me to write 
a new ' English Bards.' Now this I wish to avoid : 
for if ever I do, it will be a strong production ; and 
I desire peace as long as the fools will keep their 
nonsense out of my way." 



LETTER DXXV. 



TO MM. MOOME. 



" September 27, 1821. 

" It was not Murray's fault. I did not send the 
MS. overture, but I send it now,* and it may be 
restored ; — or, at any rate, you may keep the orig- 
inal, and give any copies you please. I send it, as 
written, and as I read it to you — I have no other 
copy. 

" By last week's two posts, in two packets, I sent 
to your address, at Paris, a longish poem upon the 
late Irishism of your countrymen in their reception 
f * * *_ Pray, have you received it ? It is in ' the 
high Roman fashion,' and full of ferocious fantasy. 
As you could not well take up the matter with 
Paddy, (being of the same nest,) I have; — but I 
hope still that I have done justice to his great men 
and his good heart. As for * * *, you will find it 
laid on with a trowel. I delight in your ' fact his- 
torical ' — is it a fact ? " Yours, &c. 

•' P. S. You have not answered me about Schlegel 
— why not ? Address to me at Pisa, whither I am 
going, to join the exiles — a pretty numerous body, 
at present. Let me hear how you are, and what 
you mean to do. Is there no chance of your re- 
crossing the Alps ? If the G. Rex marries again, 
let him not want an Epithalamium — suppose a 
joint concern of you and me, like Sternhold and 
Hopkins ! " 



LETTER DXXYL 



TO MM. MUMMAY. 



" September 28, 1821. 

" I add another cover to request you to ask 
Moore to obtain (if possible) my letters to the late 
Lady Melbourne from Lady Cowper. They are 
very numerous, and ought to have been restored 
long ago, as I was ready to give back Lady Mel- 
bourne's in exchange. These latter are in Mr. 
Hobhouse's custody with my other papers, and 
shall be punctually restored if required. I did not 
choose before to apply to Lady Cowper, as her 
mother's death naturally kept me from intruding 
upon her feelings at the time of its occurrence. 
Some years have now elapsed, and it is essential 
that I should have my own epistles. They are 
essential as confirming that part of the ' Mem- 
oranda' which refers to the two periods (1812 and 
1814) when my marriage with her neice was in con- 
templation, and will tend to show what my real 
views and feelings were upon that subject. 

" You need not be alarmed ; the ' fourteen years ' f 
will hardly elapse without some mortality among us : 

• The lines " Oh Wellington," Don Juan, canto ix., stanza i., &c, 
which 1 had missed in their original place at the opening of the third canto, 
and took for granted that they had been suppressed by his publisher.— Moot: 

t He here alludes to a passing remark in one of Mr. Murray's letters, 
that, as his lordship's " Memoranda " were not to be published in his life- 
time, the sum now paid for the work, 2100!., would, most probably, upon a 
reasonable calculation of survivorship, amount ultimately to no less than 
80001.— Moore. 



it is a long lease of life to speculate upon. So youi 
calculation will not be in so much peril, as the 
' argosie ' will sink before that time, and ' the pound 
of flesh ' be withered previously to your beinf so 
long out of a return. 

" I also wish to give you a hint or two, (as you 
have really behaved very handsomely to Moore in 
the business, and are a fine fellow in your line,) for 
your advantage. If by your own management you 
can extract any of my epistles from Lady — — 
(* ***** *,) they might be of use in your 
collection, (sinking of course the names, and all 
such circumstances as might hurt living feelings, or 
those of survivors ;) they treat of more topics than 
love occasionally. 

****** 

" I will tell you who may happen to have some 
letters of mine in their possession : Lo*d Powers- 
court, some to his late brother; Mr. Long of — (I 
forget his place) — but the father of Edward Long 
of the Guards, who was drowned in going to Lisbon 
early in 1809 ; Miss Elizabeth Pigot, of Southwell, 
Notts, (she may be Mistress by this time, for she 
had a year or two more than I :) they were not love- 
letters, so that you might have them without 
scruple. There are, or might be, some to the late 
Rev. J. C. Tattersall, in the hands of his brother 
(half-brother) Mr. Wheatley, who resides near Can- 
terbury, I think. There are some of Charles Gordon, 
now at Dulwich ; and some few to Mrs. Chaworth ; 
but these latter are probably destroyed or inacces- 
sible. 

****** 

" I mention these people and particulars merely 
as chances. Most of them have probably destroyed 
the letters, which in fact are of little import, many 
of them written when very young, and several at 
school and college. 

" Peel (the second brother of the Secretary) was a 
correspondent of mine, and also Porter, the son of 
the Bishop of Clogher ; Lord Clare a very volum- 
inous one ; William Harness (a friend of Milman's) 
another; Charles Drummond, (son of the banker) ; 
William Bankes (the voyager) your friend; R. C. 
Dallas, Esq. ; Hodgson ; Henry Drury ; Hobhouse 
you are already aware of. 

" I have gone through this lo»g list of 

1 The cold, the faithless, and the dead,' 

because I know that, like ' the curious in fish- 
sauce,' you are a researcher of such things. 

" Besides these, there are other occasional ones 
to literary men and so forth, complimentary, &c, 
&c, &c., not worth much more than the rest. There 
are some hundreds, too, of Italian notes of mine, 
scribbled with a noble contempt of the grammar 
and dictionary, in very English Etruscan ; for I 
speak Italian very fluently, but write it carelessly 
and incorrectly to a degree." 



LETTER DXXVII. 



TO MM. MOOME. 



" September 29, 1821. 

" I send you two rough things, prose and verse, 
not much in themselves, but which will show, one 
of them the state of the country, and the other of 
your friend's mind, when they were written. Neither 
of them were sent to t the person concerned, but 
you will see, by the style of them, that they were 
sincere, as I am in signing myself 

" Yours ever and truly, 

" B." 

[Of the two enclosures, mentioned in the fore- 
going note, one was a letter intended to be sent to 
Lady Byron, relative to his money invested in the 
funds, of which the following are extracts.] 



LETTERS. 



939 



"Ravenna, Marza lmo, 1821. 

" I have received your message, through my 
sister's letter, about English security, &c, &c. It 
is considerate, (and true, even,) that such is to be 
found — but not that I shall find it. Mr. * *, for 
his own views and purposes, will thwart all such 
attempts till he has accomplished his own, viz., to 
make me lend my fortune to some client of his 
choosing. 

"At this distance — after this absence, and with 
vay utter ignorance of alfairs and business — with 
my temper and impatience, I have neither the 
means, nor the mind to resist. * ' * * 

* * * Thinking of the funds as I 

do, and wishing to secure a reversion to my sister 
and her children, I should jump at most expedients. 

" What I told you is come to pass — the Neapol- 
itan war is declared. Your funds will fall, and I 
shall be in consequence ruined. That's nothing — 
but my blood-relations will be so. You and your 
child are provided for. Live and prosper — I wish so 
much to both. Live and prosper — you have the 
means. I think but of my real kin and kindred, 
who may be the victims of this accursed bubble. 

" You neither know nor dream of the con- 
sequences of this war. It is a war of men with 
monarchs, and will spread like a spark on the dry, 
rank grass of the vegetable desert. What it is 
with you and your English, you do not know, for 
A'e sleep. What it is with us here, I know, for it is 
before, and around, and within us. 

" Judge of my detestation of England and of all 
that it inherits, when I avoid returning to your 
country at a time when not only my pecuniary 
interest, but, it may he, even my personal security 
require it. I can say no more, for all letters are 
opened. A short time will decide upon what is to 
be done here, and then you will learn it without 
being more troubled with me or my correspondence. 
Whatever happens an individual is little, so that 
the cause is forwarded. 

" I have no'more to say to you on the score of 
affairs or any other subject." 

[The second enclosure in the note consisted of 
some verses, written by him, December 10th, 1820, 
on seeing the following paragraph in a newspaper. 
" Lady Byron is this year the lady patroness at the 
annual Charity Ball, given at the Town Hall at 
Ilinckly, Leicestershire, and Sir G. Crewe, Bart, 
the principal steward." These verses are full of 
strong and indignant feeling, — every stanza con- 
cluding pointedly with the words "Charity Ball," — 
and the thought that predominates through the 
whole *nay be collected from a few of the opening 
lines. — Moore.'] 

" What matter the pangs of a husband and father, 

If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, 

So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather, 

And the Saint patronises her ' Charity Eall.' 

M What matters — a heart, which though faulty was feeling, 
Be driven to excesses which once could appal — 
That the Sinner should sutler is only fair dealing, 
As the Saint keeps her charity back for ' the Ball,' &c., &c. 



LETTER DXXVIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" September— no— October 1, 1821. 

" I have written to you lately, both in prose and 
verse, at great length, to Paris and London. I 
presume that Mrs. Moore, or whoever is your Paris 
deputy, will forward my packets to you in London. 

" I am setting off for Pisa, if a slight incipient 
intermittent fever do not prevent me. I fear it is 
not strong enough to give Murray much chance of 
realizing his thirteens again. I hardly should regret 



it, I think, provided you raised your price upon 
him — as what Lady Holderness (my sister's grand- 
mother, a Dutch woman) used to call Augusta, hei 
Residee Legatoo — so as to provide for us all ; my 
bones with a splendid and larmoyante edition, and 
you with double what is extractable during my life- 
time. 

" I have a strong presentiment that (bating some 
out-of-the-way accident) you will survive me. The 
difference of eight years, or whatever it is between 
our ages, is nothing. I do not feel (nor am, indeed 
anxious to feci) the principles of life in me tend to 
longevity. My father and mother died, the one at 
thirty-five or six, and the other at forty-five ; and 
Doctor Rush, or somebody else, says that nobody 
lives long, without having one parent, at least, an 
old stager. 

" I should, to be sure, like to see out my eternal 
mother-in-law, not so much for her heritage, but 
from my natural antipathy. But the indulgence of 
this natural desire is too much to expect from the 
Providence who presides over old women. I bore 
you with all this about lives because it has been 
put in my way by a calculation of insurances which 
Murray has sent me. I really think you should 
have more, if I evaporate within a reasonable time. 

"I wonder if my 'Cain' has got safe to Eng- 
land. I have written since about sixty stanzas of a 
poem, in octave stanzas,* (in the Pulci style, which 
the fools in England think was invented by Whistle- 
craft — it is as old as the hills in Italy,) called ' The 
Vision of Judgment, by Quevedo Redivivus,' with 
this motto — 

' A Daniel come to judgment, yea, a Daniel : 
1 thank thee, Jew, for teaching me thu word.' 

" In this it is my intent to put the said George's 
Apotheosis in a Whig point of view, not forgetting 
the Poet Laureate for his preface and his other 
demerits. 

" I am just got to the pass where Saint Peter, 
hearing that the royal defunct had opposed Catholic 
Emancipation, rises up and, interrupting Satan's 
oration, declares he will change places with Cer- 
berus sooner than let him into heaven, while he has 
the keys thereof. 

" I must go and ride, though rather feverish and 
chilly. It is the ague season ; but the agues do me 
rather good than harm. The feel after the fit is as 
if one had got rid of one's body for good and all. 

" The gods go with you ! — Address to Pisa. 

" Ever yours. 

" P. S. Since I came back I feel better, though I 
stayed out too late for this malaria season, under 
the thin crescent of a very young moon, and got of! 
my horse to walk in an avenue with a Signora for 
an hour. I thought of you and 

When at eve thou rovest 
Ey the star thou lovest.' 

But it was not in a romantic mood, as I should have 
been once ; and yet it was a new woman, (that is, 
new to me,) and, of course, expected to be made 
love to. But I merely made a few common-place 
speeches. I feel as your poor friend Curran said, 
before his death, ' a mountain of lead upon my 
heart,' which I believe to be constitutional, and 
that nothing will remove it but the same remedy." 



LETTER DXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" October 6, 1821. 

" By this post I have sent my nightmare to bal- 
ance the incubus of Southey's impudent anticipation 
of the Apotheosis of George the Third. I should 



See Don Juan, canto iv., stanza vL 



940 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



like you to take a look over it, as I think there are 
two or three things in it which might please ' our 
puir hill folk.' 

" By the last two or three posts I have written to 
you at length. My ague bows to me every two or 
three days, but we are not as yet upon intimate 
speaking terms. I have an intermittent generally 
every two years, when the climate is favorable, (as 
it is here,) but it does me no harm. What I find 
worse, and cannot get rid of, is the growing depres- 
sion of my spirits, without sufficient cause. I ride — I 
am not intemperate in eating or drinking — and my 
general health is as usual, except a slight ague, 
which rather does good than not. It must be con- 
stitutional; for I know nothing more than usual to 
depress me to that degree. 

" How do you manage ? I think you told me, at 
Venice, that your spirits did not keep up without a 
little claret. I can drink and bear a good deal of 
wine, (as you may recollect in England;) but it 
don't exilirate — it makes me savage and suspicious, 
and even quarrelsome. Laudunum has a similar 
effect ; but I can take much of it without any effect 
at all. The thing that gives me the highest spirits 
(it seems absurd, but true) is a dose of salts — I mean 
in the afternoon, after their effect. But one can't 
take them like champagne. 

" Excuse this old woman's letter ; but my leman- 
choly don't depend upon health, for it is just the 
same, well or ill, or here or there. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXXX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenua, October 9, 1821. 

" You will please to present or convey the enclosed 
poem to Mr. Moore.' I sent him another copy to 
Paris ; but he has probably left that city. 

'• Don't forget to send me my first act of ' Wer- 
ner,' (if Hobhouse can find it among my papers)— t 
send it by the post to (Pisa) ; and also cut out 
Sophia Lee's ' German's Tale ' from the ' Canterbury 
Tales,' and send it in a letter also. I began that 
tragedy in 1815. 

" By-the-way, you have a good deal of my prose 
tracts in MS."? Let me have proofs of them all 
•again — I mean the controversial ones, including the 
last two or three years of time. Another question ! 
— The Epistle of St. Paul, which I translated from 
the Armenian, for what reason have you kept it back , 
though you published that stuff which gave rise to 
the ' Vampire ? ' Is it because you are afraid to print 
any thing in opposition to the cant of the Quarterly 
about Manveheism ? Let me have a proof of that 
epistle directly. I am a better Christian than those 
parsons of yours, though not paid for being so. 

" Send — Paber's Treatise on the Cabiri. 

" Saint Croix's Mysteres du Paganisme, (scarce, 
perhaps, but to be found, as Mitford refers to his 
work frequently.) 

" A common Bible, of good legible print, (bound 
in Russia.) I have one ; but as it was the last gift 
of my sister, (whom I shall probably never see 
again,) I can only use it carefully, and less fre- 
quently, because I like to keep it in good order. 
Don't forget this, for I am a great reader and 
admirer of those books, and had read them through 
and through before I was eight years old, — that is to 
say, the Old Testament, for the New struck men as 
a task, but the other as a pleasure. I speak as a 
boy from the recollected impression of that period 
at Aberdeen in 1796. 

"Any novels of Scott, or poetry of the same. 
Ditto of Crabbe, Moore, and the Elect ; but none of 
your cursed common-place trash, — unless something 
starts up of actual merit, which may very well be, 
for 'tis time it should." 



LETTER DXXX-I. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" October 20, 1821. 

" If the errors are in the MS., write me down an 
ass ! they are not, and I am content to undergo any 
penalty if they be. Besides, the omitted stanza, 
(last but one or two,) sent afterward, was that in 
the MS. too ? 

"As to 'honor,' I will trust no man's honor in 
affairs of barter. I will tell you why : a state of 
bargain is Hobbes's ' state of nature — a state of 
war.' It is so with all men. If I come to a friend, 
and say, ' Friend, lend me five hundred pounds,' — 
he either does it, or says that he can't or won't ; but 
if I come to Ditto, and say, ' Ditto, I have an excel- 
lent house, or horse, or carriage, or MSS., or books, 
or pictures, or &c, &c, &c, &c, honestly worth a 
thousand pounds, you shall have them for five 
hundred, what does Ditto say ? why, he looks at 
them, he hums, he haws, — he humbugs, if he can,' to 
get a bargain as cheaply as he can, because it is a 
bargain. This is in the blood and bone of mankind ; 
and the same man who would lend another a thou- 
sand pounds without interest, would not buy a horse 
of him for half its value if he could help it. It is 
so : there's no denying it ; and therefore I will have 
as much as I can, and you will give as little ; and 
there's an end. All men are intrinsical rascals, and 
I am only sorry that, not being a dog, I can't bite 
them. 

" I am filling another book for you with little 
anecdotes, to my own knowledge, or well authenti- 
cated, of Sheridan, Curran, &c, and such other 
public men as I recollect to have been acquainted 
with, for I knew most of them, more or less. I will 
do what I can to prevent your losing by my obse- 
quies. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXXXII. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



" Ravenna, October 21, 1821. 

" I shall be (the gods willing) in Bologna on 
Saturday next. This is a curious answer to your 
letter ; but I have taken a house in Pisa for the win- 
ter, to which all my chattels, furniture, horses, car- 
riages, and live stock are already removed, and I am 
preparing to follow. 

"The cause of this removal is, shortly, the exile 
or proscription of all my friends' relations and con- 
nexions here into Tuscany, on account of our late 
politics ; and where they go, I accompany them. I 
merely remained till now to settle some arrange- 
ments about my daughter, and to give time for my 
furniture, &c, to precede me. I have not here a 
seat or a bed hardly, except some jury chairs, and 
tables, and a mattress, for the week to come. 

" If you will go on with me to Pisa, I can lodge 
you for as long as you like, (they write that the 
house, the Palazzo Lanfranchi, is spacious : it is on 
the Arno ;) and I have four carriages, and as many 
saddle horses, (such as they are in these parts,) with 
all other conveniences at your command, as also 
their owner. If you could do this, we may, at least, 
cross the Apennines together ; or if you are going 
by another road, we shall meet at Bologna, I hope. 
I address this to the post-office, (as you desire,) and 
you will probably find me at the Albergo di Han 
Marco. If you arrive first, wait till I come up, 
which will be (barring accidents) on Saturday or 
Sunday at farthest. 

" I presume you are alone in your voyages. 
Moore is in London incog., according to my latest 
advices from those climates. 

"It is better than a lustre, (five years and six 
months and some days, more or less,) since we met ; 
and, like the man from Tadcaster in the farce, 



LETTERS. 



941 



(' Love laughs at Locksmith's,') whose acquaint- 
ances, including the cat and the terrier, ' who caught 
a halfpenny in his mouth,' were all ' gone dead,' but 
too many of our acquaintances have taken the same 
j>ath. Lady Melbourne, Grattan, Sheridan, Curran, 
jfcc, &c, almost every body of much name of the 
old school. But ' so am not I, said the foolish fat 
scullion,' therefore let us make the most of our 
remainder. 

" Let me find two lines from you at ' the hostel 
or inn.' " Yours ever, &c, 

"B.' 



credit and no self-applause to be obtained by being 
of use to a celebrated man, I must retain the same 
opinion of the human species, which I do of oui 
friend M>- Specie. 



LETTER DXXXIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, Oct. 28, 1821. 

" ' 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,' 
and in three hours more I have to set out on 
my way to Pisa — sitting up all night to be sure of 
rising. I have just made them take off my bed- 
clothes — blankets inclusive — in case of temptation 
from the apparel of sheets to my eyelids. 

"Samuel Rogers is — or is to be — at Bologna, as 
he writes from Venice. 

"I thought our Magnifico would 'pound you,' if 
possible. He is trying to ' pound ' me, too : but I'll 
specie the rogue — or, at least, I'll have the odd shil- 
lings out of him in keen iambics. 

" Your approbation of ' Sardanapalus ' is agree- 
able, for more reasons than one. Hobhouse is 
pleased to think as you do of it, and so do some 
others — but the ' Arimaspian,' whom, like ' a gry- 
phon in the wilderness,' I will ' follow for his gold,' 
(as I exorted you to do before,) did or doth dispa- 
rage it — ' stinting me in my sizings.' His notable 
opinions on the ' Foscari ' and ' Cain ' he hath not 
as yet forwarded ; or, at least, I have not yet re- 
ceived them, nor the proofs thereof, though promised 
by last post. 

" I see the way that he and his Quarterly people 
are tending — they want a row with me, and they 
shall have it. I only regret that I am not in Eng- 
land for the nonce ; as, here, it is hardly fair ground 
for me, isolated and out of the way of prompt re- 
joinder and information, as I am. But, though 
backed by all the corruption, and infamy, and pat- 
ronage of then- master rogues and slave renegadoes, 
if they do once rouse me up, 

' They had better gall the devil, Salisbury. ' 

" I have that for two or three of them, which 
they had better not move me to put in motion ; — 
and yet, after all, what a fool 1 am to disquiet my- 
self about such fellows ! It was all very well ten 
or twelve years ago, when I was a ' curled darling,' 
and minded such things. At present, I rate them 
at their true value ; but, from natural temper and 
bile, am not able to keep quiet. 

" Let me hear from you on your return from Ire- 
land, which ought to be ashamed to see you, after 
her Brunswick blarney. I am of Longman's opinion, 
that you should allow your friends to liquidate the 
Bermuda claim. Why should you throw away the 
two thousand pounds (of the Mem-guinea Murray) 
upon that cursed piece of treacherous inveiglement ? 
I think you carry the matter a little too far and 
scrupulously. When we see patriots begging pub- 
licly, and know that Grattan received a fortune 
from his country, I really do not see why a man, in 
no whit inferior to any or all of them, should shrink 
from accepting that assistance from his private 
friends, which every tradesman receives from his 
connexions upon much less occasions. For, after 
all, it was not your debt — it was a piece of swindling 
against you. As to * * * *, and the ' what noble 
creatures!' &c, &c, it is all very fine and very 
well, but till you can persuade me that there is no 



LETTER DXXXIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Pisa, November 3, 1821. 

"The two passages cannot be altered without 
making Lucifer talk like the Bishop of Lincoln, 
which would not be in the character of the former. 
The notion is from Cuvier, (that of the old worlds,) 
as I have explained in an additional note to the 
preface. The other passage is also in character : it 
nonsense, so much the better, because then it can do 
no harm, and the sillier Satan is made, the safer for 
every body. As to ' alarms,' &c, do you really 
think such things ever led any body astray ? Are 
these people more impious than Milton's Satan ? or 
the Prometheus of iEschylus ? or even than the Sad- 
ducees of Milman, the ' Fall of Jerusalem ' * * ? 
Are not Adam, Eve, Adah, and Abel, as pious as 
the catechism ? 

" Gifibrd is too wise a man to think that such 
things can have any serious effect : who was ever 
altered by a poem ? I beg leave to observe, that 
there is no creed nor personal hypothesis of mine in 
all this ; but I was obliged to make Cain and Lucifer 
talk consistently, and surely this has always been 
permitted to poesy. Cain is a proud man : if Luci- 
fer promised him kingdom, &c, it would elate him : 
the object of the Demon is to depress him still far- 
ther in his own estimation than he was before, by 
showing him infinite things, and his own abase- 
ment, till he falls into the frame of mind that leads 
to the catastrophe, from mere internal irritation, 
not premeditation, or envy of Abel, (which would 
have made him contemptible,) but from rage and 
fury against the inadequacy of his state to his con- 
ceptions, and which discharges itself rather against 
life, and the Author of life, than the mere living. 

" His subsequent remorse is the natural effect of 
looking on his sudden deed. Had the deed been 
premeditated, his repentance would have been tardier. 

"Either dedicate it to Walter Scott, or, if you 
think he would like the dedication of ' the Foscaiis ' 
better, put the dedication to ' the Foscaris.' Ask 
him which. 

" Your first note was queer enough ; but your two 
other letters, with Moore's and Gilford's opinions, 
set all right again. , I told you before that I can 
never recast any thing. I am like the tiger : if I 
miss the first spring, I go grumbling back to my 
jungle again ; but if I do hit, it is crushing. * * 
* You disparaged the last three cantos to me, and 
kept them back above a year ; but I have heard 
from England that (notwithstanding the errors of 
the press), they are well thought of; for instance, 
by American Irving, which last is a feather in my 
(fool's) cap. 

" You have received my letter (open) through 
Mr. Kinnaird, and so, pray, send me no more re- 
views of any kind. I will read no more of evil or 
good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a 
review of himself for thirteen years. 

" The bust is not my property, but Jlobhouses's. 
I addressed it to you as an Admiralty man, great at 
the custom-house. Pray deduct the expense of the 
same, and all others. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXXXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, Nov. 9, 1821. 

" I never read the Memoirs at all, not even since 
they were written ; and I never will : the pain of 



942 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



writing them was enough ; you may spare me that 
of a perusal. Mr. Moore has (or may have) a dis- 
cretionary power to omit any repetition or expres- 
sions which do not seem good to him, who is a better 
judge than you or I. 

" Enclosed is a lyrical drama, (entitled ' a Mys- 
tery,' from its subject,) which, perhaps, may arrive 
in time for the volume. You will find it pious 
enough, I trust — at least some of the chorus might 
have been written by Stcrnhold and Hopkins them- 
selves for that, and perhaps for melody. As it is 
longer, and more lyrical and Greek than I intended 
at first, I have not divided it into acts, but called 
what I have sent Part First, as there is a suspen- 
sion of the action, which may either close there 
without impropriety, or be continued in a way that 
I have in view. I wish the first part to be pub- 
lished before the second, because, if it don't suc- 
ceed, it is better to stop there than to go on in a 
fruitless experiment. 

" I desire you to acknowledge the arrival of this 
packet by return of post, if you can conveniently, 
with a proof. " Your obedient, &c. 

" P. S. My wish is to have it published at the 
same time, and, if possible, in the same volume, 
with the others, because, whatever the merits or de- 
merits of these pieces may be, it will perhaps be 
allowed that each is of a different kind, and in a 
different style ; so that, including the prose and the 
Don Juans, &c, I have at least sent you variety 
during the last year or two." 



LETTER DXXXVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Pisa, Nov. 16, 1821. 

"There is here Mr. Taafe, an Irish genius, with 
whom we are acquainted. He hath written a 
really excellent commentary on Dante, full of 
new and true information, and much ingenui- 
ty. But his verse is such as it hath pleased God fo 
endue him withal. Nevertheless, he is so firmly 
pursuaded of its equal excellence, that he won't di- 
vorce the commentary from the traduction, as I 
ventured delicately i'> hint, — and not having the fear 
of Ireland bef6re my eyes, and upon the presump- 
tion of having shotten very well in his presence 
(with common pistols, too, not with my Manton's) 
the day before. 

" But he is eager to publish all, and must be grat- 
ified, though the reviewers will make him suffer 
more tortures than there are in his original. Indeed, 
the notes are well worth publication ; but he insists 
upon the translation for company, so that they will 
come out together, like Lady C * * t chaperoning 
Miss * *. I read a letter of yours to him yesterday, 
and he be<rs me to write to you about his poeshie. — 
He is really a good fellow, apparently, and I dare 
say that his verse is very good Irish. 

" Now, what shall we do for him ? He says that 
he will risk part of the expense with the publisher. 
He will never rest till he is published and abused — 
for he has a high opinion of himself — and I see 
nothing left but to gratify him so as to have him 
abused as little as possible ; for I think it would kill 
him. You must write, then, to Jeffrey to beg him 
not to review him, and I will do the same to Gilford, 
through Murray. Perhaps they might notice the 
comment without touching the text. But I doubt 
the dogs — the text is too tempting:, * * 

* * * 1 o> 

"I have to thank you again, as I believe I did 
before, for your opinion of ' Cain,' &c. 

" You are right to allow to settle the claim ; 

but I do not see why you should repay him out of 
your legacy — at least not yet. If you feel about it, 
(as you are ticklish on such points,) pay him the 



interest now, and the principal when you are 
strong in cash ; or pay him by instalments ; or pay 
him as I do my creditors— that is, not till they make 
me. 

" I address this to you at Paris, as you desire. — 
Reply soon, and believe me ever, &c. 

"P. S. What I wrote to you about low spirits is, 
however, very true. At present, owing to the cli- 
mate, &c, (I can walk down into mv garden, and 
pluck my own oranges, and, by-the-w*ay, have got a 
diarrhoea in consequence of indulging in this me- 
ridian luxury of proprietorship,) my spirits are 
much better. You seem to think that I could not 
have written the ' Vision,' &c, under the influence 
of low spirits ;— but I think there you err. A man's 
poetry is a distinct faculty, or soul, and has no 
more to do with the every-day individual than the 
Inspiration with the Pythoness when removed from 
her tripod." 

To Lord Byron. 

" Frome, Somerset, Nov. 21, 1821. 

" My Lord, 

" More than two years since, a lovely and beloved 
wife was taken from me, by lingering disease, after 
a very short union. She possessed "unvarying gen- 
tleness .and fortitude, and a piety so retiring as 
rarely to disclose itself in words, but so influential 
as to produce uniform benevolence of conduct. In 
the last hour of life, after a farewell look on a late- 
ly born and only infant, for whom she had evinced 
inexpressible affection, her last whispers were, 
' God's happiness ! God's happiness ! ' Since the 
second anniversary of her decease, I have read some 
papers which no one had seen during her life, and 
which contain her most secret thoughts. I am in- 
duced to communicate to your lordship a passage 
from these papers, which, there is no doubt, refers 
to yourself; as I have more than once heard the 
writer mention your agility on the rocks at Has- 
tings. 

" ' Oh, my God, I take encouragement from the 
assurance of Thy Word, to pray to Thee in behalf 
of one for whom I have lately been much interested. 
May the person to whom I allude (and who is now, 
w^e fear, as much distinguished for his neglect of 
Thee as for the transcendent talents Thou hast be- 
stowed on him) be awakened to a sense of his own 
danger, and led to seek that peace of mind, in a 
proper sense of religion, which he has found this 
world's enjoyments unable to procure ! Do Thou 
grant, that his future example may be productive of 
far more extensive benefit than his past conduct and 
writing have been of evil; and may the Sun of 
righteousness, which, we trust, will, at some future 
period, arise on him, be bright in proportion to the 
darkness of those clouds which guilt has raised 
around him, and the balm which it bestows, healing 
and soothing in proportion to the keenness of that 
agony which the punishment of his vices has in- 
flicted on him ! May the hope that the sincerity of 
my own efforts for the attainment of holiness, and 
the approval of my own love to the great Author of 
religion, will render this prayer, and every other for 
the welfare of mankind, more efficacious. — Cheer 
me in the path of duty ; — but let me not forget, 
that, while we arc permitted to animate ourselves to' 
exertion by every innocent motive, these are but 
the lesser streams which may serve to increase the 
current, but which, deprived of the grand fountain 
of good, (a deep conviction of inborn sin, and firm 
belief in the efficacy of Christ's death for the salva- 
tion of those who trust in him, and really wish to 
serve him,) would soon dry up, and leave us barren 
of every virtue as before. 

'"July 31st, 1814. 
" ' Hastings.' " 

" There is nothing, my lord, in this extract, which, 
in a literary sense, can at all interest you ; but it 
may, perhaps, appear to you worthy of reflection 



LETTERS. 



943 



how deep and expansive a concern for the happi- 
ness of others the Christian faith can awaken in the 
midst of youth and prosperity. Here is nothing 
poetical and splendid, as in the expostulatory hom- 
age of M. Delamartine ? but here is the sublime, 
my lord ; for this intercession was offered, on your 
account, to the supreme Source of happiness. It 
sprang from a faith more confirmed than that of the 
French poet; and from a charity which, in combi- 
nation with faith, showed its power unimpaired 
amid the languors and pains of approaching disso- 
lution. I will hope that a prayer, which I am 
sure, was deeply sincere, may notbe always unavail- 
ing. 

" It would add nothing, my lord, to the fame with 
which your genius has surrounded you, for an un- 
known and obscure individual to express his admi- 
ration of it. I had rather be numbered with those 
who wish and pray, that ' wisdom from above,' and 
'peace,' and 'joy,' may enter such a mind. 

" John Sheppard." 



LETTER DXXXVII. 



TO MR. SHEPPARD. 



Sir, 



' Pisa, December 8, 1921. 



" I have received your letter. I need not say, 
that the extract which it contains has affected me, 
because it would imply a want of all feeling to have 
read it with indifference. Though I am not quite 
sure that it was intended by the writer for me, yet 
the date, the place where it was written, with some 
other circumstances that you mention, I'ender the 
allusion probable. But for whomever it was meant, 
I have read it with all the pleasure which can arise 
from so melancholy a topic. I say pleasure — be- 
cause your brief and simple picture of the life and 
demeanor of the excellent person whom I trust you 
will again meet, cannot be contemplated without 
the admiration due to her virtues and her pure and 
unpretending piety. Her last moments were par- 
ticularly striking ; and I do not know that, in the 
course of reading the story of mankind, and still 
less in my observations upon the existing portion, I 
ever met with any thing so unostentatiously beauti- 
ful. Indisputably, the firm believers in the gospel 
have a great advantage over all others, — for this 
simple reason, that, if true, they will have their re- 
ward hereafter ; and if there be no hereafter, they 
can be but with the infidel in his eternal sleep, hav- 
ing had the assistance of an exalted hope, through 
life, without subsequent disappointment, since (at 
the worst for them) ' out of nothing, nothing can 
arise,' not even sorrow. But a man's creed does not 
depend upon himself: who can say, I will believe 
this, that, or the other ? and, least of all, that 
which he least can comprehend. I have, however, 
observed, that those who have begun life with ex- 
treme faith, have in the end greatly narrowed it, as 
Chillingworth, Clarke, (who ended as an Arian,) 
Bayle, and Gibbon, (once a Catholic,) and some 
others ; while, on the other hand, nothing is more 
common than for the early skeptic to end in a firm 
belief, like Maupertuis and Henry Kirk White. 

" But my business is to acknowledge your letter, 
and not to make a dissertation. I am obliged to you 
for your good wishes, and more than obliged by the 
extract from the papers of the beloved object whose 
qualities you have so well described in a few words. I 
can assure you, that all the fame which ever cheated 
humanity into higher notions of its own importance 
would never weigh in my mind against the pure 
and pious interest which a virtuous being may be 
pleased to take in my welfare. In this point of 
view, I would not exchange the prayer of the de- 
ceased in my behalf for the united glory of Homer, 
Caesar, and Napoleon, could such be accumulated 



upon a living head. Do me at least the justice to 
suppose, that ^ 

* Video meliora proooque,' 

however the ' deteriora sequor,' may have been ap- 
plied to my conduct. 

" I have the honor to be 

" Your obliged and obedient servant, 
" Byron. 
" P. S. I do not know that I am addressing a 
clergyman ; but I presume that you will not be af- 
fronted by the mistake (if it is one) on the address 
of this letter. One who has so well explained, and 
deeply felt the doctrines of religion, will excuse the 
error which led me to believe him its minister." 



LETTER DXXXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Pisa, December 4, 1821. 

" By extracts in the English papers, — in your 
holy ally, Galignani's 'Messenger,' — I perceive that 
' the two greatest examples of human vanity in the 
present age ' are firstly, ' the ex-emperor Napoleon,' 
and, secondly, ' his lordship, &c, the noble poet,' 
meaning your humble servant, ' poor guiltless I.' 

" Poor Napoleon ! he little dreamed to what vile 
comparisons the turn of the wheel would reduce 
him ! 

" I have got here into a famous old feudal palazzo, 
on the Arno, large enough for a garrison, with dun- 
geons below and cells in the walls, and so full of 
ghosts that the learned Fletcher (my valet) has 
begged leave to change his room, and then refused 
to occupy his new room, because there were more 
ghosts there than in the other. It is quite true that 
there are most extraordinary noises, (as in all old 
buildings,) which have terrified the servants so as 
to incommode me extremely. There is one place 
where people were evidently walled up, for there is 
but one possible passage, broken through the wall, 
and then meant to be closed again upon the inmate. 
The house belonged to the Lanfranchi family, (the 
same mentioned by Ugolino in his dream, as his 
persecutor with Sismondi,) and has had a fierce 
owner or two in its time. The staircase, &c, is said 
to have been built by Michel Angelo. It is not yet 
cold enough for a fire. What a climate ! 

" I am, however, bothered about these spectres, 
(as they say the last occupants were, too,) of whom 
I have ^ as yet seen nothing, nor, indeed, heard 
(myself ) ; but all the other ears have been regaled 
by all kinds of supernatural sounds. The first night 
I thought I head an odd noise, but it has not been 
repeated. I have now been here more than a month. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXXXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, December 10, 1911. 

" This day and this hour, (one, on the clock,) my 
daughter is six years old. I wonder when I shall 
see her again, or if ever I shall see her at all. 

" I have remarked a curious coincidence, which 
almost looks like a fatality. 

" My mother, my wife, my daughter, my half- 
sister, my sister's mother, my natural daughter, (as 
far at least as / am concerned,) and myself, are all 
only children. 

' My father, by his first marriage with Lady Con 7 
yers, (an only child,) had only my sister; and by 
his second marriage with an only child, an only 



944 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



child again. Lady Byron, as you know, was one 
also, and so is my daughter, &c. 

" Is not this ratlrcr odd — such a complication of 
only children ? By-the-way, send me my daughter 
Ada's miniature. I have only the print, which 
gives little or no idea of her complexion. 

" Yours, &c, 
"B." 



LETTER DXL. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Pisa, December 12, 1821. 

" What you say about Galignani's two biogra- 
phies is very amusing ; and, if I were not lazy, I 
would certainly do what you desire. But I doubt 
my present stock of facetiousness — that is, of good 
serious humor, so as not to let the cat .out of the 
baa;.* I wish you would undertake it. I will for- 
give and indulge you (like a pope) beforehand, for 
any thing ludicrous, that might ke'ep those fools 
in their own clear belief that a man is a loup garou. 

" I suppose I told you that the Giaour story had 
actually some foundation on facts ; or, if I did not, 
you will one day find it in a letter of Lord Sligo's, 
written to me after the publication of the poem. I 
should not like marvels to rest upon any account of 
my own, and shall say nothing about it. However, 
the real incident is still remote enough from the 
poetical one, being just such as, happening to a 
man of any imagination, might suggest such a 
composition. The worst of any real adventures is, 

that they involve living people — else Mrs. s 

's, &c, are as ' german to the matter' as Mr. 

Maturin could desire for his novels. 
***** 

"The consummation you mentioned for poor 
Taafe was near taking place yesterday. Riding 
pretty sharply after Mr. Medwin and myself, in 
turning the corner of a lane between Pisa and the 
hills, he was spilt, — and, besides losing some claret 
on the spot, bruised himself a good deal, but is in 
no danger. He was bled, and keeps his room. As 
I was a-head of him some hundred yards, I did not 
see the accident ; but my servant, who was behind, 
did, and, says the horse did not fall — the usual ex 
cuse of floored equestrians. As Taafe piques him- 
self upon his horsemanship, and his horse is really 
a prettv horse enough, I long for his personal nar- 
rative,— as I never yet met the man who would 
fairly claim a tumble as his own property. 

" Could not you send me a printed copy of the 
'Irish, Avatar?' — I do not know what has become 
of Rogers since we parted at Florence. 

" Don't let the Angles keep you from writing. 
Sam told me that you were somewhat dissipated in 
Paris, which I can easily believe. Let me hear 
from you at your best leisure. 

" Ever, and truly, &c. 

" P. S. December 13. 

" I enclose you some lines, written not long ago, 
which you may do what you like with, as they are 
very harmless. + Only, if copied or printed, or set, 
I could wish it more correctly than in the usual 
way, in which one's 'nothings are monstered,' as, 
Coriolanus says. 

" You must really get Taafe published — he never 
will rest till he is so. He is just gone with his 



broken head to Lucca, at my desire, to try to save 
a man from being burnt. The Spanish * * *, that 
has her peticoats over Lucca, had actually con- 
demned a poor devil to the stake, for stealing the 
wafer-box out of a church. Shelley and I, of 
course, were up in arms against this piece of piety, 
and have been disturbing every body to get the sen- 
tence changed. Taafe is gone to see what can be 
done. 

"B." 



LETTER DXLI. 



TO MR. SHELLEY. 



"December 12, 1821. 

' My Dear Shelley, 

" Enclosed is a note for you from . His rea- 
sons are all very true, I dare say, and it might and 
may be of personal inconvenience to us. But that 
does not appear to me to be a reason to allow a being 
to be burnt without trying to save him. To save him 
by any means but remonstrance, is of course out of the 
question ; but I do not see why a temperate remon- 
strance should hurt any one. Lord Guilford is the 
man, if he would undertake it. He knows the 
Grand Duke personally, and might, perhaps, pre- 
vail upon him to interfere. But, as he goes to-mor- 
row, you must be quick or it will be useless. Make 
any use of my name that you please. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



wish to be furnished with a short 
Alemoir of Lord Byron, for the purpose of prefixing it to the French edition 
>( his works, I had said jestingly in a preceding letter to his lordship, that it 
would be but a fair satire on the disposition of the world to " berr.onster his 
'matures,'* if he would write for the public, English as well as French, a sort 
of mock-heroic account of himself, outdoing, in horrors and wonders, all that 
had been vet related or believed of him, and leaving even Goethe's story of 
the double murder at Florence far behind.- Moore. 

t Stanzas written on the road between Florence and Pisa page 575. 



LETTER DXLII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"I send you the two notes, which will tell you 
the story I allude to of the Auto da Fe. Shelley's 
allusion to his ' fellow-serpent' is a buffoonery of 
mine. Goethe's Mephistofilus calls the serpent 
who tempted Eve ' my aunt, the renowned snake ;' 
and I always insist that Shelley is nothing but one 
of her nephews, walking about on the tip of his 
tail.',' 

TO LORD BYRON. 

"2 o'clock, Tuesday Morning. 

" My Dear Lord, 

" Although strongly persuaded that the story 
must be either an entire fabrication, or so gross an 
exaggeration as to be nearly so ; yet, in order to be 
able to discover the truth beyond all doubt, and to 
set your mind quite at rest, I have taken the'deter- 
mination to go myself to Lucca this morning. 
Should it prove less false than I am convinced it is, 
1 shall not fail to exert myself in every way that I 
can imagine may have any success. Be assured of 
this. " Your lordship's most truly, 

i<* *. 

" P. S. To prevent bavardaye, I prefer going in 
person to sending my servant with a letter. It is 
better for you to mention nothing (except of 
course, to Shelley) of my excursion. The person I 
visit there is one on whom I can have every depend- 
ence in every way, both as to authority and truth. 



TO LORD BYRON. 

" Thursday Morning. 

" My Dear Lord Byron, 

" I hear this morning that the design, which cer- 
tainly had been in contemplation, of burning my 
fellow-serpent, has been abandoned, and that he 
has been condemned to the galleys. Lord Guilford 



LETTERS. 



945 



is at Leghorn ; and as your courier applied to me to 
know whether he ought to leave your letter for him 
or not, I have thought it hest since this information 
to tell him to take it back. 

" Ever faithfully yours, 
" P. B. Shelley. 



LETTER DXLIII. 

TO SIR WALTER. SCOTT, ISAIIT. 

" Pisa, January 12, 1322. 

" My Dear Sir Walter, 

" I need not say how grateful I am for your letter 
but I must own my ingratitude in not having writ- 
ten to you again long ago. Since I left England, 
(and it is not for all the usual term of transporta- 
tion,) I have scribbled to five hundred blockheads 
on business, &c, without difficulty, though with 
no great pleasure ; and yet, with the notion of ad- 
dressing you a hundred times, in my head and al 
ways in my heart, I have not done what I ought to 
have done. I can only account for it on the same 
principle of tremulous anxiety with which one 
sometimes makes love to a beautiful woman of our 
own degree, with whom one is enamored in good 
earnest ; whereas we attack a fresh colored house- 
maid without (I speak, of course, of earlier times) 
any sentimental remorse or mitigation of our virtu 
ous purpose. 

" I owe to you far more than the usual obligation 
for the courtesies of literature and common friend- 
ship, for you went out of your way in 1817 to do me 
a service, when it required not merely kindness, 
but courage to do so ; to have been recorded by you 
in such a manner would have been a proud memo- 
rial at any time, but at such a time when ' all the 
world and his wife,' as the proverb goes, were trying 
to trample upon me, was something still higher to 
my self-esteem, — I allude to the Quarterly Review 
of the third canto of Childe Harold, which Murray 
told me was written by you, — and indeed, I should 
have known it without his information, as there 
could not be two who could and would have done 
this at the time. Had it been a common criticism, 
however eloquent or panegyrical, I should have felt 
pleased, undoubtedly, and grateful, but not to the 
extent which. the extraordinary good-heartedness of 
the whole proceeding must induce in any mind ca 
pable of such sensations. The very tardiness of 
this acknowledgment will, at least show that I 
have not forgotten the obligation ; and I can assure 
you that my sense of it has been out at compound 
interest during the delay. I shall only add one 
word upon the subject, which is, that I think that 
you, and Jeffrey, and Leigh Hunt, were the only 
literary men, of numbers whom I know, (and some 
of whom I have served,) who dared venture even an 
anomymous word in my favor just then; and that 
of those three, I had never seen one at all — of the 
second much less than I desired — and that the third 
"wasjinder no kind of obligation tome whatever; 
while the other two had been actually attacked by 
me on a former occasion ; one, indeed, with some 
provocation, but the other wantonly enough. So 
you see you have been heaping ' coals of fire,' &c., 
in the true gospel manner, and I can assure you 
that they have burnt down to my very heart. 

" I am glad that you accepted the inscription. I 
meant to have inscribed ' the Foscarini' to you in- 
stead ; but first, I heard that ' Cain' was thought 
the least bad of the two as a composition ; and, 
2dly, I have abused Southey like a pickpocket, in a 
note to the Foscarini, and I recollected that he is a 
friend of yours, (though not of mine,) and that it 
would not be the handsome thing to dedicate to one 
friend any thing containing such matters about an- 
other. However, I'll work the Laureate before I 
have done with him, as soon as I can muster Bil- 
119 



lingsgate therefor. I like a row, and always did 
from a boy, in the course of which propensity, I 
must needs say, that I have found it the most easy 
of all to be gratified, personally and poetically. You 
disclaim 'jealousies;' but I would ask, as Boswell 
did of Johnson, ' of whom could you be jealous,' 
of none of the living, certainly, and (taking all and 
all into consideration) of which of the dead ? I 
don't like to bore you about the Scotch novels, (as 
they call them, though two of them are wholly 
English, and the rest half so,) but nothing can or 
could ever persuade me, since I was the first ten 
minutes in your company, that you are MoCtheman. 
To me those novels have so much of ' Auld lang 
syne, (I was bred a canny Scott till ten years old,) 
that I never move without them ; and when I re- 
moved from Ravenna to Pisa, the other day, and 
sent on my library before, they were the only books 
that I kept by mc, although I already have them by- 
heart. 

"January 27, 1823. 

"I delayed till now concluding, in the hope that 
I should have got ' the Pirate,' who is now under 
way for me, but has not yet hove in sight. I hear 
that youj: daughter is married, and I suppose by 
this time you are half a grandfather — a young one, 
by-the-way. I have heard great things of Mrs. 
Lockhart's personal and mental charms, and much 
good of her lord : that you may live to see as many 
novel Scotts as there are Scots' novels, is the very 
bad pun, but sincere wish of 

" Yours ever most affectionately, &c. 

" P. S. Why don't you take a turn in Italy ? You 
would find yourself as well known and as wel- 
come as in the Highlands among the natives. As 
for the English you would be with them as in Lon- 
don ; and I need not add, that I should be de- 
lighted to see you again, which is far more than I 
shall ever feel or say for England, or (with a few 
exceptions 'of kith, kin, and allies') any thing 
that it contains. But my ' heart warms to the tar- 
tan,' or to any thing of Scotland, which reminds 
me of Aberdeen and other parts, not so far from 
the Highlands* as that town, about Invercauld and 
Braemar, where I was sent to drink goat's fey in 
1795-6, in consequence of a threatened decline after 
the scarlet fever. But I am gossipping ; so, good 
night — and the gods be with your dreams ! 

" Pray present my respects to Lady Scott, who 
may perhaps recollect having seen me in town in 
1815. 

" I see that one your supporters (for, like Sir 
Ilildebrand, I am fond of Gullin) is a mermaid; it 
is my crest too, and with precisely the same curl oi 
tail. There's concatenation for you ! — I am build 
ing a little cutter at Genoa, to go a cruising in the 
summer. I know you like the sea too." 



LETTER DXLIV. 



TO DOUGLAS KINNAIRD. 



" Pisa, February 6, 1822. 

" ' Try back the deep lane,' till we find a pub- 
lisher for ' the Vision ; ' and if none such is to be 
found, print fifty copies at my expense, distribute 
them among my acquaintance, and you will soon 
see that the booksellers will publish "them, even if 
we oppose them. That they are now afraid is natu- 
ral ; but I do not see that I ought to give way on 
that account. I know nothing of Rivington's 'Re- 
monstrance' by the ' eminent Churchman ; ' but I 
suppose he wants a living. I once heard of a 
preacher at Kentish Town against ' Cain.' The 
same outcry was raised against Priestly, Hume^ 



See note to " The Island." 



946 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Gibbon, Voltaire, and all the men who dared to put 
tithes to the question. 

" I have got Southey's pretended reply, to which I 
am surprised that you do not allude. What re- 
mains to be done is, to call him out. The question 
is, would he come ? for, if he would not, the whole 
thing would appear ridiculous, if I were to take a 
long and expensive journey to no purpose. 

" You must be my second, and, as such, I wish to 
consult you. 

" I apply to you as one well versed in the duello, 
or monomachie. Of course I shall come to Eng- 
land as privately as possible, and leave it (sup- 
posing that I was the survivor) in the same manner ; 
having no other object which could bring me to that 
country except to settle quarrels accumulated 
during my absence. 

" By the last post I transmitted to you a letter 
upon some Rochdale toll business, from which 
there are moneys in prospect. My agent says two 
thousand pounds, but supposing it to be only one, 
or even one hundred, still they be moneys ; and I 
have lived long enough to have an exceeding re- 
spect for the smallest current coin of any realm, or 
the least sum, which, although I may not want it 
myself, may do something for others who may need 
it more than I. 

" They say that ' Knowledge is Power ; ' — I used 
to think so ; but I now know that they meant 

* money :' and when Socrates declared, ' that all he 
knew was, that he knew nothing,' he merely in- 
tended to declare, that he had not a drachm in the 
Athenian world. 

" The circulars are arrived, and circulating like 
the vortices (or vortexes) of Descartes. Still I 
have a due care of the needful, and keep a look-out 
ahead, as my notions upon the score of moneys co- 
incide with yours, and with all men's who have 
lived to see that every guinea is a philosopher's 
stone, or at least his touch-stone. You will doubt 
me the less, when I pronounce my firm belief, that 
Cash is Virtue. 

"I cannot reproach myself with much expendi- 
ture: my only extra expense (and it is mqre than I 
have spent upon myself) being a loan of two 
hundred and fifty pounds to Hunt ; and fifty 
pounds' worth of furniture which I have bought for 
him ; and a boat which I am building for myself 
at Genoa, which will cost about a hundred pounds 
more. 

" But to return. I am determined to have all 
the moneys I can, whether by my own funds, or 
succession, or lawsuit, or MSS., or any lawful 
means whatever. 

" I will pay (though with the sincerest reluctance) 
my remaning creditors, and every man of law, by 
instalments from the award of the arbitrators. 

" I recommend to you the notice in Mr. Han- 
son's letter, on the demand of moneys for the 
Rochdale tolls. 

"Above all, I recommend my interests to your 
honorable worship. 

" Recollect, too, that I expect some moneys for 
the various MSS., (no matter what;) and, in short, 

• Rem, quocunque modo, Rem ! ' — the noble feeling 
of cupidity grows upon us with our years. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DXLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Pisa, Feb. 8, 1822. 

" Attacks upon me were to be expected, but I 
perceive one upon youin the papers, which I confess 
♦hat I did not expect. How, or in what manner, 
you can be considered responsible for what / pub- 
lish, I am at a loss to conceive. 

"If 'Cain' be 'blasphemous,' Paradise Lost is 



blasphemous; and the very words of the Oxford 
gentleman, 'Evil, be thou my good,' are from that 
very poem, from the mouth of Satan ; and is there 
any thing more in that of Lucifer in the Mystery ? 
Cain is nothing more than a drama, not a piece of 
argument. If Lucifer and Cain speak as the first 
murderer and the first rebel may be sur/posed to 
speak, surely all the rest of the personages talk also 
according to their characters — and the stronger pas- 
sions have ever been permitted to the drama. 

" I have even avoided introducing the Deity as in 
Scripture, (though Milton does, and not very wisely 
cither,) but have adopted his angel as sent to Cain 
instead, on purpose to avoid shocking any feelings 
on the subject by falling short of what all unin- 
spired men must fall short in, viz., giving an 
adequate notion of the effect of the presence of 
Jehovah. The old Mysteries introduced him libe- 
rally enough, and all this is avoided in the new one. 

" The atte'ept to bully you, because they think it 
won't succeed with me, seems to me as atrocious an 
attempt as ever disgraced the times. What ! when 
Gibbon's, Hume's, Priestley's, and Drummond's 
publishers have been allowed to rest in peace for 
seventy years, are you to be singled out for a work 
of Jiction, not of history or argument ? There must 
be something at the bottom of this — some private 
enemy of your own: it is otherwise incredible. 

" I can only say, ' Me, me ; en adsum qui feci ; ' 
— that any proceedings directed against you, I beg, 
may be transferred to me, who am willing, and 
ought, to endure them all; that if you have lost 
money by the publication, I will refund any or all 
of the copyright ; that I desire you will say that 
both you and Mr. Gifford remonstrated against the 
publication, as also Mr. Hobhouse; that / alone 
occasioned it, and I alone am the person who, 
either legally or otherwise, should bear the burden. 
If they prosecute, I will come to England — that is, 
if by meeting it in my own person, I can save 
yours. Let me know. You shan't suffer for me, if 
I can help it. Make any use of this letter you 
please. " Yours ever, &c. 

" P. S. I write to yon about all this row of bad 
passions and absurdities, with the summer moon 
(for here our winter is clearer than your dog-days) 
lighting the winding Amo, with all her buildings 
and bridges, — so quiet and still ! — What nothings 
are we before the least of these stars ! " 



LETTER DXLVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Pisa, Feb. 19, 1822. 

" I am rather surprised not to have had an 
answer to my letter and packets. Lady Noel is 
dead, and it is not impossible that I may have to go 
to England to settle the division of the Wentworth 
property, and what portion Lady B. is to have of 
it ; all which was left undecided by the articles of 
separation. But I hope not, if it can be done 
without, — and I have written to Sir Francis Bur- 
dett to be my referee, as he knows the property. 

" Continue to address here, as I shall not go if I 
can avoid it — at least, not on that account. But I 
may on another ; for I wrote to Douglas Kinnaird to 
convey a message of invitation to Mr. Southey to 
meet me, either in England, or (as less liable to inter- 
ruption) on the coast of France. This was about a 
fortnight ago, and I have not yet had time to have 
the answer. However, you shall have due notice 
therefore continue to address to Pisa. 

" My agents and trustees have written to me to 
desire that I would take the name directly, so that, 
I am yours very truly and affectionately, 

"Noel Byron. 

" P. S. I have had no news from England except 



LETTERS. 



947 



on business ; and merely know, from some abuse in 
that faithful ex, and de-tractor, Galignani, that the 
clergy are up against 'Cain.' There is (if I am 
not mistaken) some good church preferment on the 
Wentworth estates ; and I will show them what a 
good Christian I am by patronising and preferring 
the most pious of their order, should opportunity 
occur. 

" M. and I am but little in correspondence, and I 
know nothing of literary matters at present, 
have been writing on business only lately. What 
are you about ? Be assured that there is no such 
coalition as you apprehend." 



LETTER DXLVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, Feb. 20, 1SVS.* 

"Your letter arrived since 1 wrote the enclosed. 
It is not likely, as I have appointed agents and 
arbitrators for the Noel estates, that I should pro- 
ceed to England on that account, — though I may 
upon another, within stated. At any rate, continue 
you to address here till you hear further from me. 
I could wish you still to arrange for me, either with 
a London or Paris publisher, for the things, &c. I 
shall not quarrel with any arrangement you may 
please to make. 

" I have appointed Sir Francis Burdett my arbi- 
trator to decide on Lady Byron's allowance out of 
the Noel estates, which are estimated at seven 
thousand a year, and rents very well paid, — a rare 
thing at this time. It is, however, owing to their 
consisting chiefly in pasture lands, and therefore 
less affected by corn bills, &c, than properties in 
tillage. 

' Believe me yours ever most affectionately, 

" Noel Byron. 

" Between my own property in the funds, and my 
wife's in land, I do not know which side to cry out 
on in politics. 

" There is nothing against the immortality of the 
soul in ' Cain ' that I recollect. 1 hold no such 
opinions ; — but, in a drama, the first rebel and the 
first murderer must be made to talk according to 
their characters. However, the parsons are all 
preaching at it, from Kentish Town and Oxford to 
Pisa ; — the scoundrels of priests, who do more harm 
to religion than all the infidels that ever forgot their 
catehism. 

" I have not seen Lady Noel's death announced 
in Galignani. — How is that ? " 



LETTER DXLVIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



' Pirn, Feb. 23, 1822. 



•' 1 begin to think that the packet (a heavy one) 
of five acts of ' Werner,' &c, can hardly have 
reached you, for your letter of last week (which I 
answered) did not allude to it, and yet I insured it 
at the post-office here. 

" I have no direct news from England, except on 
the Noel business, which is proceeding quietly, as I 
have appointed a gentleman (Sir F. Burdett) for 
my arbitrator. They, too, have said that they will 
recall the lawyer whom they had chosen, and will 
name a gentleman too. This is better, as the 
' arrangement of the estates and of Lady's B.'s 
allowance will thus be settled without quibbling. 



My lawyers are taking out a license for the name 
and arms, which it seems I am to endue. 

"By another, and indirect quarter, I hear that 
' Cain ' has been pirated, and that the Chancellor 
has refused to give Murray any redress. Also, that 
G. R.* {your friend 'Ben'), has expressed great 
personal indignation at the said poem. All this is 
curious enough, I think,— after allowing Priestly, 
Hume, and Gibbon, and Bolingbroke, and Voltaire 
to be published, without depriving the booksellers 
of their rights. I heard from Rome a day or two 
ago, and, with what truth I know not, that * * *. 

" Yours, &c " 



LETTER DXLIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, March 1, 1822. 

" As I still have no news of my ' Werner,' &c, 
packet, sent to you on the 29th of January, I con- 
tinue to bore you, (for the fifth time, I believe,) to 
know whether it has not miscarried. As it was 
fairly copied out, it will be vexatious if it be lost. 
Indeed, I insured it at the post-office to make 
them take more care, and directed it regularly tc 
you at Paris. 

" In the impartial Galignani I perceive an extract 
from Blackwood's Magazine, in which it is said 
that there are people who have discovered that you 
and I are no poets. With regard to one of us, 1 
know that this north-west passage to my magnetic 
pole had been long discovered by some sages and I 
leave them the full benefit of their penetration. I 
think, as Gibbon says of his History, ' that, per- 
haps a hundred years hence it may still continue to 
be abused.' However, I am far from pretending to 
compete or compare with that illustrious literary 
character. 

" But, with regard to you, I thought that you 
had always been allowed to be a poet, even by the 
stupid as well as the envious — a bad one, to be sure 
— immoral, florid, Asiatic, and diabolically popular, 
— but still always a poet, mem, con. This discovery, 
therefore, has to me all the grace of novelty, as 
well as of consolation (according to Rochefoucault) 
to find myself «o-poetized in such good company. 
I am content to ' err with Plato ; ' and can assure 
you very sincerely, that I would rather be received 
i non poet with you, than be crowned with all the 
bays of (the ye^-uncrowned) Lakers in their society. 
I believe you think better of those worthies than I 
do. I know them ****** 

" As for Southey, the answer to my proposition 
of a meeting is not yet come. I sent the message, 
with a short note to him, through Douglas Kin- 
naird, and Douglas's response is not arrived. If he 
accepts, I shall have to go to England ; but if not, 
I do not think the Noel affairs will take me there, 
as the arbitrators can settle them without my 
presence, and there do not seem to be any difficul- 
ties. The license for the new name and armorial 
bearings will be taken out by the regular applica- 
tion, in such eases, to the Crown, and sent to me. 

" Is there a hope of seeing you in Italy again 
ever? What are you doing ? — bored by me, I know; 
but I have explained why before. I have no cor- 
respondence now with London, except through 
relations and lawyers, and one or two friends. My 
greatest friend, Lord Clare, is at Rome : we met on 
the road, and our meeting was quite sentimental— 
really pathetic on both sidSS, I have always loved 
him better than any male thing in the world. 

[The preceding was enclosed in that which fol- 
lows.] 



The preceding htter came enclosed in this. 



• The King. 



948 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER DL. 



TO MR MOORE. 



"Pisa, March 4, 1822. 

" Since I wrote the enclosed, I have waited 
another post, and now have your answer acknow- 
ledging the arrival of the packet — a troublesome 
one, I fear, to you in more ways than one, both 
from weight external and internal. 

"The unpublished things in your hands, in 
Douglas K.'s, and Mr. John Murray's, are, 
' Heaven and Earth, a lyrical kind of Drama upon 
the Deluge, &c. ; ' — ' Werner,' now with you ; — a 
translation of the first canto of the Morgante Mag- 
giore ; — ditto of an Episode in Dante; — some stan- 
zas to the Po, June 1st, 1819 ; — Hints from Horace, 
written in 1811, but a good deal, since, to be omit- 
ted; — several prose things, which may, perhaps, as 
well remain unpublished; — 'The Vision, &c, of 
Quevedo Redivivus ' in verse. 

" Here you see is ' more matter for a May morn- 
ing ; ' but how much of this can be published is for 
consideration. The Quevedo (one of my best in 
that line) has appalled the Row already, and must 
take its chance at Paris, if at all. The new 
Mystery is less speculative than ' Cain,' and very 
pious ; besides, it is chiefly lyrical. The Morgante 
is the best translation that ever was or will be 
made ; and the rest are — whatever you please to 
think them. 

" I am sorry you think Werner even approaching 
to any fitness for the stage, which with my notions 
upon it, is very far from my present object. Witli 
regard to the publication, I have already explained 
that I have no exorbitant expectations of either 
fame or profit in the present instances ; but wish 
them published because they are written ; which is 
the common feeling of all scribblers. 

" With respect to ' Religion,' can I never con- 
vince you that / have no such opinions as the 
characters in that drama, which seems to have 
frightened every body ? Yet they are nothing to 
the expressions in Goethe's Faust, (which are ten 
times hardier,) and not a whit more bold than those 
of Milton's Satan. My ideas of a character may 
run away with me: like all imaginative men, I, of 
course, embody myself with the character while I 
draw it, but not a moment after the pen is from off 
the paper. 

" I am no enemy to religion, but the contrary. 
As a proof, I am educating my natural daughter a 
strict Catholic in a convent of Romagna, for I 
think people can never have enough of religion, if 
they are to have any. I incline, myself, very much 
to the Catholic doctrines ; but if I am to write a 
drama, I must make my characters speak as I con- 
ceive them likely to argue. 

" As to poor Shelley, who is another bugbear to 
you and the world, he is, to my knowledge, the 
least selfish and the mildest of men — a man who 
has made more sacrifices of his fortune and feelings 
for others than any I ever heard of. With his 
speculative opinions I have nothing in common, 
nor desire to have. 

" The truth is, my dear Moore, you live near the 
'store of society, where you are unavoidably influ- 
enced by its heat and its vapors. I did so once — 
and too much — and enough to give a color to my 
whole future existence. As my success in society 
was not inconsiderable, I am surely not a prejudiced 
judge upon the subject, unless in its favor ; but I 
think it, as now constituted, fatal to all great 
original undertakings of every kind. I never courted 
it then, when I was young and high in blood, and 
one of its ' curled darlings ; ' and do you think I 
would do so now, when I am living in" a clearer at- 
mosphere ? One thing only might lead me back to 
it, and that is, to'try orifce more if I could do any 
good in politics ; but not in the petty politics I see 
now preying upon our miserable country. 



" Do not let me be misunderstood, however. It 
you speak your own opinions, they ever had, and 
will have, the greatest weight with me. But if you 
merely echo the 'monde,' (and it is difficult not to 
do so, being in its favor and its ferment.) I can 
only regret that you should ever repeat any thing to 
which I cannot pay attention. 

" But I am prosing. The gods go with you, and 
as much immortality of all kinds as may suit your 
present and all other existence. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER DLL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, Marsh 6,18-22. 

" The enclosed letter from Murray hath melted 
me ; though I think it is against his own interest to 
wish that I should continue his connexion. You 
may, therefore, send him the packet of ' Werner,' 
which will save you all further trouble. And pray, 
can you forgive me for the bore and expense I have 
already put upon you ? At least, say so — for I feel 
ashamed of having given you so much for such 
nonsense. 

" The fact is, I cannot hecp my resent aunts, 
though violent enough in their onset. Besides, now 
that all the world are at Murray on my account, I 
neither can nor ought to leave him ; unless, as I 
really thought, it were better for him that I should. 

" I have had no other news from England except 
a letter from Barry Cornwall, the bard, and my old 
schoolfellow. Though I have sickened you with 
letters lately, believe me " Yours, &c. 

"P. S. In your last letter you say, speaking of 
Shelley, that you would almost prefer the 'damning 
bigot ' to the ' annihilating infidel.' Shelley believes 
in immortality, however — but this by-the-way. Do 
you remember Frederick the Great's answer to the 
remonstrance of the villagers; whose curate preached 
against the eternity of hell's torments ? It was 
thus: — 'If my faithful subjects of Schrausenhaus- 
sen prefer being eternally damned, let them ! ' 

" Of the two, I should think the long sleep bet- 
ter than the agonized vigil. But men, miserable as 
they are, cling so to any thing like life, that they 
probably would prefer damnation to quiet. Besides, 
they think themselves so important in the creation, 
that nothing less can satisfy their pride — the in- 
sects ! " 



LETTER DLII. 



TO Mil. MURRAY. 



" Pisa, March 6, 1822. 

"You will long ago have received a letter from 
me, (or should,) declaring my opinion of the treat- 
ment you have met with about the recent publica- 
tion. I think it disgraceful to those who have per- 
secuted you. I make peace with you, though our 
war was for other reasons than this same contro- 
versy. I have written to Moore by this post to for- 
ward to you the tragedy of ' Werner.' I shall not 
make or propose any present bargain about it or 
the new Mystery till we see if they succeed. If they 
don't sell, (which is not unlikely,) you shan't pay ; 
and I suppose this is fair play, if you choose to risk 
it. 

" Bartolini, the celebrated sculptor, wrote to mo 
to desire to take my bust: 1 consented, on condi- 
tion that he also took that of the Countess Guieci- 
oli. He has taken both, and I think it will be* 
allowed that hers is beautiful. I shall make you a 
present of them both, to show that I don't bear 
malice, and as a compensation for the trouble and 



LETTERS. 



949 



squabble you had about Thorwaldsen's. Of my own 
I can hardly speak, except that it is thought very 
like what I now am, which is different from what 
I was, of course, since you saw me. The sculptor 
is a famous one ; and as it was done by his ow?i 
particular request, will be done well, probably. 

" What is to be done about Taafe and his Com- 
mentary ? He will die, if he is not published ; he 
will be damned if he is; but that he don't mind-. 
We must publish him. 

" All the roxo about me has no otherwise affected 
me than by the attack upon yourself, which is un- 
generous in Church and State : but as all violence 
must in time have its proportionate reaction, you 
will do better by-and-by. " Yours very truly, 
" Noel Byron." 



LETTER DLIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Pisa, March 8, ISM. 

" You will have had enough of my letters by this 
time — yet one word in answer to your present mis- 
sive. You are quite wrong in thinking that your 
1 advice' had offended me; but 1 have already re- 
plied (if not answered) on that point. 

" With regard to Murray, as I really am the 
meekest and mildest of men since Moses, (though 
the public and mine ' excellent wife ' cannot find it 
out,) I had already pacified myself and subsided 
back to Albemarle street, as my yesterday's j/epistle 
will have informed you. But I thought that I had 
explained my causes of bile — at least to you. 

" Some instances of vacillation, occasional neg- 
lect, and troublesome sincerity, real or imagined, 
are sufficient to put your truly great author and man 
into a passion. But reflection, with some aid from 
hellebore, hath already cured me ' pro tempore ; ' 
and, if it had not, a request from you and Hobhouse 
would have come upon me like two out of the 'tribus 
Anticyris,' — with which, however, Horace despairs 
of purging a poet. I really feel ashamed of having 
bored you so frequently and fully of late. But what 
could 1 do ? You are a friend — an absent one, alas ! 
— and as I trust no one more, I trouble you in pro- 
portion. 

" This war of ' Church and State ' has astonished 
me more than it disturbs ; for I really thought 'Cain' 
a speculative and hardy, but still a harmless pro- 
duction. As I said before, I am really a great ad- 
mirer of tangible religion ; and am breeding one of 
my daughters a Catholic, that she may have her 
hands full. It is by far the most elegant worship, 
hardly excepting the Greek mythology. What with 
incense, pictures, statues, altars, shrines, relics, and 
the real presence, confession, absolution, — there is 
something sensible to grasp at. Besides, it leaves 
no possibilty of doubt ; for those who swallow their 
Deity really and truly, in transubstantiation, can 
hardly find any thing else otherwise than easy of 
digestion. 

" I am afraid that this sounds flippant, but I 
don't mean it to be so ; only my turn of mind is so 
given to taking things in the absurd point of view, 
that it breaks out in spite of me every now and 
then. Still, I do assure you that I am a very good 
Christian. Whether you will believe me in this, I 
do not know ; but I trust you will take my word for 
being " Very truly and affectionately yours, &c. 

" P. S. Do tell Murray that one of the conditions 
of peace is, that he publisheth (or obtaineth a pub- 
lisher for) Taafe's Commentary on Dante, against 
which there appears in the trade an unaccountable 
repugnance. It will make the man so exuberantly 
happy. He dines with me and half a dozen English 
to-day ; and I have not the heart to tell him how 
the bibliopolar world shrink from his Commentary ; 
—and yet it is full of the most orthodox religion 
and morality. In short, I make it a point that he 



shall be in print. He is such a good-nat ired. heavy 
* * Christian, that we must give him a shove 
through the press. He naturally thirsts to be in 
author, and has been the happiest of men for these 
two months, printing, correcting, collating, dating, 
anticipating, and adding to his treasures of learn- 
ing. Besides, he has had another fall from his 
horse into a ditch the other day, while riding out 
with me into the country." 



LETTER DLIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Pisa, Marcii 13, 1822. 

" I am glad that you and your friends approve of 
my letter of the Sth ultimo. You may give it what 
publicity you think proper in the circumstances. I 
have since written to you twice or thrice. 

" As to ' a poem in the old way,' I shall attempt 
of that kind nothing further. I follow the bias of 
my own mind, without considering whether women 
or men are or are not to be pleased: but this is 
nothing to my publisher, who must judge and act 
according to popularity. 

" Therefore let the things take their chance : if 
tliei/ pay, you will pay me in proportion ; and if 
they don't, I must. 

"The Noel affairs, I hope, will not take me to 
England. I have no desire to revisit that country, 
unless it be to keep you out of a prison, (if this can 
be effected by my taking your place,) or perhaps to 
get myself into one, by exacting satisfaction from 
one or two persons who take advantage of my ab- 
sence to abuse me. Further than this, I have no 
business nor connexion with England, nor desire to 
have, out of my own family and friends, to whom I 
wish all prosperity. Indeed, I have lived upon the 
whole so little in England, (about five years since I 
was one-and-twenty,) that my habits are too con- 
tinental, and your climate would please me as little 
as the society. 

" I saw the Chancellor's Report in a French pa- 
per. Pray, why don't they prosecute the transla- 
tion of Lucretius t or the original with its 

' Primus in orDe Deos fecit Timor, 
' Tamum Religio pouiit suadere maiorum .' ' 

"You must really get something done for Mr 
Taafe's Commentary ; what can I say to him ? 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER DLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY'. 



" Pisa, April 13, 1822. 

" Mr. Kinnaird writes that there has been an ' ex- 
cellent defence ' of ' Cain,' against ' Oxoniensis : ' 
you have sent me nothing but a not very excellent 
qf-fence of the same poem. If there be such a 
' Defender of the Faith,' you may send me his 
thirty-nine articles, as a counterbalance to some of 
your late communications. 

" Are you- to publish, or not, what Moore and Mr. 
Kinnaird have in hand, and the ' Vision of Judg- 
ment ? ' If you publish the latter in a very cheap 
edition, so as to baffle the pirates by a low price, 
you will find that it will do. The ' Mystery ' I look 
upon as good, and 'Werner' too, and I expect that 
you will publish them speedily. You need not put 
your name to Quevedo, but publish it as a foreign 
edition, and let it make its way. Douglas Kinnaird 
has it still, with the preface, I believe. 

" I refer you to him for documents on the late 
row here. I sent them a week ago. 

"Yours, &c.'' 



950 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER DLVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Pisa, April 18, 1822. 

" I have received the Defence of ' Cain.' Who is 
my Warburton ? — for he has done for me what the 
bishop did for the poet against Crousaz. His reply 
seems to me conclusive : and if you understood your 
own interest, you would print it together with the 
poem. 

" It is very odd that I do not hear from you. I 
have forwarded to Mr. Douglas Kinnaird the docu- 
ments on a squabble here, which occurred about a 
month ago. The affair is still going on ; but they 
make nothing of it hitherto. I think, what with 
home and abroad, there has been hot water enough 
for one while. Mr. Dawkins, the English minister, 
has behaved in the handsomest and most gentle- 
manly manner throughout the whole business. 

" Yours ever, &c. 

" P. S. I have got Lord Glenbervie's book, which 
is very amusing and able upon the topics which he 
touches upon, and part of the preface pathetic. 
Write soon." 



LETTER DLVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Pisa, April 22, 1822. 

" You will regret to hear that I have received 
intelligence of the death of my daughter Allegra 
of a fever, in the convent of Bagna Cavallo, where 
she was placed for the last year, to commence her 
education. It is a heavy blow for many reasons, 
but must be borne, with time. 

"It is my present intention to send her remains 
to England for sepulture in Harrow church, (where 
I once hoped to have laid my own,) and this is my 
reason for troubling you with this notice. I wish 
the funeral to be very private. The body is em- 
balmed, and in lead. It will be embarked from 
Leghorn. Would you have any objection to give 
the proper directions on its arrival ? 

" I am yours, &c. 

"N. B. 

"P. S. You are aware that Protestants are not 
allowed holy ground in Catholic countries." 



LETTER DLVIII. 

TO MR. SHELLEY. 

" April 23, 1822. 

"The blow was stunning and unexpected; fori 
thought the danger over, by the long interval be- 
tween her stated amelioration and the arrival of the 
express. But I have borne up against it as I best 
can, and so far successfully, that I can go about the 
usual business of life with the same appearance of 
composure, and even greater. There is nothing to 
prevent your coming to-morrow; but, perhaps, to- 
day, and yester-evening, it was better not to have 
met. I do not know that I have any thing to re- 
proach in my conduct, and certainly nothing in my 
feelings and intentions towards the dead. But it is 
a moment when we are apt to think that, if this or 
that had been done, such event might have been 
prevented ; though every day and hour shows us 
that they are the most natural and inevitable. I 
suppose that Time will do his usual work — Death 
has done his. " Yours ever, 

"N. B." 



LETTER DLIX. 



TO SIR "IVALTER SCOTT. 



"Pisa, Maj 4, 1822. 

"My Dear Sir Walter, 

"Your account of your family is very pleasing' 
would that I ' could answer this comfort with the 
like ! ' but I have just lost my natural daughter, A1-. 
legra, by a fever. The only consolation, save time, 
is the reflection, that she is either at rest or happy ; 
for her few years (only five) prevented her from 
having incurred any sin, except what we inherit 
from Adam. 

' Whom the gods love, die yo'ing. 1 

" I need not say that your letters are particularly 
welcome, when they do not tax your time and pa- 
tience ; and now that our correspondence is resumed, 
I trust it will continue. 

" I have lately had some anxiety, rather than 
trouble, about an awkward affair here, which you 
may perhaps have heard of: but our minister has 
behaved very handsomely, and the Tuscan Govern- 
ment as well as it is possible for such a government 
to behave, which is not saying much for the latter. 
Some other English, and Scots, and myself, had a 
brawl with a dragoon, who insulted one of the party, 
and whom we mistook for an officer, as he was med- 
alled and well mounted, &c. ; but he turned out to 
be a sergeant-major. He called out the guard at 
the gates to arrest us, (we being unarmed ;) upon 
which I and another (an Italian) rode through the 
said guard ; but they succeeded in detaining others 
of the party. I rode to my house, and sent my 
secretary to give an account of the attempted and 
illegal arrest to the authorities, and then, without 
dismounting, rode back towards the gates, which 
are near my present mansion. Half way I met my 
man, vaporing away, and threatening to draw upon 
me, (who had a cane in my hand, and no other 
arms.) I, still believing him an officer, demanded 
his name and address, and gave him my hand and 
glove thereupon. A servant of mine thrust in be- 
tween us, (totally without orders,) but let him go 
on my command. He then rode off at full speed ; 
but about forty paces further was stabbed, and very 
dangerously, (so as to be in peril,) by some Calium 
Beg or other of my people, (for I have some rough- 
handed folks about me,) I need hardly say without 
my direction or approval. The said dragoon had 
been sabring our unarmed countrymen, however, at 
the gate, after they were in arrest, and held by the 
guards, and wounded one, Captain Hay, very se- 
verely. However, he got his paiks, having acted 
like an assassin, and being treated like one. Who 
wounded him, though it was done before thousands 
of people, they have never been able to ascertain, or 
prove, nor even the weapon; some said & pistol, an 
air-gun, a stiletto, a sword, a lance, a pitchfork, 
and what not. They have arrested and examined 
servants and people of all descriptions, but can 
make out nothing. Mr. Dawkins, our minister, 
assures me, that no suspicion is entertained of the 
man who wounded him having been instigated by 
me, or any of the party. I enclose you copies of 
the depositions of those with us, and Dr. Craufurd, 
a canny Scot, (not an acquaintance,) who saw the 
latter part of the affair. They are in Italian. 

' These are the only literary matters in which I 
have been engaged since the publication and row 
about ' Cain ; ' but Mr. Murray has several things 
of mine in his obstetrical hands. Another Mystery 
— a Vision — a Drama — and the like. But you tcon't 
tell me what you are doing ; however, I shall find 
you out, write what you will. Y r ou say that I should 
like your son-in-law ; it would be very difficult for 
me to dislike any one connected with you ; but I 
have no doubt that his own qualities are all that 
you describe. 

' I am sorry you don't like Lord Orford's new 



LETTERS. 



951 



work. My aristocracy, which is very fierce, makes 
him a favorite of mine. Recollect that those ' little 
factions ' comprised Lord Chatham and Fox, the 
father, and that ice live in gigantic and exaggerated 
times, which make all under Gog and Magog appear 
pigmean. After having seen Napolean begin like 
Tamerlane and end like Bajazet in our own time, 
we have not the same interest in what would other- 
wise have appeared important history. But I must 
conclude. 

" Believe me ever and most truly yours, 

" Noel Byron." 



LETTER DLX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Pisa, May 17, 1S22. 

"I hear that the Edinburgh has attacked the 
three dramas, which is a bad business for you; and 
I don't wonder that it discourages you. However, 
that volume may be trusted to time, — depend upon 
it. I read it over with some attention since it was 
published, and I think the time will come when it 
will be preferred to my other writings, though not 
immediately. I say this without irritation against 
the critics or criticism, whatever they may be, (for I 
have not seen them ;) and nothing that has or may 
appear in Jeffrey's Review can make me forget that 
he stood by me for ten good years without any mo- 
tive to do so but his own good-will. 

" I hear Moore is in town ; remember me to him, 
and believe me "Yours truly, 

"N. B 

" P. S. If you think it necessary, you may send 
me the Edinburgh. Should there be any thing that 
requires an answer, I will reply, but temperately and 
technically; that is to say, merely with respect to 
the principles of the criticism, and not personally or 
offensively as to its literary merits." 



LETTER DLXI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" PUa, May 17, 1822. 

" I hear you are in London. You will have heard 
from Douglas Kinnaird (who tells me you have dined 
with him) as much as you desire to know of my 
affairs at home and abroad. I have lately lost my 
little girl Allegra by a fever, which has been a seri- 
ous blow to me. 

" I did not write to you lately, (except one letter 
to Murray's,) not knowing exactly your ' where- 
abouts.' Douglas K. refused to forward my mes- 
sage to Mr. Southey — why, he himself can explain. 

" You will have sefp the statement of a squab- 
ble, &c, &c* What are you about ? Let me hear 
from vou at vour leisure, and believe me ever yours, 

"N. B." 



LETTER DLXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" The body is embarked, in what ship I know not, 
oeither could I enter into the details : but the Coun- 



* Here follows a repetition of the details givt 
Gcott and others. 

t A hill, three or four miles from Leghorn, 
residence during the summer montns. 



on this subject to Sir Walter 
uch resorted to as a place of 



tess G. G. has had the goodness to give the neces- 
sary orders to Mr. Dunn, who superintends the 
embarkation, and will write to you. I wish it to 
buried in Harrow church. 

" There is a spot in the churchyard, near the foot- 
path, on the brow of the hill looking towards Wind- 
sor, and a tomb under a large tree, (bearing the 
name of Peachie, or Peachey,) where I used to sit 
for hours and hours when a boy. This was my 
favorite spot ; but as I wish to erect a tablet to her 
memory, the body had better be deposited in the 
church. Near the door, on the left hand as you 
enter, there is a monument with a tablet containing 
these words : — 

* When Soirow weeps o'er Virtue's sacred dust, 
Our tears besome us, and our grief is just : 
Such were the tears she shed, who grateful pays 
This last sad tribute of her love and praise.' 

I recollect them, (after seventeen years,) not from 
any thing remarkable in them, but because from my 
seat in the gallery I had generally my eyes turned 
towards that monument. As near it as convenient 
I could wish Allegra to be buried, and on the wall 
a marble tablet placed, with these word : — 

"In Memory of 

Allegra, 

Daughter of G. G. Lord Byron, 

who died at Bagna Cavallo, 

in Italy, April 20th, 1822, 

aged five years and three months. 

* 1 shall go to her, but she shall not return to me.' 

2d Samuel, xii. 23. 

"The funeral I wish to be as private as is consis- 
tent with decency ; and 1 could hope that Henry 
Drury will, perhaps, read the service over her. it 
he should decline it, it can be done by the usual 
minister for the time being. I do not know that I 
need add more just now. 

" Since I came here, I have been invited by the 
Americans on board their squadron, where I was 
received with all the kindness which I could wish, 
and with more ceremony than I am fond of. I 
found them finer ships than your own of the same 
class, well manned and officered. A number of 
American gentlemen also were on board at the 
time, and some ladies. As I was taking leave, an 
American lady asked me for a rose which I wore, 
for the purpose, she said, of sending to America 
something which I had about me, as a memorial. I 
need not add that I felt the compliment properly. 
Captain Chauncey showed me an American and 
very pretty edition of my poems, and offered me a 
passage to the United States, if I would go there. 
Commodore Jones was also not less kind and atten- 
tive. I have since received the enclosed letter, de- 
siring me to sit for my picture for some Americans. 
It is singular that, in the same year that Lady Noel 
leaves by will an interdiction for my daughter to see 
her father's portrait for many years, the individuals 
of a nation not remarkable for their liking to the 
English in particular, nor for flattering men in gen- 
eral, request me to sit for my ' pourtraicture,' as 
Baron Bradwurdine calls it. I am also told of 
considerable literary honors in Germany. Goethe, 
I am told, is my professed patron and protector. 
At Leipsic, this year, the highest prize was proposed 
for a translation of two cantos of Childe Harold. I 
am not sure that this was at Leipsic, but Mr. Row- 
croft was my authority — a good German scholar, (a 
young American,) and ah acquaintance of Goethe's. 

"Goethe and the Germans are particularly fond 
of Don Juan, which they judge of as a work of art. 
I had heard something of this before, through Baron 
Lutzerode. The translations have been very fre- 
quent of several of the works, and Goethe made a 
comparison between Faust and Manfred. 

' All this is some compensation for your English 



952 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



native brutality, so fully displayed this year to its 
highest extent. 

" I forgot to mention a little anecdote of a differ- 
ent kind. I went over the Constitution, (the Com- 
modore's flag-ship,) and saw, among other things 
worth)' of remark, a little boy born on board of her 
by a sailor's wife. They had christened him ' Con<- 
stitution Jones.' i, of course, approved the name ; 
and the woman added, ' Ah, sir, if he turns out but 
half as good as his name ! ' 

"Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DLXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Monienero. near Leghorn, May 29, 1822. 

" I return you the proofs* revised. Your printer 
has made one odd mistake : — ' poor as a mouse,' 
instead of 'poor as a. miser.' The expression may 
seem strange, but it is only a translation of ' sem- 
per avarus eget.' You will add the Mystery, and 
publish as soon as you can. I care nothing for your 
' season,' nor the blue approbations or disapproba- 
tions. All that is to be considered by you on the 
subject is as a matter of business ; and if I square 
that to your notions, (even to the running the risk 
entirely myself,) you may permit me to choose my 
own time and mode of publication. With regard 
to the late volume, the present run against it or me 
may impede it for a time, but it has the vital princi- 
ple of permanency within it, as you may perhaps 
one day discover. I wrote to you on another sub- 
ject a few days ago. " Yours, 

" N. B. 

" P. S. Please to send me the Dedication of 
Sardanapalus to Goethe. I shall prefix it to Wer- 
ner, unless you prefer my putting another", stating 
that the former had been omitted bythe publisher. 

" On the title-page of the present volume, put 
' Published for the Author by J. M.' " 



LETTER DLXIY. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Monienero, Leghorn, June G, 1822. 

"I return you the revise of Werner, and expect 
the rest. With regard to the lines to the Po, per- 
haps you had better put them quietly in a second 
edition (if you reach one, that is to say) than in 
the first ; because, though they have been reckoned 
fine, and I wish them to be preserved, I do not wish 
them to attract immediate observation, on account 
of the relationship of the lady to whom they are ad- 
dressed with the first families in Romagna and the 
Marches. 

" The defender of ' Cain ' may or may not be, as 
you term him, 'a tryo in literature:' however,! 
think both you and I are under great obligation to 
him. I have read the Edinburgh Review in Galig- 
nani's Magazine, and have not yet decided whether 
to answer them or not ; for, if I do, it will be diffi- 
cult for me not ' to make sport for the Philistines,' 
by pulling down a house or two ; since, when I once 
take pen in hand, I must say what comes upper- 
most, or fling it away. I Jiave not the hypocrisy to 
pretend impartiality, nor the temper (as it is called) 
to keep always from saying what may noti>e pleas- 
ing to the hearer or reader. What do they mean 
by 'elaborate?' Why, you know that they were 
written as fast as I could put pen to paper, and 
printed from the original MSS., and never revised 



but in the proofs: look at the dates and the MSS. 
themselves. Whatever faults they have must spring 
from carelessness, and not from labor. They said 
the same of ' Lara,' which I wrote while undressing, 
after coming home from balls and masquerades in 
the year of revelry, 1814. " Yours. 

"JuneS, 1822. 

" You give me no explanation of your intention 
as to the ' Vision of Quevedo Redivivus,' one of my 
best things : indeed, you are altogether so abstruse 
and undecided lately, that I suppose you mean me 
to write ' John Murray, Esq., a Mystery,' — a compo- 
sition which would not displease the clergy nor the 
trade. I by no means wish you to do what you don't 
like, but merely to say what you will do. The Vis- 
ion must be published by some one. As to ' clam- 
ors,' the die is cast ; and ' come one, come all ' we 
will fight it out — at least one of us." 



LETTER DLXV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



11 Montenero, Villa Dupoy, near Leghorn, June 8, 1822. 

" I have written to you twice through the medium 
of Murray, and on one subject, trite enough, — the 
loss of poor little Allegra by a fever ; on which 
topic I shall say no more — there is nothing but 
time. 

" A few days ago, my earliest and dearest friend, 
Lord Clare, came oyer from Geneva on purpose to 
see me before he returned to England. As I have 
always loved him (since I was thirteen, at Harrow) 
better than any (male) thing in the world, I need 
hardly say what a melancholy pleasure it was to see 
him for a day only ; for he was obliged to resume 
his journey immediately * * * 

* " * * * * * 

I have heard, also, many other things of our ac- 
quaintances which I did not know; among others, 
t h at ****** 

* * * * Do you recollect, 
in the year of revelry, 1814, the pleasantest parties 
and balls all over London ? and not the least so at 
* *'s. Do you recollect your singing duets w r ith 
Lady * *, and my flirtation with Lady * *, and all 
the other fooleries of the time ? while * * was 
sighing, and Lady * * ogling him with her clear 
hazel eyes. But eight years have passed, and since 

that time, * * has ****** ; has run 

away with *****; and mysen (as my Notting- 
hamshire friends call themselves) might as well 
have thrown myself out of the window while you 
were singing, as intermarried where I did. You 
and ***** have come off the best of us. I 
speak merely of my marriage and its consequences, 
distresses, and calumnies ; for I have been much 
more happy, on the whole, since, than I ever could 
have been with * * 9 * * *. 

" I have read the recent article of Jeffrey in a 
faithful transcription of the impartial Galignani. — 
I suppose the long and short of it is, that he wishes 
to provoke me to reply. But I won't, for I owe him 
a good turn still for his kindness by-gone. Indeed. 
I presume that the present opportunity of attack- 
ing me again was irresistible ; and I can't blame 
him, knowing what human nature is. I shall make 
but one remark : — what does he mean by elaborate ? 
The whole volume was written with the greatest 
rapidity, in the midst of evolutions and revolutions, 
and persecutions, and proscriptions of all who inte- 
rested me in Italy. They said the same of ' Lara,' 
which you know, was written amid balls and fool- 
eries, and after coming home from masquerades 
and routs, in the summer of the sovereigns. Of all 
I have ever written, they are perhaps the most care- 
lessly composed ; and their faults, whatever they may 



LETTERS. 



boS 



De, are those of negligence, and not of labor. I do 
not think this a merit, but it is a fact. 

" Yours ever and truly, 
"N. B. 
" P. S. You see the great advantage of my new 
signature: it may either stand for ' Nota Bene ' or 
' Noel Byron,' and, as such, will save much repeti- 
tion, in writing either books or letters. Since I 
came here, I have been invited on board of the 
American squadron, and treated with all possible 
honor and ceremony. They have asked me to sit 
for my picture ; and, as I was going away, an Amer- 
ican lady took a rose from me, (which had been 
given to me by a very pretty Italian lady that very 
morning,) because she said, 'She was determined 
to send or take something which I had about me to 
America.' There is a kind of Lalla Itookh incident 
for you ! However, all these American honors 
arise, perhaps, not so much from their enthusiasm 
for my ' poeshie,' as their belief in my dislike to the 
English, — in which I have the satisfaction to coin- 
cide with them. I would rather, however, have a 
nod from an American, than a snuff-box from an 
emperor." 



LETTER DLXVI. 

TO MR. ELLICE. 

" Monteuero, Leghorn, June 12, 1322. 

" My Dear Ellice, 

" It is a long time since I have written to you, but 
I have not forgotten your kindness, and I am now 
going to tax it — I hope not too highly — but don't 
be alarmed, it is not a loan, but information which 
I am about to solicit. By your extensive connex- 
ions, no one can have better opportunities of hear- 
ing the real state of South America — I mean Boli- 
var's country. I have many years had transatlantic 
projects of settlement, and what I could wish from 
you would be some information of the best course 
to pursue, and some letters of recommendation in 
case I should sail for Angostura. I am told that 
land is very cheap there ; but though I have no 
great disposable funds to vest in such purchases, yet 
my income, such as it is, would be sufficient in any 
country, (except England,) for all the comforts of 
life, and for most of its luxuries. The war there is 
now over, and as I do not go there to speculate, but 
to settle without any views but those of independ- 
ence and the enjoyment of the common civil rights, 
I should presume such an arrival would not be un- 
welcome. 

" All I request of you is, not to discourage nor 
encourage, but to give mo such a statement as you 
think prudent and proper. I do not address my 
other friends upon this subject, who would only 
throw obstacles in my way, and bore me to return 
to England ; which I never will do, unless compel- 
led by some insuperable cause. I have a quantity of 
furniture, books, &c., &c., &c, which I could easily 
ship from Leghorn ; but I wish to ' look before I 
leap ' over the Atlantic. Is it true that for a few 
thousand dollars a large tract of land may be ob- 
tained ? I speak of South America, recollect. I 
have read some publications on the subject, but they 
seemed violent and vulgar party productions.— 
Please to address your answer to me at this place, 
and believe me ever and truly yours, &c." 



LETTER DLXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Pisa, July 6, }822. 

•' I return you the revise.* I have softened the 
part to which Gifford objected, and changed the 



Of " Heaven and Earth." 



name of Michael to Raphael, who was an angel of 
gentler sympathies. By-the-way? recollect to alter 
Michael to Raphael in the scene itself throughout, 
for I have only had time to do so in the list of the 
dramatis persona;, and scratch out all the pencil 
marks, to avoid puzzling the printers. I have given 
the 'Vision of Quevedo Redivivus' to John Hunt, 
which will relieve you from a dilemma. He must 
publish it at his own risk, as it is at his own desire. 
Give him the corrected copy which Mr. Kinnaird 
had, as it is mitigated partly, and also the preface. 

" Yours, &c " 



LETTER DLXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Pisa, July 8, 1822. 

" Last week I returned you the packet of proofs. 
You had perhaps better not publish in the same vol- 
ume the Po and Rimini translation. 

" I have consigned a letter to Mr. John Hunt for 
the 'Vision of Judgment,' which you will hand over 
to him. Also the ' Pulci,' original and Italian, and 
any prose tracts of mine ; for Mr. Leigh Hunt is 
arrived here, and thinks of commencing a periodi- 
cal work, to which I shall contribute. I do not pro- 
pose to you to be the publisher, because I know 
that you are unfriends ; but all things in your care, 
except the volume now in the press, and the manu- 
script purchased of Mr. Moore, can be given for 
this purpose according as they are wanted. 

" With regard to what you say about your 'want 
of memory,' I can only remark that you inserted 
the note to Marino Faliero against my positive re- 
vocation, and that you omitted the Dedication of 
Sardanapalus to Goethe, (place it before the volume 
now in the press,) both of which were things not 
very agreeable to me, and which I could wish to be 
avoided in future, as they might be with a very 
little care, or a simple memorandum in your pocket- 
book. 

" It is not impossible that I may have three or 
four cantos of Don Juan ready by autumn, or a 
little later, as I obtained a permission from my dic- 
tatress to continue it, — provided always it was to be 
more guarded and decorous and sentimental in the 
continuation than in the commencement. How far 
these conditions have been fulfilled may be seen, 
perhaps, by-and-by ; but the embargo was only 
taken off upon these stipulations. You can answer 
at your leisure. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER DLXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Pisa, July 12, 1822. 

"I have written to you lately, but not in answer 
to your last letter of about a fortnight ago. I wish 
to know (and request an answer to that point) what 
became of the stanzas to Wellington,* (intended to 
open a canto of Don Juan with,) which I sent you 
several months ago ? If they have fallen into Mur- 
ray's hands, he and the Tories will suppress them, 
as those lines rate that hero at his real value. Pray 
be explicit on this, as I have no other copy, having 
sent you the original ; and if you have them, let me 
have that again, or a copy correct. * * * 

"I subscribed at Leghorn two hundred Tuscan 
crowns to your Irishism committee : it is about a 
thousand francs, more or less. As Sir C. S., who 
receives thirteen thousand a year of the public 
money, could not afford more than a thousand livres 
out of his enormous salary, it would have appeared 
ostentatious in a private individual to pretend to 



120 



954 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



surpass him; and therefore I have sent but the 
above sum, as you will see by the enclosed receipt. 

" Leigh Hunt is here, after a voyage of eight 
months, during which he has, I presume, made the 
Periplus of Hanno the Carthaginian, and with 
much the same speed. He is setting up a Journal, 
to which I have promised to contribute ; and in the 
first number the ' Vision of Judgment; by Queve- 
do Redivivus,' will probably appear with other ar- 
ticles. 

" Can you give us any thing ? He seems sanguine 
about the matter, but (entre nous) I am not. I do 
not, however, like to put him out of spirits by say- 
ing so ; for he is bilious and unwell. Do, pray, an- 
swer this letter immediately. 

" Do send Hunt any thing, in prose or verse, of 
yours, to start him handsomely — any lyrical, meal, 
or what you please. 

" Has not your potato committee been blunder- 
ing ? Your advertisement says, that Mr. L. Calla- 
ghan (a queer name for a banker) hath been dispos- 
ing of money in Ireland ' sans authority of the com- 
mittee.' I suppose it will end in Callaghan's calling 
out the committee, the chairman of which carries 
pistol's in his pocket, of course. 

" When you can spare time from duett mg, co- 
quetting and clareting with your Hibernians of both 
sexes, let me have a line from you. I doubt whether 
Paris is a good place for the composition of your 
new poesy." 



LETTER DLXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Pisa, August 8, 1822. 

" You will have heard by this time that Shelley 
and another gentleman (Captain Williams) were 
drowned about a month ago, (a month yesterday,) 
in a squall off the Gulf of Spezia. There is thus 
another man gone, about whom the world was ill- 
naturedly, and ignorantly, and brutally mistaken. — 
It will, perhaps, do him justice noio, when he can 
be no better for it. ' You were all mistaken about 
Shelley, who was, without exception, the best and 
least selfish man I ever knew.' 

" I have not seen the thing you mention,* and 
only heard of it casually, nor have I any desire. — 
The price is, as I saw in some advertisements, four- 
teen shillings, which is too much to pay for a libel 
on one's self. Some one said in a letter, that it was 
a Doctor Watkins, who deals in the life and libel 
line. It must have diminished your natural pleas- 
ure, as a friend, (vide Rochefoucault,) to see your- 
self in it. 

"With regard to the Blackwood fellows, I never 
published any thing against them ; nor, indeed, have 
seen their Magazine (except in Galignani's extracts) 
for these three years past. I once wrote, a good 
while ago, some remarks^ on their review of Don 
Juan, but saying very little about themselves, — and 
these were not published. If you think that I ought 
to follow your example^ (and I like to be in your 
company when I can) in contradicting their impu- 
dence, you may shape this declaration of mine into 
a similar paragraph for me. It is possible that you 
may have seen the little I did write (and never pub- 
lished) at Murray's ; it contained much more about 
Southey than about the Blacks. 

" If you think that I ought to do any thing about 
Watkins's book, I should not care much about pub- 
lishing my memoir now, should it be necessary to 
counteract the fellow. But in that case, I should 



• A book which had just appeared, entitled " Memoirs of the Ri»ht Hon 
ixird Byron." 

t See Letters to the Editors of Blackwood's Magazine, page 1010. 

\ It had been asserted, in a late number of Blackwood, that both Lord 
Byron and myself were employed in writing satires against that Magazine.— 
Uuore. 



like to look over the press myself. Let me know 
what you think, or whether I had better not; — a 
least, not the second part, which touches on the 
actual confines of still existing matters. 

" I have written three more cantos of Don Juan, 
and am hovering on the brink of another, (the 
ninth.) The reason I want the stanzas again which 
I sent you is, that as these cantos contain a full 
detail (like the storm in canto second) of the siege 
and assault of Ismael with much of sarcasm on 
those butchers* in large business, your mercenary 
soldiery, it is a good opportunity of gracing the 
poem with * * * - * *. With these 
things and these fellows, it is necessary, in the pres- 
ent clash of philosophy and tyranny, to throw away 
the scabbard. I know it is against fearful odds ; 
but the battle must be fought ; and it will be event- 
ually for the good of mankind, whatever it may be 
for the individual who risks himself. 

" What do you think of your Irish bishop ? Do 
you remember Swift's line, ' Let me have a barrack 
— a fig for the clergy.' This seems to have been his 
reverence's motto. ****** 
****** 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER DLXXI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Pisa, AugiiBt 27, 1822. 

' It is boring to trouble you with ' such small 
gear ; ' but it must be owned that I should be glad if 
you would inquire whether my Irish subscription 
ever reached the committee in Paris from Leghorn. 
My reasons, like Vellum's, ' are threefold : ' First, I 
doubt the accuracy of all almoners, or remitters of 
benevolent cash : second, I do suspect that the said 
committee having in part served its time to time- 
serving, may have kept back the 1 acknowledgment 
of an obnoxious politician's name in their lists ; 
and, third, I feel pretty sure that I shall one day be 
twitted by the government scribes for having been 
a professor of love for Ireland, and not coming for- 
ward with the others in her distresses. 

" It is not, as you may opine, that I am ambitious 
of having my name in the papers, as I can have 
that any day in the week gratis. All I want is, to 
know if the Reverend Thomas Hall did or did not 
remit my subscription (two hundred scudi of Tus- 
cany, or about a thousand francs, more or less) to 
the oonimitxee at Paris. 

"The other day at Viareggio, I thought proper 
to swim off to my schooner (the Bolivar) in the 
offing, and thence to shore again — about three miles, 
or better, in all. As it was at midday, under a broil- 
ing sun, the consequence has been a feverish attack, 
and my whole skin's coming off, after going through 
the process of one large continuous blister, raised 
by the sun and sea together. I have suffered much 
pain ; not being able to lie on my back, or even 
side ; for my shoulders and arms were equally St. 
Bartholomewed. But it is over, — and I have got a 
new skin, and am a3 glossy as a snake in its new 
suit. 

"We have been burning the bodies of Shelley 
and Williams on the sea-shore, to render them fit 
for removal and regular interment. You can have 
no idea what an extraordinary effect such a funeral 
pile has, on a desolate shore, with mountains in the 
background and the sea before, and the singular 
appearance the salt and .frankincense gave to the 
flame. All of Shelley was consumed, except his 
heart, which would not take the flame,- and is now 
preserved in spirits of wine. 

"Your old acquaintance, Londonderry, has quietly 
died at North Cray ! and the virtuous De Witt wag 
torn in pieces by the populace ! What a lucky * * 



Alluding to Wellington. See the beginning of canto ix. 



LETTERS. 



955 



• * * the Irishman has been in his life and end.* 
In him your Irish Franklin est niort ! 

"Leigh Hunt is sweating articles for his new 
Journal; and both he and I think it somewhat 
shabby in you not to contribute. Will you become 
one of the prqperrietors? 'Do, and we go snacks.' 
I recommend you to think twice before you respond 
in the negative. 

" I have nearly (quite three) four new cantos of 
Don Juan ready. I obtained permission from the 
temale censor morum of my morals to continue it, 
provided it were immaculate ; so I have been as 
decent as need be. There is a deal of war — a siege, 
and all that, in the style, graphical and technical, 
of the shipwreck in canto second, which ' took,' as 
they say, in the Row. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. That * * * Galignani has about ten lies 
in one paragraph. It was not a Bible that was 
found in Shelley's pocket, but John Keats's poems. 
However, it would not have been strange, for he 
was a great admirer of scripture as a composition. 
J did not send my bust to the academy of New- 
York ; but I sat for my picture to young West, an 
American artist, at the request of some members of 
that academy to him that he would take my portrait, 
— for the academy, I believe. 

" I had, and still have, thoughts of South 
America, but am fluctuating between it and Greece. 
I should have gone, long ago, to one of them, but 
lor my liaison with the Countess G : - ; for love, in 
these days, is little compatible with glory. She 
would be delighted to go too, but I do not choose 
to expose her to a long voyage, and a residence in 
an unsettled country, where I shall probably take a 
part of some sort." 



LETTER DLXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Genoa, October 9, 1822. 

" 1 have received your letter, and as you explain 
it, I have no objection, on your account, to omit 
those passages in the new Mystery, (which were 
marked in the half-sheet sent the other day to Pisa,) 
i r the passage in Cain; — but why not be open, and 
i ay so at first f You should be more straight- 
forward on every account. 

"I have been very unwell — four days confined to 
my bed, in 'the worst inn's worst room,' at Lerici, 
v ith a violent rheumatic and bilious attack, consti- 
] ation, and the devil knows what : — no physician, 
except a young fellow, who, however, was kind and 
cautious, and that's enough. 

" At last I seized Thompson's book of prescrip- 
tions, (a donation of yours,) and physicked myself 
with the first dose I found in it ; and after under- 
going the ravages of all kinds of decoctions, sallied 
from bed on the fifth day to cross the Gulf to Sestri. 
The sea revived me instantly ; and I ate the sailors' 
cold fish, and drank a gallon of country wine, and 
got to Genoa the same night after landing at Sestri, 
and have ever since been keeping well, but thinner, 
and with an occasional cough towards evening. 

" I am afraid the Journal is a bad business, and 
won't do ; but in it I am sacrificing myself for others 
— / can have no advantage in it. I believe the 
brothers Hunts to be honest men ; I am sure that 
they are poor ones : they have not a nap. They 
pressed me to engage in this work, and in an evil 
hour I consented. Still I shall not repent, if I can 
do them the least service. I have done all I can for 
Leigh Hunt since he came here; but it is almost 
useless : — his wife is ill, his six children not very 
tractable, and in the affairs of this world he himself 
is a child. The death of Shelley left them totally 



* The particulars of this event had, it is evident, nut yet reached him.- 
Moore. 



aground ; and I could not see them in such a state 
vithout using the common feelings of humanity, 
and what means were in my power, to set them 
afloat again. 

" So Douglas Ivinnaird is out of the way ? He 
was so the last time I sent him a parcel, and he 
gives no previous notice. When is he expected 
again? "Yours, &c. 

"P. S. Will you say at once — do you publish 
Werner and the Mystery, or not ? You never once 
allude to them. 

"That cursed advertisement of Mr. J. Hunt is 
out of the limits. I did not lend him my name to 
be hawked about in this way. 

****** 

" However, I believe — at least, hope — that after 
all you may be a good fellow at bottom, and it is on 
this presumption that I now write to you on the 
subject of a poor woman of the name of Yossy, who 
is, or was, an author of yours, as she says, and pub- 
lished a book on Switzerland, in 1816, patronized 
by the ' Court and Colonel M'Mahon.' But it seems 
that neither the Court nor the Colonel could get 
over the portentous price of ' three pounds thirteen 
and sixpence,' which alarmed the too susceptible 
public ; and, in short, ' the book died away,' and 
what is worse, the poor soul's husband died too, 
and she writes with the man a corpse before her ; 
but instead of addressing the bishop or Mr. Wilber- 
force, she hath recourse to that proscribed, atheisti- 
cal, syllogistical, philogistical person, mysen, as they 
say in Notts. It is strange enough, but the rascaille 
English, who calumniate me in every direction and 
on every score, whenever they are in great distress 
recur to me for assistance. If I have had one ex- 
ample of this, I have had letters from a thousand, 
and as far as is in my power have tried to repay good 
for evil, and purchase a shilling's worth of salvation 
as long as my pocket can hold out. 

" Now, I am willing to do what I can for this un- 
fortunate person ; but her situation and her wishes 
(not unreasonable, however) require more than can 
be advanced by one individual like myself; for I 
have many claims of the same kind just at present, 
and also some remnants of debt to pay in England- 
God, he knows, the latter how reluctantly ! Can 
the Literary Fund do nothing for her ? By your 
interest, which is great among the pious, I dare say 
that something might be collected. Can you get 
any of her books published ? Suppose you took her 
as author in my place, now vacant among your raga- 
muffins : she is a moral and pious person, and will 
shine upon your shelves. But, seriously, do what 
you can for her." 



LETTER DLXXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Genoa, 9bre 23, 1322. 

" I have to thank you for a parcel of books, which 
are very welcome, especially Sir Walter's gift of 
' Halidon Hill.' You have sent me a copy of ' Wer- 
ner,' but without the preface. If you have pub- 
lished it without, you will have plunged me into a 
very disagreeable dilemma, because I shall be ac- 
cused of plagiarism from Miss Lee"s German's 
Tales, whereas I have fully and freely acknowledged 
that the drama is entirely taken from the story. 

" I return you the Quarterly Review, uncut and 
unopened, not from disrespect, or disregard, or 
pique, but it is a kind of reading which I have some 
time disused, as I think the periodical style ot 
writing hurtful to the habits of the mind by present- 
ing the superfices of too many things at once. I do 
not know that it contains any thing disagreeable to 
me — it may or it may not ; nor do I return it on ac- 
count that there may be an article which you hinted 
at in one of your late letters, but because I have left 



956 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



off reading these kind of works, and should equally 
have returned you any other number. 

" I am obliged to take in one or two abroad, be- 
cause solicited to do so. The Edinburgh came 
before me by mere chance in Galignani s picnic sort 
of gazette, where he had inserted a part of it. 

" You will have received various letters from me 
lately, in a style which I used with reluctance ; but 
you left me no other choice by your absolute refusal 
to communicate with a man you did not like upon 
the mere simple matter of transfer of a few papers 
of little consequence, (except to their author,) and 
which could be of no moment to yourself. 

" I hope that Mr. Kinnaird is better. It is strange 
that you never alluded to his accident, if it be true, 
as stated in the papers. 

"I am yours, &c, &c. 

" I hope that you have a milder winter than we 
have had here. We have had inundations worthy 
of the Trent or Po, and the conductor (Franklin's) 
of my house was struck (or supposed to be stricken) 
by a thunderbolt. I was so near the window that I 
was dazzled, and my eyes hurt for several minutes, 
and every body in the house felt an electric shock at 
the moment. Madame Guiccioli was frightened, as 
you may suppose. 

" I have thought since that your bigots would 
have ' saddled me with a judgment,' (as Thwackum 
did Square when he bit his tongue in talking meta- 
physics,) if any thing had happened of consequence. 
These fellows always forget Christ in their Christ- 
ianity, and what he said when ' the tower of Siloam 
fell.' 

" To-day is the 9th, and the 10th is my surviving 
daughter's birth-day. I have ordered, as a regale, a 
mutton chop and a bottle of ale. She is seven years 
old, I believe. Did I ever tell you that the day I 
came of age I dined on eggs and bacon and a bottle 
of ale ? For once in a way they are my favorite 
dish and drinkable, but as neither of them agree 
with me, I never use them but on great jubilees — 
once in four or five years or so. 

" I see somebody represents the Hunts and Mrs. 
Shelley as living in my house ; it is a falsehood. 
They reside at some distance, and I do not see them 
twice in a month. I have not met Mr. Hunt a 
dozen times since I came to Genoa, or near it. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DLXXIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Genoa, lObre 25o, 1822. 

" I had sent you back the Quarterly without peru- 
sal, having resolved to read no more reviews, good, 
bad, or indifferent ; but ' who can control his fate ?' 
Galignani, to whom my English studies are con- 
fined, has forwarded a copy of at least one-half of 
it in his indefatigable catch-penny weekly compila- 
tion ; and as, 'like honor, it came unlooked for,' I 
have looked through it. I must say that, upon the 
ichole, that is, the whole of the half which I have 
read, (for the other half is to be the segment of 
Galignani' s next week's circular,) it is extremely 
handsome, and any thing but unkind or unfair. As 
I take the good in good part, I must not, nor will 
not, quarrel with the bad. What the writer says of 
Don Juan is harsh, but it is inevitable. He must 
follow, or at least not directly oppose, the opinion 
of a prevailing and yet not very firmly seated party. 
A review may and will direct and ' turn awry ' the 
currents of opinion, but it must not directly oppose 
them. Don Juan will be known, by-and-by, for 
what it is intended, a Satire on abuses of the present 
gtate of society, and not an eulogy of vice.* It 
may be now and then vuluptuous : — I can't help 



, canto iv., stanza v., xcviii., Sic. 



that. Ariosto is worse ; Smollett (see Lord Strut 
well in vol. ii. of Roderick Random) ten times 
worse ; and Fielding no better. No girl will ever 
be seduced by reading Don Juan : — no, no ; she 
will go to Little's poems and Rousseau's Romans 
for that, or even to the immaculate De Stael. They 
will encourage her, and not the Don, who laughs at 
that, and — and — most other things. But never 
mind — ea ira ! 

****** 

"Now, do you see what you and your friends do 
by your injudicious rudeness ? — actually cement a 
sort of connexion which you strove to prevent, and 
which, had the Hunts prospered, would not in all 
probability have continued. As it is, I will not quit 
them in their adversity, though it should cost me 
character, fame, money, and the usual et cetera. 

" My original motives I already explained, (in the 
letter which you thought proper to show:) they 
are the true ones, and I abide by them, as I tell you, 
and I told ^Leigh Hunt when he questioned me on 
the subject of that letter. He was violently hurt, 
and never will forgive me at bottom ; but I can't 
help that. I never meant to make a parade of it: 
but if he chose to question me, I could only answer 
the plain truth ; and I confess I did not see any 
thing in the letter to hurt him, unless I said he was 
' a bore,' which I don't remember. Had their Journal 
gone on well, and I could have aided to make it 
better for them, I should then have left them, after 
my safe pilotage off a lee shore, to make a prosper- 
ous voyage by themselves. As it is, I can't, and 
would not if I could, leave them among the breakers. 

" As to any community of feeling, thought, or 
opinion between Leigh Hunt and me, there is little 
or none. We meet rarely, hardly ever ; but I think 
him a good-principled and able man, and must do 
as I would be done by. I do not know what world 
he has lived in, but I have lived in three or four, but 
none of them like his Keats and kangaroo terra 
incognita. Alas ! poor Shelley ! how we would 
have laughed had he lived, and how we used to 
laugh now and then at various things which are 
grave in the suburbs ! 

" You are all mistaken about Shelley. You do 
not know how mild, how tolerant, how good he was 
in society ; and as perfect a gentleman as ever 
crossed a drawing-room, when he liked, and where 
liked. 

" I have some thoughts of taking a run down to 
Naples (solus, or, at most, cum sold) this spring, 
and writing, when I have studied the country, a 
fifth and sixth canto of Childe Harold : but this is 
merely an idea for the present, and I have other 
excursions and voyages in my mind. The busts* 
are finished : are you worthy of them ? 

"Yours, &c, 
"N. B. 

" P. S. Mrs. Shelley is residing with the Hunts 
at some distance from me. I see them very seldom, 
and generally on account of their business. Mrs. 
Shelley, I believe, will go to England in the spring. 

"Count Gambia's family, the father and mother 
and daughter, are residing with me by Mr. Hill (the 
minister's) recommendation, as a safer asylum from 
the political persecutions, than they could have in 
another residence ; but they occupy one part of a 
large house, and I the other, and our establishments 
are quite separate. 

" Since I have read the Quarterly, I shall erase 
two or three passages in the latter six or seven can- 
tos, in which I had lightly stroked over two or three 
of your authors ; but I will not return evil for good. 
I liked what I read of the article much. 

" Mr. J. Hunt is most likely the publisher of the 



* Of the bust of himself by Bartollini he says, in one of his letters to Mr. 
Murray ;— " The bust does not turn out a good one,— though it may be like 
for aught I know, as it exactly resembles a superanu.ited Jesuit." Again i 
" 1 assure you Bartollini's is dreaaful, though my mind misgives me thai 
it is hideously like. If it is, 1 cannot be long for this world, for it overlook! 
seventy." — Moore. 



LETTERS. 



957 



new cantos ; with what prospects of success I know 
not, nor does it very much matter, as far as I am 
concerned ; but I hope it may be of use to him, for 
he is a stiff, sturdy, conscientious man, and I like 
him : he is such a one a Prynne or Pym might be. 
I bear you no ill-will for declining the Don Juans. 

"Have you aided Madame de Yossy, as I re- 
quested? I sent her three hundred francs. Recom- 
mend her, will you, to the Literary Fund, or to 
some benevolence within your circles." 



LETTER DLXXV. 



" Albaro, Nov. 10, 182-2. 
****** 

" The Chevalier persisted in declaring himself an 
ill-used gentleman, and describing you as a kind 
of cold Calypso, who lead astray people of an ama- 
tory disposition without giving them any sort of 
compensation, contenting yourself, it seems, with 
only making one fool instead of two, which is the 
more approved method of proceeding on such occa- 
sions. For my part, I think you are quite right ; 
and be assured from me that a woman (as society is 
constituted in England), who gives any advantage 
to a man may expect a lover, but will sooner or 
later find a tyrant ; and this is not the man's fault 
either, 'perhaps, but is the necessary and natural 
result of the circumstances of society which, in 
fact, tyrannize over the man equally with the woman, 
that is to say, if either of them have any feeling or 
honor. 

" You can write to me at your leisure and inclina- 
tion. I have always laid it down as a maxim, and 
found it justified by experience, that a man and a 
woman make far better friendships than can exist 
between two of the same sex ; but these with this 
condition, that they never have made, or are to 
make, love with each other. Lovers may, and, 
indeed, generally are enemies, but they never can 
be friends ; because there must always be a spice 
of jealousy and a something of self in all their 
speculatians. 

" Indeed, I rather look upon love altogether as a 
sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to make 
or to break matches, and keep the world going, 
but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned. 

" Now, as my love-perils are, I believe, pretty- 
well over, and yours, by all accounts, are never to 
begin, we shall be the best friends imaginable as far 
as both are concerned, and with this advantage, 
that we may both fall to loving right and left 
through all our acquaintance, without either sullen- 
ness or sorrow from that amiable passion which are 
its inseparable attendants. 

" Believe me, &c." 



LETTER DLXXVI. 

TO MR. PROCTOR. 

" Pisa, Jan., 1S23. 

" Had I been aware of your tragedy when I wrote 
my note to ' Marino Faliero,' although it is a mat- 
ter of no consequence to you, I should certainly not 
have omitted to insert your name with those of the 
other writers who still do honor to the drama. My 
own notions on the subject altogether are so differ- 
ent from the popular ideas of the day, that we dif- 
fer essentially, as indeed I do from our whole Eng- 
lish literati upon that topic. But I do not contend 
that I am right — I merely say that such is my 
opinion, and as it is a solitary one, it can do no 
great harm. But it does not prevent me from doing 
justice to the powers of those who adopt a different 
system." 



LETTER DLXXVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Genera, Feb. 20, 1S23. 

"My Dear Tom, 

" I must again refer you to those two letters ad- 
dressed to you at Passy before I read your speech 
in Galignani, &c, and which you do not seem to 
have received. 

" Of Hunt I see little — once a month or so, and 
then on his own business, generally. You may 
easily suppose that I know too little of Hampstead 
and his satellites to have much communion or com- 
munity with him. My whole present relation to 
him arose from Shelley's unexpected wreck. You 
would not have had me leave him in the street with 
his family, would you ? and as to the other plan you 
mention, you forget how it would humiliate him — 
that his writings should be supposed to be dead 
weight ! Think a moment — he is perhaps the vain- 
est man on earth, at least his own friends say so 
pretty loudly ; and if he were in other circumstances, 
I might be tempted to take him down a peg ; but 
not now, — it would be cruel. It is a cursed busi- 
ness ; but neither the motive nor the means rest 
upon my conscience, and it happens that he and his 
brother have been so far benefitted by the publica- 
tion in a pecuniary point of view. His brother is a 
steady, bold fellow, such as Prynne, for example, 
and full of moral, and, I hear, physical courage. 

" And you are really recanting, or softening to 
the clergy ! It will do little good for you — it is you, 
not the poem, they are at. Tbey will say they 
frightened you — forbid it, Ireland ! 

" Yours ever, 

"N. B." 



LETTER DLXXYIII. 



" I presume that you, at least, know enough of 
me to be sure that I could have no intention to in- 
sult Hunt's poverty. On the contrary, I honor him 
for it ; for I know what it is, having been as much 
embarrassed as ever he was, without perceiving 
aught in it to diminish an honorable man's self- 
respect. If you mean to say that, had he been a 
wealthy man. I would have joined in this Journal, 
I answer in the negative. * * * I engaged in the 
Journal from good-will towards him, added to re- 
spect for his character, literary and personal ; and 
no less for his political courage, as well as regret for 
his present circumstances : I did this in the hope 
that he might, with the same aid from literary 
friends of literary contributions, (which is requisite 
for all journals of a mixed nature,) render himself 
independent. 

****** 

'I have always treated him, in our personal in- 
tercourse, with such scrupulous delicacy, that I have 
foreborne intruding advice, which I thought might 
be disagreeable, lest he should impute it to what is 
called 'taking advantage of a man's situation.' 

" As to friendship, it is a propensity in which my 
genius is very limited. I do not know the mate 
human being, except Lord Clare, the friend of my 
infancy, for whom I feel any thing that deserves the 
name. All my others are men-of-thc-world friend- 
ships. I did not even feel it for Shelley, however 
much I admired and esteemed him ; so that you 
see not even vanity could bribe me into it, for, of all 
men, Shelley thought highest of my talents,— and, 
perhaps, of my disposition. 

" I will do my duty by my intimates, upon the 
principle of doing as you would be done by. I have 
done so, I trust, in most instances. I may be 
pleased with their conversation — rejoice in theij 



958 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



success — be glad to do them a service, or to receive 
their counsel and assistance in return. But, as for 
friends and friendship, I have (as I already said) 
named the only remaining male for whom I feel any 
thing of the kind, excepting, perhaps, Thomas 
Moore. I have had, and may have still, a thousand 
friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's 
partners in the waltz of this world, not much re- 
membered when the ball is over, though very 
pleasant for the time. Habit, business, and com- 
panionship in pleasure or in pain, are links of a 
similar kind, and the same faith in politics is 
another." * * * 



LETTER DLXXIX. 

TO LADY * * * . 

" Genoa, Marcli 28, 1823. 

" Mr. Hill is here : I dined with him on Saturday 
before last ; and on leaving his house at S. P. 
d' Arena, my carriage broke down. I walked home, 
about three miles, — no very great feat of pedestrian- 
ism ; but cither the coming out of hot rooms into a 
bleak wind chilled me, or the walking up-hill to 
Albaro heated me, or something or other set me 
wrong, and next day I had an inflammatory attack 
in the face, to which I have been subject this win- 
ter for the first time, and I suffered a good deal of 
pain, but no peril. My health is now much as 
usual. Mr. Hill is, I believe, occupied with his 
diplomacy. I shall give him your message when I 
see him again.* 

" My name, I see in the papers, has been dragged 
into the unhappy Portsmouth business, of which 
all that I know is very succinct. Mr. Hanson is my 
solicitor. I found him so when I was ten years old 
■ — at my uncle's death — and he was continued in the 
management of my legal business. He asked me, 
by a civil epistle, as an old acquaintance of his 
family, to be present at the marriage of Miss Han- 
son. I went very reluctantly, one misty morning 
(for I had been up at two balls all night), to witness 
the ceremony, which I could not very well refuse 
without affronting a man who had never offended 
me. 1 saw nothing particular in the marriage. Of 
course I could not know the preliminaries, except 
from what he said, not having been present atthe 
wooing, nor after it, for 1 walked home, and they 
went into the country as soon as they had promised 
and vowed. (Jut of this simple fact I hear the 
Debats de Paris has quoted Miss H. as 'autrefois 
trcs li e avec le celebre,' &c, &c. I am obliged to 
him for the celebrity, but beg leave to decline the 
liaison, which is quite untrue; my liaison was with 
the father, in the unsentimental shape of long law- 
yers' bills, through the medium of which 1 have 
had to pay him ten or twelve thousand pounds 
within these few years. She was not prettv, and 1 

suspect that the indefatigable Mr. A was (like 

all her people) more attracted by her title than her 
charms. 1 regret very much that I was present at 
the prologue to the happy state of horsewhipping 
and black jobs, &c, &c, but I could not foresee that 
a man was to turn out mad, who had gone about 
the world for fifty years, as competent to vote, and 
walk at large ; nor did he seem to me more insane 
than any other person going to be married. 

" I have no objection to be acquainted with the 
Marquis Palavicini, if he wishes it. Lately, I have 
gone little into society, English or foreign, 'for I had 
seen all that was worth seeing in the former before 
I left England, and at the time of life when I was 
more disposed to like it ; and of the latter I -had a 
sufficiency in the first few years of my residence in 



Switzerland, chiefly at Madame de StacTs, where 1 
went sometimes, till I grew tired of conversazioni 
and carnivals, with their appendages ; and the bore 
is, that if you go once, you are expected to be there 
daily, or rather nightly. I went the round of the 
most noted soirees at Venice or elsewhere (where I 
remained not any time) to the Benzona, and the 
Albrizzi, and the Michelli, &c, &c, and to the car- 
dinals and the various potentates of the Legation 
in Romagna (that is Ravenna), and only receded 
for the sake of quiet when I came into Tuscany. 
Besides, if I go into society, I generally get, in the 
long run, into some scrape of some kind or other, 
which don't occur in my solitude. However, 1 am 
pretty well settled now, by time and temper, which 
is so far lucky as it prevents restlessness ; but, as I 
said before, as an acquaintance of yours, I will be 
ready and willing to know your friends. He may be 
a sort of connexion for aught I know; for a Palavi- 
cini, of Bologna, I believe, married a distant rela- 
tive of mine half a century ago. I happen to know 
the fact, as he and his spouse had an annuity of 
five hundred pounds on my uncle's property, which 
ceased at his demise, though I recollect hearing they 
attempted, naturally enough, to make it survive 
him. If I can do any thing for you here, or else- 
where, pray order, and be obeyed." 



LETTER DLXXX. 



TO MR. MOOKE. 



* Tli'- Karl cl Portsmouth married Miss H inson. Attempts l 
about this time in the English courts to prove him insane 



" Genoa, April 2, 1823. 

" I have just seen some friends of yours, who 
paid me a visit yesterday, which, in honor of them 
and of you, I returned to-day ; — as I reserve my 
bear-skin and teeth, and paws and claws, for our 
enemies. 

' I have also seen Henry Fox, Lord Holland's 
son, whom I had not looked upon since I left him a 
pretty mild boy without a neckcloth, in a jacket, 
and in delicate health, seven long years agone, at 
the period of mine eclipse — the third, I believe, as 
I have generally one every two or three years. I 
think that he has the softest and most amiable ex- 
pression of* countenance I ever saw, and manners 
correspondent. If to those he can add hereditary 
talents, he will keep the name of Fox in all its 
freshness for half a century more, I hope. I speak 
from a transient glimpse — but I love still to yield 
to such impressions ; for I have ever found that 
those I liked longest and best, I took to at first 
sight ; and I always liked that boy ; perhaps, in 
part, from some resemblance in the less fortunate 
part of our destinies; I mean, to avoid mistakes, 
his lameness. But there is this difference, that he 
appears a halting angel, who has tripped against a 
star: while 1 am Le Diable Boiteux, — a soubriquet, 
which, I marvel that, among their various nomimts 
umbra', the Orthodox have not hit upon. 

"Your other allies, whom I have found very 
agreeable personages, and Milor Blessington and 
■ pouse, travelling with a very handsome companion 
in the shape of a 'French Count,' (to use Farquhar's 
phrase in the Beaux' Stratagem,) who has all the 
air of a Cupidon d chain', and is one of the few 
specimens I have seen of our ideal of a Frenchman 
before the Revolution — an old friend with a new 
face, upon whose like I never thought that we 
should look again. Miladi seems highly literary, to 
which, and your honor's acquaintance with the 
family, I attribute the pleasure of having seen them. 
She is also very pretty, even in a morning, — a spe- 
cies of beauty on which the sun of Italy does not 
shine so frequently as the chandelier. Certainly, 
Englishwomen wear better than their continental 
neighbors of the same sex. M * * seems very good- 
natured, but is much tamed, since I recollect him in 
all the glory of gems and snuff-boxes, and uniforms, 



LETTERS. 



959 



and theatricals, and speeches in our house — ' I 
mean, of peers' (I must refer you to Pope — whom 
you don't read, and won't appreciate — for that 
quotation, which you must allow to be poetical), 
and sitting to Stroeling, the painter (do you remem- 
ber our visit with Leckie, to the German ?) to be 
depicted as one of the ' heroes of Agincourt,' with 
his long sword, saddle, bridle, whack fal de,' &c., 
&e. 

" I have been unwell — caught a cold and inflam- 
mation, which menaced a conflagration, after 
dining with our ambassador, Monsieur Hill, — not 
owing to the dinner, but my carriage broke down 
on the way home, and I had to walk some miles, 
up hill partly, after hot rooms, in a very bleak 
windy evening, and over-hotted, or over-colded my- 
self. I -have not been so robustious as formerly, 
ever since the last summer, when I fell ill after a 
long swim in the Mediterranean, and have never 
been quite right up to this present writing. I am 
thin, — perhaps thinner than you saw me, when I 
was nearly transparent, in 1812, — and am obliged 
to be moderate of my mouth, which nevertheless, 
won't prevent me (the gods willing) from dining 
mth your friends the day after to-morrow. 
""They give me a very good account of you, and 
of your nearly ' Emprisoned Angels.' But why did 
you change your title ? — you will regret this some 
day. The bigots are not to be conciliated ; and if 
they were, are they worth it ? Isuspect that I am a 
more orthodox Christian than you are ; and, when- 
ever I see a real Christian, either in practice or in 
theory, (for I never yet found the man who could 
produce either, when put to the proof,) I am his 
disciple. But, till then, I cannot truckle to tithe- 
mongers, nor can I imagine what has made you cir- 
cumcise your Seraphs. 



LETTER DLXXXI. 

TO THE EARL OF BLESSINGTON. 

" April 5, 1823. 

" My Dear Lord, 

" How is your gout ? or rather, how are you ? I 
return the Count * *'s Journal, which is a very ex- 
traordinary production,* and of a most melan- 
choly truth in all that regards high life in England. 
1 know, or knew, personally most of the personages 
and societies, which he describes ; and after reading 
his remarks have the sensation fresh upon me as I 
had seen them yesterday. I would, however, plead 
in behalf of some few exceptions, which I will men- 
tion by-and-by. The most singular thing is, how 
he should have penetrated not the fact, but the 
mystery of the English ennui at two-and-twenty. 
I was about the same age when I made the same 
discovery, in almost precisely the same circles — (for 
there is scarcely a person mentionedSvhom I did 
not see nightly or daily, and was acquainted more 
or less intimately with most of them) — but I never 
could have described it so well. II faut ctre Fran- 
cois, to effect this. 

" But he ought also to have been in the country 
during the hunting season, with 'a select party of 
distinguished guests,' as the papers term it. He 
ought to have seen the gentlemen after dinner, (on 
the hunting days,)and the soiree ensuing thereupon 
— and the women looking as if they had hunted, 
or rather been hunted ; and I could have wished 
that he had been at a dinner in town, which I recol 
lect at Lord C 

posed of the most amusing people. The dessert 
was hardly on the table, when, out of twelve I 
counted five asleep; of that five, there were T/'er- 



• In another letter to Lord Ble66in£rton, he says of this gentleman, " 1 
•eems to have all the qualities requisite to hare figured in his brother-in-law 



ancejtor'l Memcira." 



ney, Lord * *,— I forget the other two, but they 
were either wits or orators — perhaps poets. 

" My residence in the East and in Italy has 
made me somewhat indulgent of the siesta — but 
then they set regularly about it in warm countries, 
and perform it in solitude, (or at most in a tete-a- 
tete with a proper companion,) and retire quietly 
to their rooms to get out of the sun's way for an 
hour or two. 

"Altogether, your friend's journal is a very for- 
midable production. Alas ! our dearly-beloved 
countrymen have only discovered that 'they are 
tired, and not that they are tiresome ; and I sus- 
pect that the communication of the latter unpleas- 
ant verity will not be better received than truths 
usually are. I have read the whole with great at- 
tention and instruction. I am too good a patriot 
to say pleasure — at least I won't say so, whatever I 
may think. I showed it (I hope no breach of con- - 
fidence,) to a young Italian lady of rank Ires in- 
struite also; and who passes, or" passed, for being 
one of the three most celebrated belles in the dis- 
trict of Italy, where her families and connexions 
resided in less troublesome times as to politics, 
(which is not Genoa, by-the-way,) and she was de- 
lighted with it, and says that she has derived a bet- 
ter notion of English "society from it than from all 
Madame de Stael's metaphysical disputations on 
the same subject, in her work on the Revolution. I 
beg that you will thank the young philosopher, and 
make my compliments to Lady B. and her sister. 
" Believe me your very obliged and faithful 

"N. B. 

' P. S. There is a rumor in letters of some dis- 
turbance or complot in the French Pyrenean army 
— generals suspected or dismissed, and ministers of 
war travelling to see what's the matter. ' Marry, 
(as David says,) this hath an angry favor.' 

" Tell Count * * that some of the names are not 
quite intelligible, aspecially of the clubs ; he speaks 
)t' Watts — perhaps he is right, but in my time 
Waiters was the Dandy Club, of which (though no 
dandy) I was a member, at the time too of its 
greatest glory, when Brummell and Mildmay, 
Avanley and Pierrepoint/gave the dandy balls; 
and we (the club, that is,) got up the famous mas- 
querade at Burlington House and Garden for Wel- 
lington. He does not speak of the Alfred, which 
was the most recherche and most tiresome of any, 
as I know by being a member of that too." 



LETTER DLXXXII. 



TO THE EARL OF BLESSINGTON. 



" April 6, 1S23. 

" It would be worse than idle, knowing, as I do, 
the utter worthlessness of words on suchoccasions, 
in me to attempt to express what I ought to feel, 
and do feel for the loss you have sustained ;* and I 
must thus dismiss the subject, for I dare not trust 
myself further with it for your sake, or for my own. 
I shall endeavor to see 'you as soon as it may not ap- 
pear intrusive. Pray excuse the levity of my yes- 
terday's scrawl— I little thought under what cir- 
cumstances it would find you. 

"I have received a very handsome and flattering 
note from Count * *. He must excuse my appa- 
rent rudeness and real ignorance in replying to it 
in English, through the medium of your kind inter- 
pretation. I would not on any account deprive him 
s — small, but select, and com- "of a production, of which I really think more than 
I have even said, though you are good enough not 
to be dissatisfied even with that; but whenever it is 
completed, it would give me the greatest pleasure to 
have a copy — but how to keep it secret ! literary 



The death of Loid Blessintrton's 



' but of which the account had just then arrired. 



vhich had been .cn<r expected, 



960 



BYRON'S WORKS 



secrets are like others. By changing the names, or 
at least omitting several, and altering the circum- 
stances indicative of the writer's real station, the 
author would render it a most amusing publication. 
His countrymen have not been treated either in a 
literary or personal point of view with such defer- 
ence in English recent works, as to lay him 
under any very great national obligation of for- 
bearance ; and really the remarks are so true and so 
piquante that I cannot bring myself to wish their 
suppression; though, as Dangle says, 'He is my 
friend,' many of these personages 'were my 
friends,' but much such friends as Dangle and his 
allies. 

" I return you Dr. Parr's letter — I have met him 
at Payne Knight's and elsewhere, and he did me 
the honor once to be a patron of mine, although a 
great friend of the other branch of the House of 
Atreus, and the Greek teacher (I believe) of my 
moral, Clytemnestra — I say moral, because it is 
true, and so useful to the virtuous, that it enables 
them to do any thing without the aid of an 
iligisthus. 

" I beg my compliments to Lady B., Miss P., and 
to your Alfred. I think, since his Majesty of the 
same name, there has not been such a learned sur- 
veyor of our Saxon society. 

" Ever yours most truly, 

"N. B.." 



"My Dear Loud 



April, 9, 1823. 



" P. S. I salute Miladi, Madamoiselle Mama, and 
the illustrious Chevalier Count * * who, I hope, will 
continue his history of ' his own times.' There are 
some strange coincidences between a part of his 
remarks and a certain work of mine, now in MS. 
in England, (I do not mean the hermetically sealed 
Memoirs, but a continuation of certain cantos of a 
certain poem,) especially in what a man may do in 
London with impunity where he is 'a la mode;' 
which I think it well to state, that he may not sus- 
pect me of taking advantage of his confidence. 
The observations are very general." 



LETTER DLXXXIII. 

TO THE EAltL OF BLESSINGTON. 

" April 14, 1823. 

"I am truly sorry that I cannot accompany you 
in your ride this morning, owing to a violent pain 
in my face, arising from a wart to which I by medi- 
cal advice applied a caustic. Whether I put too 
much, I do not know, but the consequence is, not 
only I have been put to some pain but the peccant 
part and its immediate environ are as black as if 
the printer's devil had marked me for an author. — 
As I do not wish to frighten your horses, or their 
riders, I shall postpone waiting upon you until six 
o'clock, when I hope to have subsided into a more 
Christkuilike resemblance to my fellow-creatures. 
My infliction has partially extended even to my fin- 
gers for on trying to get the black from off my 
upper lip at least, I have only transfused a portion 
thereof to my right hand, and neither lemon-juice 
nor eau de cologne, nor any other eau, have been 
able as yet to redeem it also from a more inky ap- 
pearance than is either proper or pleasant. But 
' out damn'd spot' — you may have perceived some- 
thing of the kind yesterday, for on my return, L 
saw that during my visit it had increased, was in- 
creasing, and ought to be diminished ; and I could 
not help laughing at the figure I must have cut 
before you. At any rate, I shall be with you at six, 
with the advantage of twilight. 

" Ever most truly, &c. 



"11 o'clock. 
" P. S. I wrote the above at three this morning. 
I regret to say that the whole of the skin of about 
an inch square above my upper lip has come off, so 
that I cannot even shave or masticate, and I am 
equally unfit to appear at your table, and to partake 
of its hospitality. Will you therefore pardon me, 
and not mistake this rueful excuse for a ' make, 
believe,' as you will soon recognise whenever I have 
the pleasure of meeting you again, and I will call 
the moment I am, in the nursery phrase, 'fit to be 
seen.' Tell Lady B. with my compliments, that I 
am rummaging my papers for a MS. worthy of her 
acceptation. I have just seen the younger Count 
Gamba, and as I cannot prevail on his infinite mod- 
esty to take the field without me, I must take this 
piece of diffidence on myself also, and beg your in- 
dulgence for both." 



LETTER DLXXXIV. 



TO THE COUNT * *. 



" April 22, 1823. 



" My dear Count * *, (if you will permit me TO 
address you so familiarly,) you should be content 
with writing in your own language, like Gram- 
mont, and succeeding in London as nobody has 
succeeded since the days of Charles the Second and 
the records of Antonio Hamilton, without deviating 
into our barbarous language, — which you under- 
stand and write, however much better than it de- 
serves. 

" My ' approbation,' as you are pleased to term it, 
was very sincere, but perhaps not very impartial ; 
for though I love my country, I do not love my 
countrymen, at least, such as they now are. And be- 
sides the seduction of talent and wit in your work, 
I fear that to me there was the attraction of ven- 
geance. I have seen and felt much of what you 
have described so well. I have known the persons, 
and the reunions so described — (many of them that 
is to say,) — and the portraits are so like that I can- 
not but admire the painter no less than his per- 
formance. 

"But I am sorry for you; for if you are so well 
acquainted with life at your age, what will become 
of you when the illusion is still more dissipated ? 
but never mind — en avant ! — live while you can; 
and that you may have the full enjoyment of the 
many advantages of youth, talent, and figure, which 
you possess, is the wish of an — Englishman, — 1 
suppose, — but it is no treason ; for my mother was 
Scotch, and my name and my family are both Nor- 
man : and as for myself, 1 am of no country. As 
for my ' Works,' which you are pleased to mention, 
let them go to the devil, from whence (if you believe 
many persons) they came. 

" I have the honor to be your obliged, &c, &c." 



LETTER DLXXXV. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

" May 3, 1823. 

" Dear Lady * *, 

" My request would be for a copy of the miniature 
of Lady B., which I have seen in possession of the 
late Lady Noel, as I have no picture, or indeed 
memorial of any kind of Lady B., as all her letters 
were in her own possession "before I left England, 
and we have had no correspondence since — at least 
on her part. 

" My message, with regard to the infant, is sim- 
ply to this effect— that in the event of any accident 
occurring to the mother, and my remaining the 
survivor, it would be my wish to have her plans 



LETTERS. 



961 



carried into effect, both with regard to the education 
of the child, and the person or persons under whose 
care Lady B. might be desirous that she should be 
placed. It is not my intention to interfere with her 
in any way on the subject during her life; and I 
presume that it would be some consolation to her to 
know, (if she is in ill health, as I am given to un- 
derstand,) that in no case would any thing be done, 
as far as I am concerned, but in strict conformity 
with Lady B.'s own wishes and intentions — left in 
what manner she thought proper. 

" Believe me, dear Lady B., your obliged, &c." 



LETTER DLXXXVI. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF * * *. 

" Albaro, May 6, 1823. 

" My Dear Lady * * *, 

" I send you the letter which I had forgotten, and 
the book,* which I ought tp have remembered. It 
contains (the book, I mean) some melancholy 
truths ; though I believe that it is too triste a work 
ever to have been popular. The first time I ever 
read it, (not the edition I send you, — for I got it 
since,) was at the desire of Madame de Stafil, who 
was supposed by the good-natured world to be the 
heroine ; — which she was hot, however, and was 
furious at the supposition. This occurred in Swit- 
zerland, in the summer of 1816, and the last season 
in which I ever saw that celebrated person. 

" I have a request to make to my friend Alfred, 
(since he has not disdained the title,) viz., that he 
would condescend to add a cap to the gentleman in 
the jacket, — it would complete his costume, — and 
smooth his brow, which is somewhat too inveterate 
a likeness of the original, God help me ! 

" I did well to avoid the water-party, — why, is a 
mystery, which is not less to be wondered at than 
all my other mysteries. Tell Milor that I am deep 
in his MSS., and will do him justice by a diligent 
perusal. 

" The letter which I enclose I was prevented from 
sending, by my despair of its doing any good. I 
was perfectly sincere when I wrote it, and am so 
still. But it is difficult for me to withstand the 
thousand provocations on that subject, which both 
friends and foes have for seven years been throwing 
in the way of a man whose feelings were once 
quick, and whose temper was never patient. But 
' returning were as tedious as go o'er.' I feel this 
as much as ever Macbeth did ; and it is a dreary 
sensation, which at least avenges the real or imagi- 
nary wrongs of one of the two unfortunate persons 
whom it concerns. 

"But I am going to be gloomy; — 'so 'to bed, to 
bed.' Good night, — or rather morning. One of 
the reasons why I wish to avoid society is, that I 
can never sleep after it, and the pleasanter it has 
been, the less I rest. 

"Ever most truly, &c., &c." 



LETTER DLXXXVII.f 

TO LADY BYRON. 

[To the care of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh, London.] 

" Pisa, Nov. 17, 1821. 

" I have to acknowledge the receipt of ' Ada's 
hair,' which is very soft and pretty, and nearly as 
dark already as mine was at twelve years old, if I 
may judge from what I recollect of some in Augus- 



• Adolphe,.by M. Benjamin Constant, 
f Enclosed in Letter dlxxxii. 

121 



ta's possession, taken at that age. But it don't 
curl, — perhaps from its being let grow. 

" I also thank you for the inscription of the date 
and name, and I will tell you why ; — I believe that 
they are the only two or three words of your hand- 
writing in my possession. For your letters I re- 
turned, and except the two words, or rather the one 
word, ' Household,' written twice in an old account- 
book, I have no other. I burnt your last note, for 
two reasons : — lstly, it was written in a style not 
very agreeable ; and, 2dly, I wished to take your 
word without documents, which are the wordly re 
sources of suspicious people. 

" I suppose that this note will reach you some- 
where about Ada's birthday — the 10th of December, 
I believe. She- will then be six, so that in about 
twelve more I shall have some chance of meeting 
her ; — perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to Eng- 
land by business or otherwise. Recollect, however, 
one thing, either in distance or nearness ; — every 
day which keeps us asunder should, after so long a 
period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which 
must always have one rallying-point as long as our 
child exists, which I presume we both hope will be 
long after either of her parents. 

"The time which has elapsed since the separa- 
tion, has been considerably more than the whole 
brief period of our union, and the not much longer 
one of our prior acquaintance. We both made a 
bitter mistake ; but now it is over, and irrevocably 
so. For, at thirty-three on my part, and a few 
years less on yours, though it is no very extended 
period of life, still it is one when the habits and 
thought are generally so formed as to admit of no 
modification ; and as we could not agree when 
younger, we should with difficulty do so now. 

" I say all this, because I own to you that, not- 
withstanding every thing, I considered our reunion 
as not impossible for more than a year after the 
separation ; — but then I gave up the hope entirely 
and for ever. But this ve v y impossibility of reunion 
seems to me at least a reason why, on all the few 
points of discussion which can arise between us, we 
should preserve the courtesies of life, and as much 
of its kindness as people who aie never to meet may 
preserve, perhaps more en^ily than nearer connex- 
ions. For my own part I am violent, but not ma- 
lignant ; for only fresh provocations can awaken my 
resentments. To you, who are colder and more 
concentrated, I would just hint, that you may some- 
times mistake the depth of a cold anger for dignity, 
and a worse feeling for duty. I assure you that I 
bear you 11010 (whatever I may have done) no re- 
sentment whatever. Remember, that if you have 
injured me in aught, this forgiveness is something ; 
and that, if I have injured you, it is something more 
still, if it be true, as the moralists say, that the most 
offending are the least forgiving. 

' Whether the offence has been solely on my side, 
or reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, I have ceased to 
reflect upon any but two things, — viz., that you are 
the mother of my child, and that we shall never 
meet again. I think if you also consider the two 
corresponding points with reference to myself, it 
will be better for all three. " Yours ever, 

"Noel Byron." 



LETTER DLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. BLAQ.UIERE. 

" Albaro, April 5, 1823. 

Dear Sir, 

" I shall be delighted^o see you and your Greek 
friend ; and the sooner the better. I have been 
expecting you for some time, — you will find me at 
home. I cannot express to you how much I feel 
interested in the cause ; and nothing but the hopes 
I entertained of witnessing the liberation of Italy 



962 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



itself, prevented me long ago from returning to do 
what little I could, as an individual, in that land 
which it is an honor even to have visited. 

" Ever yours, truly, 

" Noel Byron." 



LETTER DLXXXIX. 



TO MR. BOAVRING. 



" Genoa, Mav 12, 1823. 

" Sir, 

" I have great pleasure in acknpwledging your 
letter, and the honor which the committee have 
done me ; — I shall endeavor to deserve their confi- 
dence by every means in my power. My first wish 
is to go up into the Levant in person, where I 
might be enabled to advance, if not the cause, at 
least the means of obtaining information which the 
committee might be desirous of acting upon ; and 
my former residence in the country, my familiarity 
with the Italian language, (which is there univer- 
sally spoken, or at least to the same extent as 
French in the more polished parts of the conti- 
nent,) and my not total ignorance of the Romaic, 
would afford me some advantages of experience. 
To this project the only objection is of a domestic 
nature, and I shall try to get over it — if I fail in 
this, I must do what I can where I am ; but it will 
be always a source of regret to me, to think that I 
might perhaps have done more for the cause on the 
spot. 

" Our last information of Captain Blaquiere is 
from Ancona, where he embarked with a fair wind 
for Corfu, on the loth ult. ; he is now probably at 
his destination. My last letter front him personally 
was dated Rome ; he had been refused a passport 
through the Neapolitan territory, and returned to 
strike up through Romagna for Ancona: little time, 
however, appears to have been lost by the delay. 

" The principal material wanted by the Greeks 
appears to be, first, a park of field artillery — light, 
and fit for mountain-service ; secondly, gunpowder ; 
thirdly, hospital or medical stores. The readiest 
mode of transmission is, I hear, by Idra, addressed 
to Mr. Negri, the minister. I meant to send up a 
certain quantity of the two latter — no great deal — 
but enough for an individual to show his good 
wishes for the Greek success ; but am pausing, be- 
cause, in case I should go myself, I can take them 
with me. I do not want to limit my own contribu- 
tion to this merely, but more especially, if I can get 
to Greece myself, I should devote whatever re- 
sources I can muster of my own, to advancing the 
great object. I am in correspondence with Signor 
Nicolas Karrcllas, (well known to Mr. Hobhouse,) 
who is now at Pisa; but his latest advice merely 
stated, that the Greeks are at present employed in 
organizing their internal government, and the de- 
tails of its administration ; this would seem to indi- 
cate security, but the war is however far from being 
terminated. 

" The Turks are an obstinate race, as all former 
wars have proved them, and will return to the 
charge for years to come, even if beaten, as it is 
to be hoped they will be. But in no case can the 
labors of the committee be said to be in vain, for in 
the event even of the Greeks being subdued and 
dispersed, tl\o funds which could be employed in 
succoring and gathering together the remnant, so 
as to alleviate in part their distresses, and enable 
them to find or make a country, (as so many emi- 
grants of other nations have been compelled to do,) 
would bless ' both those who gave and those who 
took,' as the bounty both of justice and of mercy. 
" With regard to the formation of a brigade, 
(which Mr. Hobhouse hints at in his short letter 
of this day's receipt, enclosing the one to which I 
have the honor to reply,) I would presume to sug- 



gest — but merely as an opinion, resulting rather 
from the melancholy experience of the brigades 
embarked in the Columbian service, than from any 
experiment yet fairly tried in Greece — that the 
attention of the committee had better perhaps be 
directed to the employment of officers of experi- 
ence than the enrolment of raw British soldiers, 
which latter are apt to be unruly, and not very 
serviceable, in irregular warfare, by the side of for- 
eigners. A small body of good officers especially 
artillery; an engineer, with a quantity (such as the 
committee might deem requisite) of stores, of the 
nature which Captain Blaquiere indicated as most 
wanted, would, I should conceive, be a highly use- 
ful accession. Officers, also, who had previously 
served in the Mediterranean, would be preferable, 
as some knowledge of Italian is nearly indispen- 
sable. 

" It would also be as well that they should be 
aware that they are not going ' to rough it on a 
beef-steak and bottle of port,' — but that Greece— 
never, of late years, very plentifully stocked for ojmesa 
— is at present the country of all kinds of privations. 
This remark may seem superfluous; but I have 
been led to it, by observing that many foreign offi- 
cers, Italians, French, and even Germans, (but 
fewer of the latter,) have returned in disgust, im- 
agining either that they were going up to make a 
party of pleasure, or to enjoy full pay, speedy pro- 
motion, and a very moderate degree of duty. They 
complain, too, of having been ill received by the 
government or inhabitants; but numbers of these 
complainants were mere adventurers, attracted by 
the hope of command and plunder, and disappointed 
of both. Those Greeks 1 have seen strenuously 
deny the charge of inhospitality, and declare that 
they shared their pittance to the last crumb with 
their foreign volunteers. 

" I need not suggest to the committee the very 
great advantage which must accrue to Great Bri- 
tain from the success of the Greeks, and their 
probable commercial relations with England in 
consequence; because I feel persuaded that the first 
object of the committee is their emancipation, 
without any interested views. But the consideration 
might weigh with the English people in general, 
in their their present passion for every kind of 
speculation, — they need not cross the American 
seas, for one much better worth their while, and 
nearer home. The recources, even for an emigrant 
population in the Greek island alone, are rarely to 
be paralleled ; and the cheapness of every kind, of 
not only necessary, but luxury, (that is to say, 
luxury of nature,) fruits, wine, oil, &c, in a state 
of peace, are far beyond those of the Cape, and 
Van Dieman's Land, and the other places of ref- 
uge, which the English population are searching 
for over the waters. 

" I beg that the Committee will command me in 
any and every way. If I am favored with any 
instructions, I khall endeavor to obey them to the 
letter, whether conformable to my own private 
opinion or not. I beg leave to add, personally, my 
respect for the gentleman whom I have the honor 
of addressing. 

" And am, sir, your obliged, &c. 

" P. S. The best refutation of Gell will be the 
active exertions of the Committee ; — I am too warm 
a controversialist ; amd I suspect that if Mr. Hob- 
house have taken him in hand, there will be little 
i occasion for me to ' encumber him with help.' If I 
go up into the country, I will endeavor to transmit 
as accurate and impartial an aqcount as circum- 
stances will permit. 

" I shall write to Mr. Karrellas. I expect intel- 
ligence from Captain Blaquiere, who has promised 
me some early intimation from the seat of the 
Provisional Government. I gave him a letter of 
introduction to Lord Sidney Osborne, at Corfu ; but 
as Lord S. is in the government service, of course 
his reception could only be a cautious one." 



LETTERS. 



963 



LETTER DXC. 



TO MR. BOWMNQ. 



SlR, 



'Genoi, May 21, 1323. 



" I received yesterday the letter of the Commit- 
tee, dated the 14th of March. What has occasioned 
the delay, I know not. It was forwarded hy Mr. Ga- 
lignani, from Paris, who stated that he had only had 
it in his charge four days, and that it was delivered 
to him by a Mr. Grattan. I need hardly say that I 
gladly accede to the proposition of the Committee, 
and hold myself highly honored by being deemed 
worthy to be a member. I have also to return my 
thanks, particularly to yourself, for the accompany- 
ing letter, which is extremely flattering. 

" Since I last wrote to you, through the medium 
of Mr. Hobhouse, I have received and forwarded a 
letter from Captain Blaquiere to me, from Corfu, 
which will show how he gets on. Yesterday I fell 
in with two young Germans, survivors of General 
Normann's band. They arrived at Genoa in a most 
deplorable state — without food — without a sou — 
without shoes. The Austrians had sent them out of 
their territory on their landing at Trieste: and they 
had been forced to come down to Florence, and had 
travelled from Leghorn here, with four Tuscan 
livres (about three francs) in their pockets. I have 
given them twenty Genoese scudi, (about a hundred 
and thirty-three livres, French money,) and new 
shoes, which will enable them to get to Switzerland, 
where they say that they have friends. All that they 
could raise in Genoa, besides, was thirty sous. They 
do not complain of the Greeks, but say that they 
have suffered more since their landing in Italy. 

" I tried their veracity, firstly, by their pass- 
ports and papers ; secondly, by topography, cross- 
questioning them about Arta, Argos, Athens, 
Missolonghi, Corinth, &c. ; and, thirdly, in Romaic, 
of which I found (one of them at least) knew more 
than I do. One of them (they are both of good 
families) is a fine, handsome young fellow of three- 
and-twenty — a Wirtembergher, and has a look of 
Sandt about him — the other a Bavarian, older, and 
flat-faced, and less ideal, but a great, sturdy, soldier- 
like personage. The Wirtembergher was in the 
action at Arta, where the Philhellenists were cut to 
pieces after killing six hundred Turks, they them- 
selves being only a hundred and fifty in number, 
opposed to six or seven thousand ; only eight 
escaped, and of them about three only survived ; so 
that General Normann ' posted his ragamuffins 
where they were well peppered — not three of the 
hundred and fifty left alive — and they are for the 
town's end for life.' 

" These two left Greece by the direction of the 
Greeks. When Chnrschid Pacha overrun the Morea, 
the Greeks seem to have behaved well, in wishing 
to save their allies, when they thought that the 
game, was up with themselves. This was in Sep- 
tember last, (1822;) tlysy wandered from island to 
island, and got from M'ilo to Smyrna, where the 
French consul gave them a passport, and a charita- 
ble captain a passage to Ancona, whence they got to 
Trieste, and were turned back by the Austrians. 
They complain only of the minister, (who has 
always been an indifferent character;) say that the 
Greeks fight well in their own way, but were at 
first afraid to Jire their own cannon — but mended 
with practice. 

" Adolphe (the younger) commanded at Xavarino 
for a short time ; the other, a more material person, 
' the bold Bavarian in a luckless hour,' seems chiefly I 
to lament a fast of three days at Argos, and the | 
loss of twenty-five paras a day of pay in arrear, and 
Borne baggage at Tripolitza ; but takes his wounds, 
and marches, and battles in very good part. Both 
are very simple, full of naivete, and quite unpre- 
tending : they say the foreigners quarrelled among 



themselves, particularly tne French with the Ger- 
mans, which produced duels. 

"The Greeks accept muskets, but throw away 
bayonets, and will not be disciplined. When these 
lads saw two Piedmontese regiments yesterday, 
they said, ' Ah, if we had had but these two, we 
should have cleared the Morea : ' in that case the 
Piedmontese must have behaved better than they 
did against the Austrians. They seem to lay great 
stress upon a few regular troops — say that the 
Greeks have arms and powder in plenty, but want 
victuals, hospital stores, and lint and linen, &c, and 
money very much. Altogether, it would be difficult 
to show more practical philosophy Shan this remnant 
of our ' puir hill folk ' have done ; they do not 
seem the least cast down, and their way of present- 
ing themselves was as simple and natural as could 
be. They said, a Dane here had told them that au 
Englishman, friendly to the Greek cause, was here, 
and that, as they were reduced to beg their way 
home, they thought they might as well begin with 
me. I write in haste to snatch the post.— Believe 
me, and truly, " Your obliged, &c. 

" P. S. I have, since I wrote this, seen them 
again. Count P. Gamba asked them to breakfast. 
One of them means to publish his Journal of the 
campaign. The Bavarian wonders a little that the 
Greeks are not quite the same with them of the 
time of Themistocles, (they were not then very 
tractable, by-the-by), and at the difficulty of dis- 
ciplining them; but he is a ' bon homme' and a 
tacticia, and a little like Dugald Dalgetty, who 
would insist upon the erection of ' a sconce on the 
hill of Drumsnab,' or whatever it was; the other 
seems to wonder at nothing." 



LETTER DXCI. 

TO MR. CHURCH, AMERICAN CONSUL AT GENOA. 
" Genoa, May, 1823. 

" The accounts are so contradictory, as to what 
mode will be best for supplying the Greeks, that I 
have deemed it better to take up, (with the excep- 
tion of a few supplies,) what cash and credit I can 
muster, rather than lay them out in articles that 
might be deemed superfluous or unnecessary. Here 
we can learn nothing but from some of the refugees, 
who appear chiefly interested for themselves. My 
accounts from an agent of the Committee, an Eng- 
lish gentleman lately gone up to Greece, are hitherto 
favorable, but he had not yet reached the seat of 
the Provisional Government, and I am anxiously 
expecting further advice. 

" An American has a better right than any other, 
to suggest to other nations the mode of obtaining 
that liberty which is the glory of his own." 



LETTER DXCII. 

TO M. H. BEYLE, 

Rue de Richelieu, Paris. 

" Genoa, May 29, 1823. 

"Sir, 

" At present, that I know to whom I am indebted 
for a flattering mention in the ' Rome, Naples, and 
Florence, in 1817, by Mons. Stendhal,' it is fit that 
I should return my thanks (however ivndesired or 
undesirable) to Mons. Bevle, with whom I had the 
honor of being acquainted at Milan in 1816. You 
only did me too much honor in what you were 
pleased to say in that work ; but it has hardly 
given me less pleasure than the praise itself, tr 



964 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



become at length aware (which I have done by 
mere accident) that I am indebted for it to one of 
•whose good opinion I was really ambitious. So 
many changes have taken place since that period in 
the Milan circle, that I hardly dare recur to it ; — 
some dead, some banished, and some in the Austrian 
dungeons. Poor Pellico ! I trust that, in his iron 
solitude, his Muse, is consoling him in part — one 
day to delight us again, when both she and her poet 
are restored to freedom. 

"Of your works I have only seen 'Rome, &c.,' 
the Lives of Haydn and Mozart, and the brochure 
on Racine and Shakspeare. The ' Historic de la 
Peinture,' I have not yet the good fortune to pos- 
sess. 

"There is one part of your observations in the 
pamphlet which I shall venture to remark upon ; it 
regards Walter Scott. You say that ' his character 
is little worthy of enthusiasm,' at the same time 
that you mention his productions in the manner 
they deserve. I have known Walter Scott long 
and well, and in occasional situations which call 
forth the real character — and I can assure you, that 
his character is worthy of admiration ; — that of all 
men he is the most open, the most honorable, the 
most unliable. With his politics, I have nothing to 
do ; they differ from mine, which renders it difficult 
for me to speak of them. But he is perfectly sin- 
cere in them ; and sincerity may be humble, but she 
cannot be servile. I pray you, therefore, to correct 
or soften that passage. You may, perhaps, attri- 
bute this officiousness of mine to a false affectation 
of candor, as I happen to be a writer also. At- 
tribute it to what motive you please, but believe the 
truth. I say that Walter Scott is as nearly a 
thorough good man as man can be, because I know 
it by experience to be the case. 

"If you do me the honor of an answer, may I 
request a speedy one ? because it is possible (though 
not yet decided) that circumstances may conduct 
me once more to Greece. My present address is 
Genoa, where an answer will reach me in a short 
time, or be forwarded to me wherever I may be. 

" I beg you to believe me, with a lively recollec 
tion of our brief acquaintance, and the hope of one 
day renewing it, 

" Your ever obliged, 

" And obedient humble servant, 

" Noel Bykon." 



I have hurt myself without doing much good to 
those for whose benefit it was intended. 

"Do not defend me — it will never do — you will 
only make yourself enemies. 

" Mine are neither to be diminished nor softened, 
but they may be overthrown ; and there are events 
which may occur less improbable than those which 
have happened in our time, that may reverse the 
present state of things — nous vcrrons. * * 

* * 

' I send you this gossip that you may laugh at 
it, which is all it is good for, if it is even good for 
so much. I shall be delighted to see you again ; 
but it will be melancholy, should it be only for a 
moment. " Ever yours, 

. "N. B." 



LETTER DXCIV. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

" Albaro, June 2, !3i3. 

My Heap. Lady B * *, 

" I am superstitious, and have recollected that 
memorials with a. point are of less fortunate augury : 
I will, therefore request you to accept, instead of 
the pin,* the enclosed chain, which is of so slight a 
value that you need not hesitate. As you wished 
for something worn, I can only say, that it has been 
worn oftener and longer than the other. It is- of 
Venetian manufacture ; and the only peculiarity 
about it is, that it could only be obtained at, or 
from, Venice. At Genoa they have none of the 
same kind. "I also enclose a ring, which I would 
wish Alfred to keep ; it is too large to wear; but is 
formed of lava, and so far adapted to the fire of his 
years and character. You will perhaps have the 
goodness to acknowledge the receipt of this note, 
and send back the pin, (for good luck's sake,) 
which I shall value much more for having been a 
night in your custody. 

" Ever and faithfully your obliged, &c. 

" P. S. I hope your nerves are well to-day, and 
will continue to flourish." 



LETTER DXCIII. 

TO LADY * * * *. 

" May 17, 1823. 

" My voyage to Greece will depend upon the 
Greek Committee (in England) partly, and partly 
on the instructions which some persons now in 
Greece on a private mission may be pieased to send 
me. I am a member, lately elected, of the said 
Committee ; and my object in going up would be to 
do any little good in my power; but as there some 
pros and cons on the subject, with regard to how far 
the intervention of strangers may be advisable, I 
know no more than I tell you ; but we shall prob- 
ably hear something soon from England and Greece, 
which may be more decisive. 

" With regard to the late person (Lord London- 
derry) whom you hear that I have attacked, I can 
only say that a bad minister's memory is as much 
an object of investigation as his conduct while 
alive, — for his measures do not die with him like a 
private individual's notions. He is matter of history ; 
and, wherever I find a tyrint or a villain, I will 
mark him. I attacked him no more than I had 
been wont to do. As to the Liberal, — it was a 
publication set up for the advantage of a persecuted 
author and a very worthy man. But it was foolish 
in me to engage in it ; and so it has turned out — for 



LETTER DXCV. 

TO MR. BOWIUNG. 

" July 7, 1823. 

"We sail on the 12th for Greece. — I have had a 
letter from Mr. Blaquiere, too long for present 
transcription, but very satisfactory. The Greek 
government expects me without delay. 

" In conformity to the desires of Mr. B. and other 
correspondents in Greece, I have to suggest, with all 
deference to the committee, that a remittance of 
even ' ten thousand pounds only' (Mr. B.'s expres- 
sion) would be of the greatest service to the Greek 
Government at present. I have also to recommend 
strongly the attempt of a loan, for which there will 
be offered a sufficient security by deputies now on 
their way to England. In the mean time, I hope 
that the committee will be enabled to do something 
effectual. 

" For my own part, I mean to carry up, in cash 
or credits, above eight, and nearly nine thousand 
pounds sterling, which I am enabled to do by funds 
I have in Italy, and credits in England. Of this 
sum I must necessarily reserve a portion for the 
subsistence of myself and suite ; the rest I am wil- 
ling to apply in the manner which seems most likely 
to be useful to the cause — having, of course, some 



• He had previously presented her with a breast-pin contain 
cameo of Napoleon. t 



LETTERS. 



965 



guarantee or assurance, that it will not be misap- 
plied to any individual speculation. 

If I remain in Greece, which will mainly depend 
upon the presumed probable utility of my presence 
there, and of the opinion of the Greeks themselves 
as to its propriety — in short, if I am welcome to 
them, I shall continue, during; my residence at least 
to apply such portions of my income, present and 
future, as may forward the object — that is to say 
what I can spare for that purpose. Privations I can, 
or at least could once, bear — abstinence I am accus- 
tomed to — and, as to fatigue, I was once a tolerable 
traveller. What I may be now, I cannot tell — but I 
will try. 

" I await the commands of the committee. — 
Address to Genoa — the letters will be forwarded to 
me, wherever I may be, by my bankers, Messrs 
Webb and and Barry. It would have given me 
pleasure to have had some more defined instructions 
befoM I went, but these, of course, rest at the 
option of the committee. 

" I have the honor to be 

" Your obedient, &c. 

"P. S. Great anxiety is expressed for a printing 
press and types, &c. I have not the time to provide 
them, but recommend this to the notice of the 
committee. I presume the types must, partly at 
least.be Greek: they wish to publish papers, and 
perhaps a journal, probably in Romaic with Italian 
translations." 



LETTER DXCVI. 



TO GOETHE. 



"Leghorn ..July 24, 1823. 

Illustrious Sir, 

" I cannot thank you as you ought to be thanked 
for the lines which my young friend, Mr. Sterling, 
sent me of yours ; and it would but ill become me 
to pretend to exchange verses with him who, for 
fifty years, has been the undisputed sovereign of 
European literature. You must therefore accept 
my most sincere acknowledgements in prose — and in 
hasty prose too ; for I am at present on my voyage 
to Greece once more, and surrounded by hurry and 
bustle, which hardly allow a moment even to grati- 
tude and admiration to express themselves. 

"I sailed from Genoa some days ago, and was 
driven back by a gale of wind, and have since sailed 
again and arrived here, ' Leghorn,' this morning, to 
receive on board some Greek passengers for their 
struggling country. 

" Here also I found your lines and Mr. Sterling's 
letter, and I could not have had a more favorable 
omen, a more agreeable surprise, than a word of 
Goethe written by his own ltand. 
, " I am returning to Greece, to see if I can be 
of any little use there': if ever I come back, I will 
pay a visit to Weimar, to offer the sincere homage 
of one of the many millions of your admirers. I 
have the honor to be, ever and most, 

" Your obliged, 

"Noel Byron." 



NOTES TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

"October 7. 

" Pietro has told you all the gossip of the island, 
—our earthquakes, our politics, and present abode 
in a pretty village. As his opinions and mine on 
the Greeks are nearly similar, I need say little on 
that subject. I was a fool to come here ; but, being 
here, I must see what is to be done." 



"We are still in Cephalonia, waiting for news of 
a more accurate description ; for all is contradiction 



and division in the reports of the state of the Greeks. 
I shall fulfil the object of my mission from the com- 
mittee, and then return into Italy. For it does not 
seem likely that, as an individual, I can be of use 
to them ; — at least no other foreigner has yet ap- 
peared to be so, nor does it seem likely that any will 
be at present. 

"Pray be as cheerful and tranquil as you can; 
and be assured that there is nothing here that can 
excite any thing but a wish to be with you again, — 
though we are very kindly treated by the English 
here of all descriptions. Of the Greeks, I can't 
say much good hitherto, and I do not like to speak 
ill of them, though they do of one another." 

" OctoU-r 29. 

" You may be sure that the moment I can join 
you again will be as welcome to me as at any period 
of our recollection. There is nothing very attrac- 
tive here to divide my attention ; but I must attend 
to the Greek cause, both from honor and inclina- 
tion. Messrs. B. and T. arc both in the Morea, 
where they have been very well received, and both 
of them write in good spirits and hopes. I am anx- 
ious to hear how the Spanish cause will be arranged, 
as I think it may have an influence on the Greek 
contest. I wish that both were fairly and favorably 
settled, that I might return to Italy, and talk over 
with you our, or rather Pietro's, adventures, some of 
which are rather amusing, as also some of the in- 
cidents of our voyages and travels. But I reserve 
them, in the hope that we may laugh over them 
together at no very distant period." 



LETTER DXCVII. 

TO MR. BOVVRING. 

"9bre29, 1823. 

" This letter will be presented to you by Mr. 
Hamilton Browne, who precedes or accompanies 
the Greek deputies. He is both capable and desi- 
rous of rendering any service to the cause, and in- 
formation to the committee. He has already been 
of considerable advantage, to both, of my own 
knowledge. Lord Archibald Hamilton, to whom he 
is related, will add a weightier recommendation than 
mine. 

" Corinth is taken, and a Turkish squadron said 
to be beaten in the Archipelago. The public pro- 
gress of the Greeks is considerable, but their inter- 
nal dissentions still continue. On arriving at the 
seat of Government, I shall endeavor to mitigate or 
extinguish them — though neither is an easy task. 
I have remained here till now, partly in expectation 
of the squadron in relief of Missolonghi, partly of 
Mr. Parry's detachment, and partly to receive from 
Malta or Zante the sum of four thousand pounds 
sterling, which I have advanced for the payment of 
the expected squadron. The bills are negotiating, 
and will be cashed in a short time, as they would 
have been immediately in any other mart ; but the 
miserable Ionian merchants have little money, and 
no great credit, and are besides, |jo/tY*'m//y shy on 
this occasion ; for, although I had letters of Messrs. 
Webb, (one of the strongest houses of the Mediter- 
ranean,) and also of Messrs. Ransom, there is no 
business to be done on fair terms except through 
English merchants. These, however, have proved 
both able and willing, — and upright, as usual. 

" Colonel Stanhope has arrived, and will proceed 
immediately ; he shall have my cooperation in all 
his endeavors ; but from every thing that I can 
learn, the formation of a brigade at present will 
be extremely difficult, to say the least of it. With 
regard to the reception of foreigners, — at least of 
foreign officers, — I refer you to a passage in Prince 
Mavrocordato's recent letter, a copy of which is en- 
closed in my packet sent to the deputies. It is nij 



966 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



intention to proceed by sea to Napoli di Romania 
as soon as I have arranged this business for the 
Greeks themselves — I mean the advance of two 
hundred thousand piastres for their fleet. 

" My time here has not been entirely lost, — as you 
will perceive by some former documents that any 
advantage from my then proceeding to the Morea 
was doubtful. We have at last moved the deputies, 
and I have made a strong remonstrance on their di- 
visions to Mavrocordato, which, I understand, was 
forwarded by the legislative to the Prince With a 
loan they may do much, which is all that I, for 
particular reasons, can say on the subject. 

" I regret to hear from Colonel Stanhope that the 
committee have exhausted their funds. Is it sup- 
posed that a brigade can be formed without them ? 
or that three thousand pounds would be sufficient ? 
It is true that money will go farther in Greece than 
in most countries ; but the regular force must be 
rendered a national concern, and paid from a nation- 
al fund ; and neither individuals nor committees, at 
least with the usual means of such as now exist, 
will find the experiment practicable. 

"I beg once more to recommend my friend, Mr. 
Hamilton Browne, to whom I have also personal 
obligations for his exertions in the common cause, 
and have the honor to be 

" Yours very truly." 



LETTER DXCVIII. 

TO THE GENERAL GOVERNMENT OF GREECE. 
" Cephalonia, November 30, 1823. 

" The affair of the loan, the expectation so long 
and vainly indulged of the arrival of the Greek fleet, 
and the danger to which Missolonghi is still exposed, 
have detained me here, and will still detain me till 
some of them are removed. But when the money 
shall be advanced for the fleet, I will start for the 
Morea, not knowing, however, of what use my pres- 
ence can be in the present state of things. We 
have heard some rumors of new dissensions, nay, 
of the existence of a civil war. With all my heart, 
I pray that these reports may be false or exag- 
gerated ; for I can imagine no calamity more serious 
than this ; and I must frankly confess, that unless 
union and order are established, all hopes of a loan 
will be in vain ; and all the assistance which the 
Greeks could expect from abroad — an assistance 
neither trifling nor worthless — will be suspended or 
destroyed; and, what is worse, the great powers of 
Europe, of whom no one was an enemy to Greece, 
but seemed to favor her establishment of an inde- 
pendent power, will be persuaded that the Greeks 
are unable to govern themselves, and will, perhaps, 
themselves undertake to settle your disorders in 
such a way as to blast the brightest hopes of your- 
selves and of your friends. 

" Allow me to add, once for all, — I desire the 
well-being of Greece, and nothing else ; I will do 
all I can to secure it ; but I cannot consent, I never 
will consent, that the English public, or English 
individuals, should be deceived as to the real state 
of Greek affairs. The rest, gentlemen, depends on 
you. You have fought gloriously ; — act honorably 
towards your fellow-citizens and the world, and it 
will then no more be said, as has been repeated for 
two thousand years with the Roman historians that 
Philopcemen was the last of the Grecians. Let not 
calumny itself (and it is difficult, I own, to guard 
against it in so arduous a struggle) compare the 
patriot Greek, when resting from his labors, to the 
Turkish pacha, whom his victories have extermi- 
nated. 

"I pray you to accept these my sentiments as a 
sincere proof of my attachment to your real inter- 
ests, and to believe that I am, and always shall be, 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXCIX. 

TO PRINCE MAVROCORDATO. 

" Cephalonia, 2, Dec, 1823. 

"Prince, 

" The present will be put into your hands by Col. 
Stanhope, son of Major-General the Earl of Har- 
rington, &c, &c. He has arrived from London in 
fifty days, after having visited all the committees of 
Germany. He is charged by our committee to act 
in concert with me for the liberation of Greece. I 
conceive that his name and his mission will be a 
sufficient recommendation, without the necessity of 
any other from a foreigner, although one who, in 
common with all Europe, respects and admires the 
courage, the talents, and above all, the probity of 
Prince Mavrocordato. 

" I am very uneasy at hearing that the dissensions 
of Greece still continue, and at a moment when she 
might triumph over every thing in general, as she 
has already triumphed in part. Greece is, at pres- 
ent, placed between three measures : either to re- 
conquer her liberty, to become a dependence of the 
sovereigns of Europe, or to return to a Turkish 
province. She has the choice only of these three 
alternatives. Civil war is but a road which leads to 
the two latter. If she is desirous of the fate of 
Walachia and the Crimea, she may obtain it to- 
morrow ; if of that of Italy, the day after ; but it 
she wishes to become truly Greece, free and inde- 
pendent, she must resolve to-day, or she will never 
again have the opportunity. 

" I am, with all respect, 
"Your Highnesses's obedient servant, 
"N. B. 

" P. S. Your Highness will already have known 
that I have sought to fulfil the wishes of the Greek 
Government, as much as it lay in my power to do 
so ; but I should wish that the fleet so long and so 
vainly expected were arrived, or, at least, that it 
were on the way ; and especially that your High- 
ness should approach these parts either on board 
the fleet, with a public mission, or in some other 
manner." 



LETTER DC. 



TO MR. BOWRING. 



" 1 confirm the above ;* it is certainly my opinion 
that Mr. Millingen is entitled to the same salary 
with Mr. Tindall, and his service is likely to be 
harder. 

"I have written to you (as to Mr. Hobhuse for 
your perusal) by various opportunities, mostly pri-* 
vate ; also by the deputies, and by Mr. Hamilton 
Browne. 

" The public success of the Greeks has been con- 
siderable ; Corinth taken, Missolonghi nearly safe, 
and some ships in the Archipelago taken from the 
Turks ; but there is not only dissension in the 
Morea, but civil war, by the latest accounts ;f to 



* He here alludes to a letter, forwarded with hib own, from Mr. Millingen, 
who was about to join, in his medical capacity, the Sulfates, near Patras, and 
requested of the committee an increase of pay. This gentleman having 
mentioned in his letter " that the retreat of the Turks from before Misso- 
longhi had rendered unnecessary the appearance of the Greek fleet," Lord 
Byron, in a note on this passage, says, " Ey the special providence of the 
Deity, the Mussulmans were seized with a panic, and fled ; but no thanks to 
the fleet, which ought to have been here mouths ago, and has no excuse to 
the contrary, lately— at least, since I have had the money ready to pay." 

Ou another passage, in which Mr. Millingen complains that his hope of 
any remuneration from the Greeks has " turned out perfectly chimerical," 
Lord Byron remarks, in a note, " and will do so, till they obtain a loan. 
They have not a rap, nor credit (in the islands) to raise one. A medical man 
may succeed better than others ; but all these penniless officers had better 
have staid at home. Much money may not be required, but some must." 

t The Legislative and Executive bodies having been for some time at vari- 
ance, the latter had at length resorted to violence, and some skirmishes had 
already taken place between the factious. 



LETTERS. 



967 



what extent we do not yet know, but hope 
trifling. 

" For six weeks I have been expecting the fleet, 
which has not arrived, though I have, at the re- 
quest of the Greek Government, advanced — that is, 
prepared, and have in hand, two hundred thousand 
piastres (deducting the commission and bankers' 
charges), of my own moneys to forward their pro- 
jects. The Suliotes (now in Acarnania) are very 
anxious that I should take them under my direc- 
tions, and go over and put things to rights in the 
Morea, which, without a force, seems impracticable ; 
and really, though very reluctant (as my letters will 
have shown you) to take such a measure, there 
seems hardly any milder remedy. However, I will 
not do any thing rashly ; and have only continued 
here so long in the hope of seeing things reconciled, 
and have done all in my power thereto. Had I gone 
sooner, they would have forced me into one parti/ or 
other, and I doubt as much now ; but we will do our 
best. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER DCL 

TO MR. BOWRING. 

" October 10, 1823. 

" Colonel Napier will present to you this letter. 
Of his military character it were superfluous to 
speak; of his personal, I can say, from my own 
knowledge, as well as from all public rumor or pri- 
vate report, that it is as excellent as his military ; 
in short, a better or a braver man is not easily to be 
found. He is our man to lead a regular force, or to 
organize a national one for the Greeks. Ask the 
army — ask any one. He is besides a personal friend 
of both Prince Mavrocordato, Colonel Stanhope, 
and myself, and in such concord with all three that 
we should all put together — an indispensable, as well 
as a rare point, especially in Greece at present. 

" To enable a regular force to be properly organ- 
ized, it will be requisite for the loan-holders to set 
apart at least 50,000/. sterling for that particular 
purpose — perhaps more — but by so doing they will 
guaranty their own moneys, ' and make assurance 
doubly sure.' They can appoint commissioners to 
see that part properly expended — and I recommend 
a similar precaution for the whole. 

" I hope that the deputies have arrived, as well as 
some of my various despatches (chiefly addressed 
to Mr. Hobhouse) for the committee. Colonel 
Napier will tell you the recent special interposition 
ofthe gods in behalf of the Greeks — who seem to 
have no enemies in heaven or on earth to be dreaded, 
but their own tendency to discord among them- 
selves. But these, too, it is to be hoped, will be 
mitigated, and then we can take the field on the 
offensive, instead of being reduced to the petite 
guerre of defending the same fortresses year after 
year, and taking a few ships, and starving out a 
castle, and making more fuss about them than 
Alexander in his cups, or Bonaparte in a bulletin. 
Our friends have done something in the way of the 
Spartans — (though not one-tenth of what is told) — 
but have not yet inherited their style. 

" Believe me yours, &c." 



LETTER DCII. 

TO MR. BO-WRIXG. 

" October 13, 1823. 

" Since I wrote to you on the 10th instant, the 
long-desired squadron has arrived in the waters of 
Missolonghi and intercepted two Turkish corvettes 
— ditto transports — destroying or taking all four — 
2xcept some of the crews escaped on shore in Ithaca 



— and an unarmed vessel, with passengers, chased 
into a port on the opposite side of Cephalonia. 
The Greeks had fourteen sail, the Turks four — but 
the odds don't matter — the victory will make a very 
good puff, and be of some advantage besides. I 
expect momentarily advices from Prince Mavrocor- 
dato, who is on board, and has (I understand) des- 
patches from the Legislative for me; in conse- 
quence of which, after paying the squadron, (for 
which I have prepared, and am preparing,) I shall 
probably join him at sea or on shore. 

" I add the above communication to my letter by 
Col. Napier, who will inform the committee of every 
thing in detail much better than I can do. 

"The mathematical, medical, and musical prepa- 
rations of the committee have arrived, and in good 
condition, abating some damage from wet, and some 
ditto from a portion of the letter-press being spilt 
in landing — (I ought not to have omitted the press 
— but forgot it a moment — excuse the same) — they 
are excellent of their kind, but till we have an en- 
gineer and a trumpeter (we have chirurgeons al- 
ready) mere ' pearls to swine,' as the Greeks are 
quite ignorant of mathematics, and have a bad ear 
Cor our music. The maps, &c, I will put into use 
for them, and take care that all (with proper cau- 
tion) are turned to the intended uses of the com- 
mittee — but I refer you to Colonel Napier, who will 
tell you, that much of your really valuable supplies 
should be removed till proper persons arrive to 
adapt them to actual service. 

"Believe me, my dear sir, to be, &c. 

"P. S. Private. — I have written to our friend 
Douglas Kinnaird on my own matters, desiring him 
to send me out all the further credits I can com- 
mand, — and I have a year's income and the sale of 
a manor besides, he tells me, before me, — for till the 
Greeks get their loan, it is probable that I shall 
have to stand partly paymaster — as far as I am 'good 
upon Change,' that is to say. I pray you to repeat 
as much to him, and say that I must in the interim 
draw on Messrs. Ransom most formidably. To say 
the truth, I do not grudge it, now the fellows have 
begun to fight again — and still more welcome shall 
they be if they will go on. But they have had, or 
are to have, some four thousand pounds (besides 
some private extraordinaries for widows, orphans, 
refugees, and rascals of all descriptions) of mine at 
one ' swoop ; ' and it is. to be expected the next will 
be at least as much more. And how can I refuse it 
if they will fight ? — and especially if I should hap- 
pen ever to be in their company ? I therefore re- 
quest and require that you should apprize my trusty 
and trustworthy trustee and banker, and crown and 
sheet anchor, Douglas Kinnaird the Honorable, 
that he prepare all moneys of mine, including the 
purchase-money of Rochdale manor and mine in- 
come for the year ensuing, A. D. 1824, to answer, 
or anticipate, any orders or drafts of mine for .the 
good cause, in good and lawful money of Great 
Britain, &c, &c. May you live a thousand years ! 
which is nine hundred and ninety-nine longer than 
the Spanish Cortes Constitution." 



LETTER DCIII. 

TO THE HONORABLE MR. DOUGLAS KINNAIR3. 
" Cephalonia, Dec. 23, 1823. 

" I shall be as saving of my purse and person as 
you recommend, but you know that it is as well to 
be in readiness with one or both, in the event of 
either being required. 

" I presume that some agreement has been con- 
cluded with Mr. Murray about ' Werner.' Although 
the copyright should only be worth two or three 
hundred pounds, I will tell you what can be don6 
with them. For three hundred pounds I can main 



968 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tain in Greece, at more than the fullest pay of the 
Provisional Government, rations included, one 
hundred armed men for three months. You may 
judge of this when I tell you, that the four thousand 
pounds advanced by me to the Greeks is likely to 
set a fleet and an army in motion for some months. 

" A Greek vessel has arrived from the squadron 
to convey me to Missolonghi, where Mavrocordato 
now is, and has assumed the command, so that I 
expect to embark immediately. Still address, how- 
ever, to Ccphalonia, through Messrs. Welch and 
Barry of Genoa, as usual ; and get together all the 
means and credit of mine you can, to face the war 
establishment, for it is ' in for a penny, in for a 
pound,' and I must do all that I can for the ancients. 

"I have been laboring to reconcile these parties, 
and there is now some hope of succeeding. Their 
public affairs go on well. The Turks have retreated 
from Acarnania without a battle, after a few fruit- 
less attempts on Anatoliko. Corinth is taken, and 
the Greeks have gained a battle in the Archipelago. 
The squadron here, too, has taken a Turkish cor- 
vette, with some money and a cargo. In short, if 
they can obtain a loan, I am of opinion that matters 
will assume and preserve a steady and favorable 
aspect for their independence. 

" In the mean time I stand paymaster, and what 
not; and lucky it is that, from the nature of the 
warfare and of the country, the resources even of 
an individual can be of a partial and temporary ser- 
vice . 

"Colonel Stanhope is at Missolonghi. Probably 
we shall attempt Patras next. The Suliotes, who 
are friends of mine, seem anxious to have me with 
them, and so is Mavrocordato. If I can but suc- 
ceed in reconciling the two parties (and I have left 
no stone unturned) it will be something ; and if 
not, we must go over to the Morea with the western 
Greeks — who are the bravest, and at present the 
strongest, having beaten back the Turks — and try 
the effect of a little physical advice, should they 
persist in rejecting moral persuasion. 

" Once more recommending to you the reinforce- 
ment of my strong-box and credit from all lawful 
sources and resources of mine to their practicable 
extent — for, after all, it is better playing at nations 
than gaming at Almack's or Newmarket — and re- 
questing you to write to me as often as you can, 
{' I remain ever, &c." 



LETTER DCIV. 

TO Mil. BOWKING. 

" lObre 26, 1823. 

" Little need be added to the enclosed, which 
arrived this da}', except that I embark to-morrow 
for Missolonghi. The intended operations are de- 
tailed in the annexed documents. I have only to 
request that the committee will use every exertion 
to forward our views by all its influence and credit. 

" I have also to request you personally from my- 
self to urge my friend and trustee, Douglas Kin- 
naird, (from whom I have not heard these four 
months nearly,) to forward to me all the resources 
of my own we can muster for the ensuing year, 
since it is no time to menager purse, or, perhaps, 
person. I have advanced, and am advancing, all 
that I have in hand, but I shall require all that can 
be got together — and, (if Douglas has completed 
the sale of Rochdale, that and my year's income for 
next year ought to form a good round sum) — as you 
may perceive that there will be little cash of their 
own among the Greeks, (unless they get the loan,) 
it is the more necessary that those of their friends 
who have any should risk it. 

" The supplies of the committee are, some useful, 
and all excellent in their kind, but occasionally 
hardly practical enough, in the present state of 



Greece ; for instance, the mathematical instruments 
are thrown away — none of the Greeks know a pro- 
blem from a poker — we must conquer first, and plan 
afterward. The use of the trumpets, too, may be 
doubted, unless Constantinople were Jericho, for 
the Hellenists have no ears for bugles, and you 
must send us somebody to listen to them. 

" We will do our best — and 1 pray you to stir 
your English hearts at home to more general exer- 
tion ; for my part, I will stick by the cause while a 
plank remains which can be honorably clung to. If 
I quit it, it will be by the Greeks' conduct, and not 
the Holy Allies or the holier Mussulmans — but let 
us hope better things. "Ever yours, 

"N.B. 

" P. S. I am happy to say that Colonel Leicester 
Stanhope and myself are acting in perfect harmony 
together — he is likely to be of great service both to 
the cause and to the committee, and is publicly as 
well as personally a very valuable acquisition to our 
party on every account. He came up (as they all 
do who have not been in the country before) with 
some high-flown notions of the sixth form at Har-# 
row or Eaton, &c. ; but Col. Napier and I set him 
to rights on those points, which is absolutely neces- 
sary to prevent disgust, or perhaps return ; but now 
we can set our shoulders soberly to the wheel, with- 
out quarrelling with the mud which may clog it oc- 
casionally. 

" I can assure you that Col. Napier and myself 
are as decided for the cause as any German student 
of them all ; but like men who have seen the coun- 
try and human life, there and elsewhere, we must 
be permitted to view it in its truth, with its defects 
as well as beauties, — more especially as success will, 
remove the former gradually . 

"N.B. 

"P. S. As much of this letter as you please is 
for the committee, the rest may be ' entre nous.' " 



LETTER DCV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Cephalonia, Dec. 27, 1823. 

"I received a letter from you some time ago. I 
have been too much employed latterly to write as I 
could wish, and even now must write in haste. 

" I embark for Missolonghi to join Mavrocordato 
in four-and-twenty hours. The state of parties 
(but it were along story) has kept me here till now ; 
but now that Mavrocordato (their Washington or 
their Kosciusko) is employed again, I can act with 
a safe conscience. I carry money to pay the squad- 
ron, &c., and I have influence with the Suliotes, 
supposed sufficient to keep them in harmony with 
some of the dissentients ; — for there are plenty of 
differences, but trifling. 

"It is imagined that we shall attempt either 
Patras or the castles on the Straits ; and it seems, 
by most accounts, that the Greeks, — at any rate, 
the Suliotes, who are in affinity with me of ' bread 
and salt,' — expect that I should march with *them, 
and — be it even so ! If any thing in the way of 
fever, fatigue, famine, or otherwise, should cut short 
the middle age of a brother warbler, — like Garcilasso 
de la Vega, Kleist, Korner, Kutoffski, (a Russian 
nightingale — see Bowling's Anthology,) or Thersan- 
der, or, — or, — somebody else — but never mind — I 
pray you to remember me in your ' smiles and 
wine.' 

" I have hopes that the cause will triumph; but 
whether it does or no, still ' Honor must be minded 
as strictly as a milk diet.' I trust to observe both. 

"Ever, &c." 



LETTERS. 



969 



LETTER DCVI. 



TO THE HONORABLE COLONEL STANHOPE. 

"Scrofer, (or some such name,) on board a Cephaoniote. 
" Mistico, Dec. 31, 18'.'3. 

"My Dear Stanhope, 

" We ai-e just arrived here, that is, part of my 
people and I, with some things, &c, and which it 
may be as well not to specify in a letter, (which has 
a risk of being intercepted, perhaps ;) — but Gamba 
and my horses, negro, steward, and the press, and 
and all the committee things, also some eight thou- 
sand dollars of mine (but never mind we have more 
left, do you understand ?) are taken by the Turkish 
frigates, and my party and myself, in another boat, 
have had a narrow escape last night, (being close 
under their stern and hailed, but we would not an- 
swer, and bore away,) as well as this morning. — 
Here we are, with sun and clearing weather, within 
a pretty little port enough : but whether our Turk- 
ish friends may not send in their boats and take us 
out, (for we have no arms except two carbines and 
some pistols, and, I suspect, not more than four 
fighting people on board,) is another question, es- 
pecially if we remain long here, since we are blocked 
out of Missolonghi by the direct entrance. 

" You had better send my friend George Drake 
(Draco,) and a body of Suliotes, to escort us by 
land or by the canals, with all convenient speed. — 
Gamba and our Bombard are taken into Patras, I 
suppose ; and we must take a turn at the Turks to 
get them out : but where the devil has the fleet 
gone ? — the Greek, I mean ; leaving us to get in 
without the least intimation to take heed that the 
Moslems were out again. 

" Make my respects to Mavrocordato, and say, 
that I am here at his disposal. I am uneasy at 
being here ; not so much on my own account as on 
that of a Greek boy with me, for you know what 
his fate yould be : and I would sooner- cut him in 
pieces, and myself too, than have him taken out 
by those barbarians. We are all very well. 

"N. B. 
" The Bombard was twelve miles out when taken ; 
at least so it appeared to us, (if taken she actu- 
ally be, for it is not certain ;) and we had to escape 
from another vessel that stood right between us and 
the port." 



LETTER DCVII. 



TO MR. MUIR. 



" Dragomestri, Jan. 2, 1824. 

" My Dear Muir, 

" I wish you many returns of the season and hap- 
piness therewithal. Gamba and the Bombard, (there 
is strong reason to believe,) are carried into Patras by 
• a Turkish frigate, which we saw chase them at 
dawn on the 31st ; we had been close under the 
stern in the night, believing her a Greek till within 
pistol-shot, and only escaped by a miracle of all the 
Saints, (our captain says,) and truly I am of his 
opinion, for we should never have got away of our- 
selves. They were signalizing their consort with 
lights, and had illuminated the ship between decks, 
and were shouting like a mob ; — but then why did 
they not fire ? Perhaps they took us for a Greek 
brulot and were afraid of kindling us — they had no 
colors flying even at dawn nor after. 

" At daybreak my boat was on the coast, but the 
wind unfavorable for the port; — a large vessel with 
the wind in her favor standing between us and the 
Gulf, and another in chase of the Bombard about 
twelve miles off or so. Soon after they stood (i. e. 
the Bombard and frigate), apparently towards Pa- 
tras, and a Zantiote boat making signals to us from 
the shore to get away. Away we went before the 
wind, and ran into a creek called Scrofes, I believe, 
122 



where I landed Luke* and another, (as Luke's life 
was in most danger,) with some money for them- 
selves, and a letter for Stanhope, and sent them up 
the country to Missolonghi, where they would be in 
safety, as the place where we were, could be assailed 
by armed boats in a moment, and Gamba had all our 
arms except two carbines, a fowling-piece, and some 
pistols. 

" In less than an hour the vessel in chase neared 
us, and we dashed out again, and showing our stern, 
(our boat sails very well,) got in before night to 
Dragomestri, where we now are. But where is the 
Greek fleet ? I don't know — do you ? I told our 
master of the boat that I was inclined to think the 
two large vessels (there were none else in sight), 
Greeks. But he answered ' they are too large — why 
don't they show their colors ? ' and his account was 
confirmed, be it true or false, by several boats which 
we met or passed, as we could not at any rate have 
got in with that wind without beating about for a 
long time; and as there was much property and 
some lives to risk (the boy's especially) without any 
means of defence, it was necessary to let our boat- 
men have their own way. 

"I despatched yesterday another messenger to 
Missolonghi for an escort, but we have yet no an- 
swer. _ We are here (those of my boat) for the fifth 
day without taking our clothes off, and sleeping on 
deck in all weathers, but are all very well, and in good 
spirits. It is to be supposed that the government 
will send, for their own sakes, an escort, as I have 
sixteen thousand dollars on board, the greater part 
for their service. I had (besides personal property 
to the amount of about five thousand more), eight 
thousand dollars in specie of my own, without 
reckoning the committee's stores, so that the Turks 
will have a good thing of it if the prize be good. 

" I regret the detention of Gamba, &c, but the 
rest we can make up again, so tell Hancock to set 
my bills into cash as soon as possible, and Corgia- 
legno to prepare the remainder of my credit with 
Messrs. Webb to be turned into moneys. I shall 
remain here, unless something extraordinary occurs, 
till Mavrocordato sends, and then go on, and act 
according to circumstances. My respects to the 
two colonels, and remembrances to all friends. Tell 
' Ultima Analise'f that his friend Raidi did not 
make his appearance with the brig, though I think 
that he might as well have spoken with us in or off 
Zante, to give us a gentle hint of what we had to 
expect. " Yours ever affectionately, 

" N. B. 

"P. S. Excuse my scrawl on account of the pen 
and the frosty morning at daybreak. I write in 
haste, a boat starting for Kalamo. I do not know 
whether the detention of the Bombard, (if she be 
detained, for I cannot swear to it, and I can only 
judge from appearances, and what all these fellows 
say,) be an affair of the government, and neutrality, 
and, &c, — but she was stopped at least twelve miles 
distant from any port, and had all her papers regu- 
lar from Zante for Kalamo, and we also. I did not 
land at Zante, being anxious to lose as little time 
as possible, but Sir F. S. came off to invite me, &c, 
and every body was as kind as could be, even in 
Cephalonia." • 



LETTER DCVIII. 

TO MR. C. HANCOCK. 

".Dragomestri, Jan. 2, 1824. 

" Dear Sir ' Ancock.'J 

" Remember me to Dr. Muir and everybody. I 
have still the sixteen thousand dollars with me, the 



* A Greek youth whom he had brought with him, in his suite, from Ceph- 

f Count Delladecima, to whom he gives this name in consequence of a 
habit which that gentleman had of using the phrase " in ultima analise " 
frequently in conversation. 

X This letter is, more properly, a postscript to one which Dr. Bruno hac, 



970 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



rest were on board the Bombarda. Here we are — 
the Bombarda taken, or at least missing, with all 
the committee stores, my friend Gamba, the horses, 
negro, bull-dog, steward, and domestics, with all 
our implements of peace and war, also eight thou- 
sand dollars ; but whether she will be lawful prize 
or no, is for the decision of the governor of the 
Seven Islands. I have written to Dr. Muir, by way 
of Kalamo, with all particulars. We are in good 
condition ; and what with wind and weather, and 
being hunted or so, little sleeping on deck, &c, are 
in tolerable seasoning for the country and circum- 
stances. But I foresee that we shall have occasion 
for all the cash I can muster at Zante and else- 
where. Mr. Barff gave us eight thousand and odd 
dollars ; so there is still a balance in my favor. We 
are not quite certain that the vessels were Turkish 
which chased ; but there is strong presumption that 
they were, and no news to the contrary. At Zante, 
every body, from the resident downwards, were as 
kind as could be, especially your worthy and courte- 
ous partner. 

" Tell our friends to keep up their spirits, and we 
may yet do well. I disembarked the boy and another 
Greek, who were in most terrible alarm — the boy, at 
least, from the Morea — on shore near Anatoliko, I 
believe, which put them in safety ; and as for me 
and mine, we must stick by our goods. 

" I hope that Gamba's detention will only be 
temporary. As for the effects and moneys, — if we 
have them, well ; if otherwise, patience. I wist you 
a happy new year, and all our friends the same. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER DCIX. 

TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

" Missolonglii, Jas. 13, 1824. 

"Dear Sir, 

" Many thanks for yours of the 5th : ditto to 
Muir for his. You will have heard that Gamba and 
my vessel got out of the hands of the Turks safe 
and intact ; nobody knows well how or why, for 
there's a mystery in the story somewhat melodra- 
matic. Captain Valsamachi has, I take it, spun a 
long yarn by this time in Argostoli. I attribute 
their release entirely to Saint Dionisio, of Zante, 
and the Madonna of the Rock, near Cephalonia. 

"The adventures of my separate luck were also 
not finished at Dragomestri ; we were conveyed out 
by some Greek gun-boats, and found the Leonidas 
brig-of-war at sea to look after us. — But blowing 
weather coming on, we were driven on the rocks 
twice in the passage of the Scrophes, and the dol- 
lars had another narrow escape. Two-thirds of the 
crew got ashore over the bowsprit : the rocks were 
rugged enough, but water very deep close in shore, 
so that she was, after much swearing and some ex- 
ertion, got off again, and away we went with a third 
of our crew, leaving the rest on a desolate island, 
where they might have been now, had not one of 
the gun-boats taken them off, for we were in no con- 
dition to take them off again. 

"Tell Muir that Dr. Bruno did not show much 
fight on the occasion, for besides stripping to his 
flannel waistcoat, and running about like a rat in an 
emergency, when I was talking to a Greek boy, (the 
brother of the Greek girls in Argostoli,) and telling 
him of the fact that there was no danger for the 
passengers, whatever there might be for the vessel, 
and assuring him that I could save both him and 
myself without difficulty, (though he can't swim,) 
as the water, though deep, was not very rough, — the 
wind not blowing right on shore, (it was a blunder of 



by his orders, written to Mr. Hancock, with some particulars of their voyage : 
and the Doctor having begun his letter, " Pregiatmo. Sigr. Aucock," Lord 
Byron thus parodies nil mode of address. — Moore. 



the Greeks who missed staysJ) the doctor exclaimed, 
' Save him, indeed ! by G — en save me rather — I'll 
be first if I can ' — a piece of egotism which he pro 
nounced with such emphaticalsimplicity as to setal' 
who had leisure to hear him laughing, and in a min- 
ute after the vessel drove off again after striking 
twice. She sprung a small leak, but nothing fur- 
ther happened, except that the captain was very ner- 
vous afterward. 

" To be brief, we had bad weather almost always, 
though not contrary ; slept on deck in the wet gen- 
erally for seven or eight nights, but never was in 
better health (I speak personally) — so much so,, 
that I actually bathed for a quarter of an hour on 
the evening of the fourth instant in the sea (to 
kill the fleas, and other &c.,) and was all the better 
for it. 

" We were received at Missolonghi with a ] l kinds 
of kindness and honors ; and the sight of the fleet 
saluting, &c, and the crowds and different cos- 
tumes, was really picturesque. We think of under- 
taking an expedition soon, and I expect to be or- 
dered with the Suliotes to join the army. 

"All well at present. We found Gamba al- 
ready arrived, and every thing in good condition. 
Remeaiber me to all friends. 

"Yours ever, 

"N. B. 

" P. S. You will, I hope, use every exertion to 
realize the assets. For besides what I have already 
advanced, I have undertaken to maintain the Suli- 
otes for a year, (and will accompany them, either 
as a chief, or whichever is most agreeable to the 
government,) besides sundries. I do not under- 
stand Brown's ' letters of credit.' I neither gave 
nor ordered a letter of credit that I know of; and 
though of course, if you have done it, I will be re- 
sponsible, I was not aware of any thing except that 
I would have backed his bills, which you said was 
unnecessary. As to orders — I ordered nothing but 
some red cloth and oil cloths, both of which I am 
ready to receive , but if Gamba has exceeded my 
commission, the other things must be sent back for I 
cannot permit any thing of the kind, nor will. The 
servants' journey will of course be paid for, though 
that is exorbitant. As for Brown's letter, I do 
not know any thing more than I have said, and I 
really cannot defray the charges of half Greece, and 
the Frank adventures besides. Mr. Barff must send 
us some dollars soon, for the expenses fall on me for 
the present. 

"January 14, 1824. 

"P. S. Will you tell Saint (Jew) Geronimo 
Corgialegno that I mean to draw for the balance of 
my credit with Messrs. Webb & Co. I shall draw 
for two thousand dollars, (that being about the 
amount, more or less ;) but to facilitate the business, 
I shall make the draft payable also at Messrs. Ran- 
som & Co., Pall-Mall East, London. I believe I 
already showed you my letters, (but if not, I have 
them to show,) by which, besides the credits now 
realizing, you will have perceived that I am not ' 
limited to any particular amount of credit with my 
bankers. The Honorable Douglas, my friend and 
trustee, is a principal partner in that house, and 
having the direction of my affairs, is aware to what 
extent my present resources may go, and the letter." 
in question were from him. I can merely say, that 
within the current year, 1824, besides the money 
already advanced to the Greek government, and the 
credits now in your hands and your partner's, (Mr. 
Barff,) which are all from the income of 1823, I 
have anticipated nothing from that of the present 
year hitherto. I shall or ought to have at my 
disposition upwards* of one hundred thousand dol- 
lars, (including my income, and the purchase mon- 
eys of a manor lately sold,) and perhaps more, 
without infringing on my income for 1825, and not 
including the remaining balance of 1823. 

•' Yours ever, 

"N. B." 



LETTERS. 



971 



LETTER DCX. 

TO ME. CHARLES HANCOCK 

" Misgolonghi, Jan. 17, 1824. 
" I have answered, at some length, your obliging 
letter, and trust that you have received my reply by 
means of Mr. Tindal. I will also thank you to re- 
mind Mr. Tindal that I would thank him to furnish 
you, on my account, with an order of the committee 
for one hundred dollars, which I advanced to him on 
their account through Signor Corgialegno's agency 
at Zante on his arrival in October, as it is but fair 
that the said committee should pay their own ex- 
penses. An order will be sufficient, as the money 
might be inconvenient for Mr. T. at present to dis- 
burse. 

"I have also advanced to Mr. Blackett the sum 
of fifty dollars, which I will thank Mr. Stevens to 
pay to you, on my account, from moneys of Mr. 
Blackett, now in his hands. I have Mr. B.'s ac- 
knowledgment in writing. 

" As the wants of the State here are still pressing, 
and there seems very little specie stirring except 
mine, I still stand paymaster, and must again re- 
quest you and Mr. Barff to forward by a safe chan- 
nel (if possible) all the dollars you can collect on 
the bills now negotiating. I have also written to 
Corgialegno for two thousand dollars, being about 
the balance of my separate letter from Messrs. 
Webb and Co., making the bills also payable at 
Ransom's in London. 

" Things are going on better, if not well ; there is 
some order, and considerable preparation. I expect 
to accompany the troops on an expedition shortly, 
which makes me particularly anxious for the remain- 
ing remittance, as 'money is the sinew of war,' and 
of peace, too, as far as I can see, for I am sure there 
would be no peace here without it. However, a 
little does go a good way, which is a comfort. The 
government of the Morea and of Candia have writ- 
ten to me for a further advance from my own pecu- 
lium of twenty or thirty thousand dollars, to which 
I demur for the present, (having undertaken to pay 
the Suliotes as a free gift and other things already, 
besides the loan which I have already advanced,) 
till I receive letters from England, which I have 
reason to expect. 

" When the expected credits arrive, I hope that 
you will bear a hand, otherwise I must have recourse 
to Malta, which will be losing time and taking 
trouble ; but I do not wish you to do more than is 
perfectly agreeable to Mr. Barff and to yourself. I 
am very well, and have no reason to be dissatisfied 
with my personal treatment, or with the posture of 
public affairs — others must speak for themselves. 
" Yours ever and truly, &c. 

"P. S. Respects to Colonels Wright and Duffie, 
and the officers civil and military ; also to my friends 
Muir and Stevens particularly, and the Dellade- 



LETTER DCXI. 

TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

" Miwolonghi, Jan. 19, 1824. 

" Since I wrote on the 17th, I have received a let- 
ter from Mr. Stevens, enclosing an account from 
Corfu, which is so exaggerated in price and quan- 
tity, that I am at a loss whether most to admire 
Gamba's folly, or the merchant's knavery. All that 
/ requested Gamba to order was red cloth, enough 
to make a. jacket, and some oil-skin for trousers, &c. 
— the latter has not been sent — the whole could not 
have amounted to fifty dollars. The account is six 
hundred and forty-five ! ! ! I will guaranty Mr. Ste- 
vens against any loss, of course, but I am not dis- 
posed to take the articles, (which I never ordered,) 



nor to pay the amount. I will take one hundred 
dollars worth ; the rest may be sent back, and I will 
make the merchant an allowance of so much per 
cent. ; or if that is not to be done, you must sell 
the whole by auction at what price the things may 
fetch, for I would rather incur the dead loss of part, 
than be encumbered with a quantity of things, to 
me at present superfluous or useless. Why, I could 
have maintained three hundred men for a month for 
the sum in Western Greece ! 

" When the dogs, and the dollars, and the negro, 
and the horses, fell into the hands of the Turks, I 
acquiesced with patience, as you may have per- 
ceived, because it was the work of the elements, ot 
war, or of Providence ; but this is a piece of mere 
human knavery or folly, or both, and I neither can 
nor will submit to it. I have occasion for every dol- 
lar I can muster to keep the Greeks together, and I 
do not grudge any expense for the cause ; but to 
throw away as much as would equip, or at least 
maintain, a corps of excellent ragamuffins with 
arms in their hands, to furnish Gamba and the 
doctor with blank bills, (see list,) broadcloth, Hes- 
sian boots, and horsewhips, (the latter I own that 
they have richly earned,) is rather beyond my en- 
durance, though a pacific person, as all the world 
knows, or at least my acquaintances. I pray you 
to try to help me out of this damnable commercial 
speculation of Gamba's, for it is one of those pieces 
of impudence or folly which I don't forgive him in 
a hurry. I will, of course, see Stevens free of ex- 
pense out of the transaction; — by-the-way, the 
Greek of a Corfiote has thought proper to draw a 
bill, and get it discounted at twenty-four dollars ; 
if I had been there, it should have been protested 
also. 

"Mr. Blackett is here ill, and will soon set oul 
for Cephalonia. He came to me for some pills, and 
I gave him some reserved for particular friends, and 
which I never knew any body recover from under 
several months ; but he is no better, and what is 
odd, no worse ; and as the doctors have had no bet- 
ter success with him than I, he goes to Argostoli, 
sick of the Greeks and of a constipation. 

" I must reiterate my request for specie, and that 
speedily, otherwise public affairs will be at a stand- 
still here. I have undertaken to pay the Suliotes 
for a year, to advance in March three thousand dol- 
lars, besides, to the government for a balance due 
to the troops, and some other smaller matters for 
the Germans, and the press, &c, &c., &c. ; so what 
with those, and the expenses of my suite which, 
though not extravagant, is expensive with Gamba's 

d d nonsense, I shall have occasion for all the 

moneys I can muster, and I have credits where- 
withal to face the undertakings, if realized, and 
expect to have more soon. 

" Believe me ever and truly yours, &c." 



LETTER DCXIL 

TO * * * *. 

" Missolonghi, Jan. 31, 1824. 

' The expedition of about two thousand men is 
planned for an attack on Lepanto ; and for reasons 
of policy with regard to the native Capitani, who 
would rather be (nominally at least) under the com- 
mand of a foreigner, than one of their own body, 
the direction, it is said, is to be given to me. There 
is also another reason, which is, that if a capitula- 
tion should take place, the Mussulmans might per- 
haps, rather have Christian faith with a Frank than 
with a Greek, and so be inclined to accede a point 
or two. These appear to be the most obvious mo- 
tives for such an appointment, as far as I can con 
jecture, unless there be one reason more, viz., that, 
under present circumstances, no one else (not ever. 



972 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Mavrocordato himself) seems disposed to accept 
such a nomination — and though my desires are as 
far as my deserts upon this occasion, I do not de- 
cline it, being willing to do as I am bidden ; and as 
I pay a considerable part of the clans, I may as well 
see what they are likely to do for their money ; be- 
sides I am tired of hearing nothing but talk. * * 
"I presume, from the retardment, that he* is the 
same Parry who attempted the North Pole, and is 
(it may be supposed) now essaying the South." 



LETTER DCXIII. 

TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

" Missolonghi, Feb. 5, 1824. 

" Dr. Muir 's letter and yours of the 23d reached 
me some days ago. Tell Muir that I am glad of his 
promotion for his sake, and of his remaining near 
us for all our sakes : though I cannot but regret Dr. 
Kennedy's departure, which accounts for the pre- 
vious earthquakes and the present English weather 
in this climate. With all respect to my medical 
pastor, I have to announce to him, that among 
other firebrands, our fire-master Parry (just landed) 
has disembarked an elect blacksmith, entrusted with 
three hundred and twenty-two Greek Testaments. 
I have given him all facilities in my power for his 
works spiritual and temporal, and if he can settle 
matters as easily with the Greek Archbishop and 
hierachy, I trust that neither the heretic nor the 
supposed skeptic will be accused of intolerance. 

" By-the-way, I met with the said Archbishop at 
Anatolico ^where I went by invitation of the Pri- 
mate a few days ago, and was received with a 
heavier cannonade than the Turks, probably) for 
the second time, (I had known him here before ;) 
and he and P. Mavrocordato, and the Chiefs and 
Primates and I, all dined together, and I thought 
the metropolitan the merriest of the party, and a 
very good Christian for all that. But Gamba (we 
got wet through in our way back) has been ill with 
a fever and colic; and Luke has been put of sorts 
too, and so have some others of the people, and I 
have been very well, — except that I caught cold 
yesterday with swearing too much in the rain at the 
Greeks, who would not bear a hand in landing the 
committee stores, and nearly spoiled our combusti- 
bles ; but I turned out in person, and made such a 
row as set them in motion, blaspheming at them 
from the government downwards, till they actually 
did some part of what they ought to have done sev- 
eral days before, and this is esteemed, as it deserves 
to be, a wonder. 

"Tell Muir that, notwithstanding his remon- 
strances, which I receive thankfully, it is perhaps 
best that I should advance with the troops ; for if 
we do not do something soon, we shall only have a 
third year of defensive operations and another siege, 
and all that. We hear that the Turks are coming 
down in force, and sooner than usual ; and as these 
fellows do mind me a little, it is the opinion that 1 
should go, — firstly, because they will sooner listen 
to a foreigner than one of their own people, out of 
native jealousies ; secondly, because the Turks will 
sooner treat or capitualate (if such occasion should 
happen) with a Frank than a Greek ; and, thirdly, 
because nobody else seems disposed to take the 
responsibility — Mavrocordato being very busy here, 
the foreign military men too young or not of author- 
ity enough to be obeyed by the natives, and the 
chiefs (as aforesaid) inclined to obey any one ex- 
cept, or rather than, one of their own body. As for 
me, I am willing to do what I am bidden, and to 
follow my instructions. I neither seek nor shun 
that nor any thing else they may wish me to at- 



Parry, who had been long expected with artillery, &c. 



tempt ; and as for personal safety, besides that it 
ought not to be a consideration, I take it that a 
man is on the whole as safe in one place as another ; 
and, after all, he had better end with a bullet than 
bark in his body. If we are not taken off with the 
sword, we are like to march off with an ague in this 
mud-basket ; and to conclude with a very bad pun, 
to the ear rather than to the eye, better martially, 
than marsh-ally ; — the situation of Missolonghi is 
not unknown to you. The dykes of Holland, when 
broken down, are the Deserts of Arabia for dryness, 
in comparison. 

"And now for the sinews of war. I thank you 
and Mr. Barff for your ready answers, which, next 
to ready money, is a pleasant thing. Besides the 
assets, and balance, and the relics of the Corgia- 
legno correspondence with Leghorn and Genoa, (I 
sold the dog flour, tell him, but not at his price,) I 
shall request and require, from the beginning of 
March ensuing, about five thousand dollars every 
two months, i. e., about twenty-five thousand with- 
in the current year, at regular intervals, independent 
of the sums now negotiating. I can show you docu- 
ments to prove that these' are considerably within 
my supplies for the year in more ways than one ; 
but I do not like to tell the Greeks exactly what I 
could or would advance on an emergency, because, 
otherwise, they will double and triple their demands, 
(a disposition that they have already sufficiently 
shown ;) and though I am willing to do all I can 
when necessary, yet I do not see why they should 
not help a little, for they are not quite so bare as 
they pretend to he by some accounts. 

» Feb. 7, 1824. 

" I have been interrupted by the arrival of Parry, 
and afterward by the return of Hesketh, who has 
not brought an answer to my epistles, which rather 
surprises me. You will write soon I suppose. Par- 
ry seems a fine rough subject, but will hardly be 
ready for the field these three weeks ; he and I will 
(I think) be able to draw together — at least I will 
not interfere with or contradict him in his own 
department. He complains grievously of the mer- 
cantile and enthusymusy part of the committee, but 
greatly praises Gordon and Hume. Gordon would 
have given three or four thousand pounds and come 
out himself,h\\\. Kennedy or somebody else disgust- 
ed him, and thus they have spoiled part of their 
subscription and cramped their operations. Parry 
says Bowring is a humbug, to which I say nothing. 
He sorely laments the printing and civilizing ex- 
penses, and wishes that there was not a Sunday- 
school in the world, or any school here at present, 
save and except always an academy for artillery- 
ship. 

" He complained also of the cold, a little to my 
surprise ; firstly, because, there being no chimneys, 
I have used myself to do without other warmth than 
the animal heat and one's cloak, in these parts ; 
and secondly, because I should as soon have ex- 
pected to hear a volcano sneeze, as a fire-master 
(who is to burn a whole fleet) exclaim against the 
atmosphere. I fully expected that his very ap- 
proach would have scorched up the town like the 
burning-glasses of Archimedes. 

" Well, it seems that I am to be Commander-in- 
chief, and the post is by no means a sinecure, for 
we are not what Major Sturgeon calls ' a set of the 
most amicable officers.' Whether we shall have a 
' boxing 'bout between Captain Sheer and the Colo- 
nel,' I cannot tell ; but, between Suliote chiefs, 
German barons, English volunteers, and adven- 
turers of all nations, we are likely to form as 
goodly an allied army as ever quarrelled beneath 
the same banner. 

"Feb. 8, 1824. 

" Interrupted again by business yesterday, and it 
is time to conclude my letter. I drew some time 
since on Mr. Barff for a thousand dollars, to com- 
plete some money wanted by the government. The 



BETTERS. 



973 



said government got cash on that bill here and at 
a profit ; but the very same fellow who gave it to 
them, after proposing to give me money for other 
bills on Barff to the amount of thirteen hundred 
dollars, either could not, or thought better of it. I 
had written to Barff advising him, but had after- 
ward to write to tell him of the fellow's having not 
come up to time. You must really send me the 
balance soon. I have the artillerists and my Suli- 
otes to pay, and Heaven knows what besides, and 
as every thing depends upon punctuality, all our 
operations will be at a stand-still unless you use 
despatch. I shall send to Mr. BarfF or to you fur- 
ther bills on England for three thousand pounds, to 
be negotiated as speedily as you can. I have al- 
ready stated here and formerly the sums I can 
command at home within the year, — without in- 
cluding my credits, or the bills already negotiated 
or negotiating, as Corgiaiegno's balance of Mr. 
Webb's letter, — and my letters from my friends 
(received by Mr. Parry's vessel), confirm what I 
have already stated. How much I may require in 
the course of the year I can't tell, but I will take 
care that it shall not exceed the means to supply it. 
"Yours ever, 

"N. B. 
" P. S. I have had, by desire of a Mr. Jerostati, 
to draw on Demetrius Delladecima (is it our friend 
in ultima analise ?) to. pay the committee expenses. 
I really . do not understand what the committee 
mean by some of their freedoms. Parry and I get 
on very well hitherto ; how long this may last, 
Heaven knows, but I hope it will, for a good deal 
for the Greek service depends upon it, but he has 
already had some miffs with Col. S., and I do all I 
can to keep the peace among them. However, 
Parry is a fine fellow, extremely active, and of 
strong, sound, practical talents, by all accounts. 
Enclosed are bills for three thousand pounds, drawn 
in the mode directed, (i. e. parcelled out in smaller 
bills.) A good opportunity occurring for Cephalo- 
nia to send letters on, I avail myself of it. Re- 
member me to Stevens, and to all friends. Also 
my compliments and every thing kind to the 
colonels and officers. 

" February 9, 1824. 

" P. S. 2d or 3d. I have reason to expect a per- 
son from England directed with papers (on busi- 
ness) for me to sign, somewhere in the islands, by- 
and-by ; if such should arrive, would you forward 
him to me by a safe conveyance, as the papers re- 
gard a transaction with regard to the adjustment of 
a lawsuit, and a sum of several thousand pounds, 
which I, or my bankers and trustees for me, may 
have to receive (in England) in consequence. The 
time of the probable arrival I cannot state, but the 
date of my letters is the 2d Nov., and I suppose that 
he ought to arrive soon." 



LETTER DCXIV. 

to andrew londo.* 

" Dear Friend, 

"The sight of your handwriting gave me the 
greatest pleasure. Greece has ever been for me, as 
it must be for all men of any feeling or education, 
the promised land of valor, of the arts, and of lib- 
erty ; nor did the time I passed in my youth in 
travelling among her ruins at all chill m)' affection 
for the birth-place of heroes. In addition to this, I 
am bound to yourself by ties of friendship and grati- 
tude for the hospitality which I experienced from 
you during my stay in that country, of which you 
are now become one of the first defenders and or- 
naments. To see myself serving, by your side and 



One of the Greek chiefs. 



under your eyes, in the cause of Greece, will be ta 
me one of the happiest events of my life. In th« 
mean time, with the hope of our again meeting, 
" I am as ever &c." 



LETTER DCXV. 

TO HIS HIGHNESS YUSSUFF PACHA. 

«' Missolonghi, 23d Jan. 1824. 

" Highness ! 

" A vessel, in which a friend and some domestics 
of mine were embarked, was destined a few days 
ago and released by order of your Highness. I have 
now to thank you ; not for liberating the vessel, 
which, as carrying a neutral flag, and being under 
British protection, no one had a right to detain ; 
but for having treated my friends with so much 
kindness while they were in your hands. 

" In the hope, therefore, that it may not be alto- 
gether displeasing to your Highness, I have re- 
quested the governor of this place to release four 
Turkish prisoners, and he has humanely consented 
to do so. I lose no time, therefore, in sending them 
back, in order to make as early a return as I could 
for your courtesy on the late occasion. These pri- 
soners are liberated without any conditions : but, 
should the circumstance find a place in your recol- 
lection, I venture to beg that your Highness will 
treat such Greeks as may henceforth fall into your 
hands with humanity ; more especially since the 
horrors of war are sufficiently great in themselves, 
without being aggravated by wanton cruelties on 
either side. "Noel Byron." 



LETTER DCXVI. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



" I am a good deal better, though of course 
weakly ; the leeches took too much blood from my 
temples the day after, and there was some difficulty 
in stopping it, but I have since been up daily, and 
out in boats or on horseback. To-day I have taken 
a warm bath, and live as temperately as can well be, 
without any liquid but water, and without animal 
food. 

" Besides the four Turks sent to Patras, I have 
obtained the release of four-and-twenty women 
and children, and sent them at my own expense to 
Prevesa, that the English consul-general may con- 
sign them to their relations. I did this by their 
own desire. Matters here are a little embroiled 
with the Suliotes and foreigners, &c, but I still 
hope better things, and will stand by the cause as 
long as my health and circumstances will permit me 
to be supposed useful.* 

" I am obliged to support the government here for 
the present." 

[The prisoners mentioned in this letter as having 
been released by him and sent to Prevesa had been 
held in captivity at Missolonghi since the beginning 
of the Revolution. The following was the letter 
which he forwarded with them to the English Con- 
sul at Prevesa.] 



LETTER DCXVII. 

to mr. mayer. 
" Sir, 

" Coming to Greece, one of my principal objects 
was to alleviate as much as possible the miseries in- 



* Id a letter to the same gentleman, dated January 27, he had alreadj 
said, " 1 hope that things here will go on well some time or other. I wil 
stick by the cause as long as a cause exists — first or second." 



974 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



eident to a warfare so cruel as the present. "When 
the dictates of humanity are in question, I know no 
difference between Turks and Greeks. It is enough 
that those who want assistance are men, in order to 
claim the pity and projection of the meanest pre- 
tender to humane feelings. I have found here 
twenty-four Turks, including women and children, 
who have long pined in distress, far from the means 
of support and the consolations of their home. 
The government has consigned them to me: 1 
transmit them to Trevesa, whither they desire to he 
sent. I hope that you will not object to take care 
that they may be restored to a place of safety, and 
that the Governor of your town may accept of my 
present. The best recompense I can hope- for 
would be to find that I had inspired the Ottoman 
commanders with the same sentiments towards 
those unhapp) Greeks who may hereafter fall into 
their hands. •• 1 beg you to believe me, &c." 



LETTER DCXVIII. 

TO "THE HONORABLE DOUGLAS KINNAIRD. 

" MiawlongW, Feb. SI, mi. 

" I have received yours of the '2d of November. 
It is essential that the money should be paid, as 1 
have drawn for it all, and more too, to help the 
Greeks. Parry is here, and he and I agree very 
well ; and all is going on hopefully for the present, 
considering circumstances. 

"We shall have work this year, for the Turks 
are coming down in force; and, as for me, I must 
standby the cause. I shall shortly march (accord- 
ing to orders) against Lepanto, with two thousand 
men. I have been here some time, after some nar- 
row escapes from the Turks, and also from being 
shipwrecked. We were twice upon the rocks, but 
this you will have heard, truly or falsely, through 
other channels, and I do not wish to bore you with 
a long story. 

••So far 1 have succeeded in supporting the Gov- 
ernment of Western Greece, which would other- 
wise have been dissolved. If you have received the 
eleven thousand and odd pounds, these, with what 
I have in hand, and my income for the current yea:, 
to say nothing of contingencies, will, or might, 
enable me to keep the 'sinews of war' properly 
strung. If the deputies be honest fellows, and ob- 
tain the loan, they will repay the 401)0/. as agreed 
upon; and even then I shall save little, or indeed 
less than little, since I am maintaining nearly the 
whole machine — in this place, at least — at my own 
cost. Hut lot the Greeks only succeed, and I don't 
care for myself. 

" I have been very seriously unwell, but am get- 
tin;,' better, ami can ride about again ; so pray quiet 
our friends on that score. 

" It is not true that I ever did, will, would, could, 
or should write a satire against Gifford, or a hair of 
his head. 1 always considered him as my literarv 
father, and myself as his ' prodigal son ; '" and if I 
have allowed his 'fatted calf to grow to an ox be- 
fore be kills it on my return, it is only because I 
prefer beef to veal. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER DCXIX. 

TO Mil. BARFF. 

" Pi bruarj '.'3. 
My health seems improving, especially from 
-idin'g and the warm bath. Si\ Englishmen will 
De soon in quarantine at /ante ; (hay are artificers, 
and have had enough of Greece in » fourteen days. 
If you could recommend them to a passage home, I 
would thank you ; they are good men enough, but 



do not quite understand the little discrepancies in 
these countries, and are not used to see shooting 
and slashing in a domestic quiet way, or (as it 
forms here) a part of housekeeping. 

" If they should want any thing during their 
quarantine, you can advance them not more than a 
dollar a day (among them) for that period, to pur- 
chase them some little extras as comforts, (as they 
are quite out of their clement.) I cannot afford them 
more at present." 



LETTER DCXX. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

» Misaolon .-hi. Feb. 25, l s J4 . 

" I have heard from Mr. Douglas Kinnaird that 
you state 'a report of a satire on Mr. Gifford 
having arrrived from Italy, Said to lie written by we/ 
but that you do not believe it.' I dare say \ on do 
not, nbr any body else, I should think. Whoever 
asserts that 1 am the author or abettor of any thing 
of the kind on Gifford lies in his throat. If any 
such composition exists it is none of mine. You 
know as well as any body upon whom I have or have 
not written; and VOU also know whether they do or 
did not deserve that same. And so much for such 
matters. 

" You will perhaps be anxious to bear some news 
from this part of Greece, (which is the most liable 
to invasion ;) but you will hear enough through pub- 
lic anil private channels. 1 will, however, give you 
the events of a week, mingling my own private pe- 
culiar with the public, for we are here a little jnm- 
jether at present. 

"On Sunday, (the loth, I believe,) 1 bad a strong 
and sudden convulsive attack, which left me speech- 
less, though not motionless — for some strong men 
could not hold me; but whether it was epilepsy, 
catalepsy, cachexy, or apoplexy, or what other 
exy or epsy, the doctors have not decided; or 
whether it was spasmodic or nervous, &o. ; but it 
was very unpleasant, and nearly carried me off, and 
all that. On Monday, they put leeches to my tem- 
ples, no difficult matter, but the blood could not be 
stopped till eleven at night, (they had gone too 
near the temporal artery for my temporal safety,) 
and neither styptic nor caustic would cautei 
orifice till after a hundred attempts. 

"On Tuesday, a Turkish brig-of-warran on shore. 
On Wednesday, great preparations being made to 
attack her, though protected by her consorts, the 
Turks burned her and retired to Patras. On Thurs- 
day a quarrel ensued between the Suliotes and the 
Frank guard at the arsenal: a Swedish officer was 
lulled, and a Suliote severely wounded, and a gen- 
eral fight expected, and with some difficulty pre- 
vented. On Friday, the officer was buried; and 
C iptain T m\ s English iitrrcrs mutmnd, under 
the pretence that their lives are in danger, and are 
for (putting the country: — they may. 

" On Saturday, we had the smartest shock of an 
earthquake which I remember, (and I have felt 
thirty, slight or smart, at dill'erenl periods ; they 
arc in the Mediterranean,) and the whole army dis- 
charged their arms, upon the same principle that 
the savages beat drums, or howl, during an eclipse 
of the moon: — it was a rare scene altogether — if 
you had but seen the English Johnnies, who had 
never been out of a workshop before ! — or will 
again, if they can help it — and on Sunday, we 
heard that the Vizier is come down to Larissa, with 
one hundred and odd thousand men. 

" In coming here, 1 had two escapes, one from 
the Turks, (one of my vessels was taken, but after- 
ward released,) and the other from shipwreck. We 
drove twice on the rocks near the Scrophes (islands 
near the coast. ) 

" 1 have obtained from the Greeks the release of 
cight-and-twenty Turkish prisoners, men, women, 



V From It m Byrcnj v.»V /. tu ■-■■, . .//'.' u,< n ;n 









\ 

5 \; 



4 



' s v . N 



K.& 



« 



V i 



-\ J \ : 



* A 

^s 



V 






^ 



J S 



<\ 






\ j 



\ 






N 









v 



> * y 



N 



V 



*¥ 



I v 



\ 



\ 






\ \ 



3X 



\ V ^ 



\ 



^ < 



si 






v 



K y 



\>J 



i 



X 



1 \ 



\ 



,v 



V 







~ v 
v 
* N 



Ol 



\i 






1 






.X 



\ 









>K 



S\l 5 






v 






s 






s 






\ 



N 



^ 



\. 



r , x 






v 



^ 



i 



N 



i 



»' >7t«.yV ! / -* 



LETTERS. 



975 



and children, and sent them to Patras and Prevesa, 
at my own charges. One little girl of nine years 
old, who prefers remaining with me, I shall (if I 
live) send, with her mother, probably, to Italy, or 
to England. Her name is Hato, or Hetagee. She 
is a very pretty, lively child. All her brothers were 
killed by the Greeks, and she herself and her 
mother merely spared by special favor and owing to 
her extreme youth, she being then but five years 
old. 

" My health is now better, and I ride about again. 
My office here is no sinecure, so many parties and 
difficulties of every kind; but I will do what I can. 
Prince Mavrocordato is an excellent person, and 
does all in his power, but his situation is perplexing 
in the extreme. Still we have great hopes of the 
success of the contest. You will hear, however, 
more of public news from plenty of quarters, for I 
have little time to write. 

"Believe me yours, &c, &c, 
"N. Bn." 



LETTER DCXXI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Missolonghi, Western Greece, March 4, 1824. 

"My Dear Moore, 

"Your reproach is unfounded — I have received 
two letters from you, and answered both previous 
to leaving Cephalonia. I have not been ' quiet ' in 
an Ionion island, but much occupied with business, 
— as the Greek deputies (if arrived) can tell you. 
Neither have I continued ' Don Juan,' nor any 
other poem. You go, as usual, I presume, by some 
newspaper report or other. 

" When the proper moment to be of some use, 
arrived, I came here ; and am told that my arrival 
(with some other circumstances) has been of, at 
least, temporary advantage to the cause. I had a 
narrow escape from the Turks, and another from 
shipwreck on my passage. On the loth (or 16th) 
of February I had an attack of apoplexy, or epilepsy, 
— the physicians have not exactly decided which, 
but the alternative is agreeable. My constitution, 
therefore, remains between the two opinions, like 
Mahomet's sarcophagus between the magnets. All 
that lean say is, that they nearly bled me to death, 
by placing the leeches too near the temporal artery, 
so that the blood could with difficulty be stopped, 
even with caustic. I am supposed to be getting 
better, slowly, however. But my homilies will, I 
presume, for the future, be like the Archbishop of 
Grenada's — in this case, ' I order you a hundred 
ducats from my treasurer, and wish you a little 
more taste.' 

"For public matters I refer you to Col. Stan- 
hope's and Capt. Parry's reports, — and to all other 
reports whatsoever. There is plenty to do — war 
without, and tumult within — they ' kill a man a 
week,' like Bob Acres in the country. Parry's 
artificers have gone away in alarm, on account of a 
dispute, in which some of the natives and foreigners 
were engaged, and a Swede was killed, and a Suliote 
wounded. In the middle of their fight there was a 
strong shock of an earthquake; so," between that 
and the sword, they boomed off in a hurry in despite 
of all dissuasions to the contrary. A Turkish brig 
ran ashore, &c, &c, &c* 

" You, I presume, are either publishing or medi- 
tating that same. Let me hear from and of you, 
and believe me, in all events, 

" Ever and affectionately yours, 

"N. B." 



• What is omitted here, is hut a repetition of the various particulars, re- 
specting all that tail happened since his arrival, which have already been 
jiveu in the letleri to his other correspondents. — Moore* 



"P. S. Tell Mr. Murray that I wrote to him the 
other day, and hope that he has received, or will 
receive, the letter." 



LETTER DCXXII. 



TO DR. KENNEDY. 



" Missolonghi, March 4, 1324. 

"My Dear Doctor, 

"I have to thank you for your two very kind 
letters, both received at the same time, and one 
long after its date. I am not unaware of the 
precarious state of my health, nor am, nor have 
been, deceived on that subject. But it is proper 
that I should remain in Greece ; and it were better 
to die doing something than nothing. My presence 
here has been so far useful as to have prevented 
confusion from becoming worse confounded, at least 
for the present. Should I become, or be deemed, 
useless or superfluous, I am ready to retire ; but in 
the interim I am not to consider personal con- 
sequences ; the rest is in the hands of Providence, 
— as indeed are all things. I shall, however, 
observe your instructions, and indeed did so, as far 
as regards abstinence, for some time past. 

" Besides the tracts, &c, which you have sent 
for distribution, one of the English artificers (hight 
Brownbill, a tinman), left to my charge a number 
of Greek Testaments, which I will endeavor to 
distribute properly. The Greeks complain that the 
translation is not correct, nor in f/ood Romaic : 
Bambas can decide on that point. I am trying to 
reconcile the clergy to the distribution, which 
(without due regard to their hierarchy) they might 
contrive to impede or neutralize in the effect, from 
their power over their people. Mr. Brownbill has 
gone to the islands, having some apprehension for 
his life, (not from the priests, however,) and ap- 
parently preferring rather to be a saint than a 
martyr, although his apprehensions of becoming 
the latter were probably unfounded. All the Eng- 
lish artificers accompanied him, thinking themselves 
in danger, on account of some troubles here, which 
have apparently subsided. 

" I have been interrupted by a visit from Prince 
Mavrocordato and others since I began this letter, 
and must close it hastily, for the boat is announced 
as ready to sail. Your future convert, Hato, or 
Hatagee, appears to me lively, and intelligent, and 
promising, and possesses an interesting counte- 
nance. With regard to her disposition, I can say 
little, but Millingen, who has the mother (who is a 
middle-aged lady of good character) in his house as 
a domestic, (although the family was in good worldly 
circumstances previous to the Revolution,) speaks 
well of both, and he is to be relied on. As far as I 
know, I have only seen the child a few times with 
her mother, and what I have seen is favorable, or I 
should not take so much interest in her behalf. If 
she turns out well, my idea would be to send her to 
my daughter in England, (if not to respectable 
persons in Italy,) and so to provide for her as to 
enable her to live with reputation, either singly or 
in marriage, if she arrive at maturity. I will make 
proper arrangements about her expenses through 
Messrs Barff'and Hancock, and the rest I leave to 
your discretion and to Mrs. K.'s, with a great sense 
of obligation for your kindness in undertaking her 
temporary superintendence. 

" Of public matters here, I have little to add 
to what you will already have heard. We are going 
on as well as we can, and with the hope and the 
endeavor to do better. Believe me, 

•' Ever and truly, &c." 



976 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER DCXXIII. 



TO MR. BARFF. 

" March 5, 1824. 

" If Sisseni* is sincere, he will be treated with, 
and well treated; if he is not, the sin and the 
shame may lie at his own door. One great 
object is to heal those internal dissensions for the 
future, without exacting too rigorous an account of 
the past. Prince Mavrocordato is of the same 
opinion, and whoever is disposed to act fairly will be 
fairly dealt with. I have heard a good deal of Sis- 
seni, but not a deal of good; however, I never judge 
from report, particularly in a revolution. Person- 
ally, I am rather obliged to him, for he has been 
very hospitable to all friends of mine who have 
passed through his district. You may therefore 
assure him that any overture for the advantage of 
Greece and its internal pacification will be readily 
and sincerely met here. I hardly think that he 
would have ventured a deceitful proposition to me 
through you, because he must be sure that in such 
a case it would eventually be exposed. At any 
rate, the healing of these dissensions is so impor- 
tant a point, that something must be risked to ob- 
tain it." 



LETTER DCXXIV. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



" Enclosed is an answer to Mr. Parruca's letter, 
and I hope that you will assure him from me, that I 
have done and am doing all I can to reunite the 
Greeks with the Greeks. 

" I am extremely obliged by your offer of your 
country-house (as for all kindness) in case that my 
health should require my removal ; but I cannot 
quit Greece while there is a chance of my being of 
any (even supposed) utility : — there is a stake worth 
millions such as I am, and. while I can stand at all, 
I must stand by the cause. When I say this, I am 
at the same time aware of the difficulties and dis- 
sensions, and defects of the Greeks themselves ; 
but allowance must be made for them by all reason- 
able people. 

" My chief, indeed nine-tenths of my expenses 
here .are solely in advances to or on behalf of the 
Greeks, and objects connected with their independ- 
ence." 



LETTTER DCXXV. 



TO SR. PARRUCA. 



; SlR, 



• March 10, 1324. 



" I have the honor of answering your letter. My 
first wish has always been to bring the Greeks to 
agree among themselves. I came here by the invi- 
tation of the Greek Government, and I do not think 
that I ought to abandon Roumeali for the Pelopon- 
nesus until that Government shall desire it ; and 
the more so, as this part is exposed in a greater de- 
gree to the enemy. Nevertheless, if my presence 
can really be of any assistance in uniting two or 
more parties, I am ready to go any where, either as 
a mediator, or, if necessary, as a hostage. In these 
affairs, I have neither private views, nor private dis- 
like of any individual, but the sincere wish of 
deserving the name of the friend of your country 
and of her patriots. • 

" I have the honor, &c." 



* This Sisseni, who was the Capitano of the rich district about Gaslouni. 
and had, for some time, held out against the general government, was now, 
as appears by the above letter, making overtures, througli M. BarrT, of adhe- 
sion. As a proof of his sincerity, it was required by Lord Byron that he 
should surrender into the handsof the government the fortress of Chiarenza. — 
Moure. 



LETTER DCXXVI. 



TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

" Missoionghi, 10th March, 1824. 
; SlR, 

" I sent by Mr. J. M. Hodges a bill drawn on 
Signor C. Jerostatti for three hundred and eighty- 
six pounds, on account of the Hon. the Greek com- 
mittee, for carrying on the service at this place. 
But Count Delladecima sent no more than two 
hundred dollars until he should receive instructions 
from C. Jerostatti. Therefore I am obliged to ad- 
vance that sum to prevent a positive stop being 
put to the laboratory service at this place, &c, &c. 

" I beg you will mention this business to Count 
Delladecima, who has the draft and every account, 
and that Mr. Barff, in conjunction with yourself, 
will endeavor to arrange this money account, and, 
when received forward t.ie same to Missoionghi. 
" I am, sir, yours very truly. 

' So far is written by Captain Parry ; but I see 
that I must continue the letter myself. I under- 
stand little or nothing of the business, saving and 
except that, like most of the present affairs here, it 
will be at a stand-still if moneys be not advanced, 
and there are few here so disposed ; so that I must 
take the chance as usual. 

' You will see what can be done with Dellade- 
cima and Jerostatti, and remit the sum, that we 
may have some quiet ; for the committee have 
somehow embroiled their matters, or chosen Greek 
correspondents more Grecian than ever the Greeks 
are wont to be. "Yours ever, 

"Nl. Bit. 

' P. S. A thousand thanks to Muir for his cauli 
flower, the finest I ever saw or tasted, and I believe, 
the largest that ever grew out of Paradise or Scot- 
land. I have written to quiet Dr. Kennedy about 
the newspaper, (with which I have nothing to do as 
a writer, please to recollect and say.) I told the 
fools of conductors that their motto would play the 
devil ; but, like all mountebanks, they persisted. 
Gamba, who is any thing but lucky, had something 
to do with it ; and, as usual, the moment he had, 
matters went wrong. It will be better, perhaps, in 
time. But I write in haste, and have only time to 
say, before the boat sails, that I am ever 

" Yours, 
" N. Bn. 

" P. S. Mr. Findlay is here, and has received his 
money." 



LETTER DCXXVII. 



TO DR. KENNEDY. 



" Msssolonghi, March 10, 1824. 

" Dear Sir, 

" You could not disapprove of the motto to the 
Telegraph more than I did, and do ; but this is the 
land of liberty, where most people do as they please, 
and few as they ought. 

" I have not written, nor am inclined to write, for 
that or any other paper, but have suggested to 
them, over and over, a change of the motto and 
style. However, I do not think that it will turn 
out either an irreligious or a levelling publication, 
and they promise due respect to both churches and 
things, i. e. the editors do. 

" If Bambas would write for the Greek Chronicle, 
he might have his his own price for articles. 

" There is a slight demur about Hato's voyage, 
her mother wishing to go with her, which is quite 
natural, and I have not the heart to refuse it ; for 
even Mahomet made a law, that in the division of 
captives, the child should never be separated from 
the mother. But this may make a difference in the 
arrangement, although the poor woman (who has 



LETTERS. 



977 



lost half her family in the war) is, as I said, of good 
character, and of mature age, so . as to render her 
respectability not liable to suspicion. She has 
heard, it seems, from Pfevesa, that her husband is 
no longer there. I have consigned your Bibles to 
Dr. Meyer ; and I hope that the said Doctor may 
justify your confidence ; nevertheless, I shall keep 
an eye upon him. You may depend upon m} r giving 
the society as fair play as Mr. Wilbcrforce himself 
would : and any other commisssion for the good of 
Greece will meet with the same attention on my part. 

" I am trying, with some hope of eventual suc- 
cess, to reunite the Greeks, especially as the Turks 
are expected in force, and that shortly. We must 
meet them as wo may, and fight it out as we can. 

" I rejoice to hear that your school prospers, and 
I assure you that your good wishes are reciprocal. 
The weather is so much finer, that I get a good deal 
of moderate exercise in boats and on horseback, 
and I am willing to hope that my health is not 
worse than when you kindly wrote to me. Dr. 
Bruno can tell you that I adhere to your regimen, 
and more, for I do not eat any meat, even fish. 

" Believe me ever, &c. 

" P. S. The mechanics (six in number) were all 
pretty much of the same mind. Brownbill was but 
one. Perhaps they are less to blame than is imag- 
ined, since Colonel Stanhope is said to have told 
them, ' that he eoitld not positively say their lives 
were safe.' I should like to know where our life is 
safe, either here or any where else ? With regard 
to a place of safety, at least such hermetically- 
sealed safety as these persons appeared to desider- 
ate, it is not to be found in Greece, at any rate ; but 
Missolonghi was supposed to be the place where 
they would be useful, and their risk was no greater 
than that of others." 



LETTER DCXXVIII. 



TO COLONEL STANHOPE. 



"Missolonghi, March 19, 1824. 

" My Dear Stanhope, - 9 

" Prince Mavrocordato and myself will go to Sa- 
lona to meet Ulysses, and you may be very sure 
that P. M. will accept any proposition for the advan- 
tage of Greece. Parry is to answer for himself on 
his own articles ; if I were to interfere with him, it 
would only stop the whole progress of his exertion, 
and he is really doing all that can be done without 
more aid from the government. 

"What can be spared will be sent; but I refer 
you to Captain Humphries's report, and to Count 
Gamba's letter for details upon all subjects. 

" In the hope of seeing you soon, and deferring 
much that will be to be said till then, 

" Believe me ever, &c. 

" P. S. Your two letters (to me) rfre sent to Mr. 
Barff, as you desire. Pray remember me particu- 
larly to Treawney, whom I shall be very much 
pleased to see again." 



would not act with him, or any other, whether na- 
tive or foreigner. 

" If Lord Guilford is at Zante, or, if he is not, if 
Signor Tricupi is there, you would oblige me by 
presenting my respects to one or both, and by telling 
them, that from the very first I foretold to Colonel 
Stanhope and to P. Mavrocordato, that a Greek 
newspaper (or indeed any other) in the present state 
of Greece might and probably would tend to much 
mischief and misconstruction, unless under some 
restrictions, nor have I ever had any thing to do 
with either, as a writer or otherwise, except as a pe- 
cuniary contributor to their support on the outset, 
which I could not refuse to the earnest request of 
the projectors. Col. Stanhope and myself had con- 
siderable differences of opinion on this subject, and 
(what will appear laughable enough) to such a de- 
gree that he charged me with desjwtic principles, and 
I him with ultra-radicalism. 

" Dr. * *, the editor, with his unrestrained free- 
dom of the press, and who has the freedom to exer- 
cise an unlimited discretion, — not allowing any 
article but his own and those like them to appear, — 
and in declaiming against restrictions, cuts, carves, 
and restricts (as they tell me), at his own will and 
pleasure. He rs the author of an article against 
monarchy, of which he may have the advantage and 
fame — but they (the editors) will get themselves into 
a scrape, if they do not take care. 

" Of all petty tyrants, he is one of the pettiest, 
as are most demagogues, that ever I knew. He is 
a Swiss by birth, and a Greek by assumption, having 
married a wife, and changed his religion. 

" I shall be very glad, and am extremely anxious 
for some favorable result to the recent pacific over- 
tures of the contending parties in the Peloponnese." 



LETTER DCXXIX. 

TO MR. BARFF. 

" March 19. 

" As Count Mercati is under some apprehensions 
of a direct answer to him personally on Greek affairs, 
I reply (as you authorized me) to you, who will have 
the goodness to communicate to him the enclosed. 
It is the joint answer of Prince Mavrocordato and 
of myself, to Signor Georgio Sisseni's propositions. 
You may also add, both to him and to Parruca, that 
I am perfectly sincere in desiring the most amicable 
termination of their internal dissensions, and that 
I believe P. Mavrocordato to be so also, otherwise I 
123 



LETTER DCXXX. 

TO MR. BARFF. 

" March 24. 

"If the Greek deputies (as seems probable) have 
obtained the loan, the sums I have advanced may 
perhaps be repaid ; but it would make no great dif- 
ference, as I should still spend that in the cause, and 
more to boot — though I should hope to better pur- 
pose than paying off arrears of fleets that sail away, 
and Suliotes that won't march, which, they say, 
what has hitherto been advanced has been employed 
in. But that was not my affair, but of those who 
had the disposal of affairs, and I could not decently 
say to them, ' You shall do so and so, because, &c, 
&c, &c.' 

" In a few days, P. Mavrocordato and myself, with 
a considerable escort, intend to proceed to Salona at 
the request of Ulysses and the chiefs of Eastern 
Greece, and take measures offensive and defensive 
for the ensuing campaign. Mavrocordato is almost 
recalled by the new government to the Morea (to 
take the lead, I rather think), and they have written 
to propose to me, to go either to the Morea with 
him, or to take the general direction of affairs in 
this quarter — with General Londo, and any other I 
may choose, to form a council. A. Londo is my old 
friend and acquaintance since we were lads in 
Greece together. It would be difficult to give a 
positive answer till the Salona meeting is over,* but 
I am willing to serve them in any capacity they 
please, either commanding or commanded — it is 
much the same to me, as long as I can be of any 
presumed use to them. 

"Excuse haste; it is late, and I have been sev- 
eral hours on horseback in a country so miry after 



* To this offer of the Government to appoint him Governor-General cf 
Greece, (that is, of the enfranchised part of the Continent, with the exception 
of the Morea and the islands,) his answer was, that " he was first going to 
Salona, and that afterward he would be at their commands ; that he could 
have no difficulty in accepting any office, provided he could persuade himself 
that any goott'wouid result from it." — Moore. 



978 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the rains, that every hundred yards brings you to a 
ditch, of whose depth, width, color, and contents, 
both my horses and their riders have brought away 
many tokens." 



LETTER DCXXXI. 

TO MR. BAltFF. 

" March 26. 

" Since your intelligence with regard to the 
Greek loan, P. Mavrocordato has shown to me an 
extract from some correspondence of his, by which 
it would appear that three commissioners are to 
be named to see that the amount is placed in proper 
hands for the service of the country, and that my 
name is among the number. Of this, however, we 
have as yet only the report. 

" This commission is apparently named by the 
committee or the contracting parties in England. 
I am of opinion that such a commission will be 
necessary, but the office will be both delicate and 
difficult. The weather, which has lately been equi- 
noctial, has flooded the country, and will probably 
retard our proceeding to Salona for some days, till 
the road becomes more practicable. 

" You were already apprized that P. Mavrocordato 
and myself had been invited to a conference by 
Ulysses and the chiefs of Eastern Greece. I hear 
(and am indeed consulted on the subject) that in 
case the remittance of the first advance of the loan 
■should not arrive immediately, the Greek General 
Government mean to try to raise some thousand 
dollars in the islands in the interim, to be repaid 
from the earliest instalments on their arrival. What 
prospect of success they may have, or on what con- 
ditions, you can tell better than me : I suppose, if 
the loan'be confirmed, something might be done by 
them, but subject of course tg the usual terms. 
You can let them and me know your own opinion. 
There is an imperious necessity for some national 
fund, and that speedily, otherwise what is to be 
done ? The auxiliary corps of about two hundred 
men paid by me, are, I believe, the sole regularly 
and properly furnished with the money, due to them 
weekly, and the officers monthly. It is true that 
the Greek government gives their rations, but we 
have had three mutinies, owing to the badness of 
the bread, which neither native nor stranger could 
masticate (nor dogs either), and there is still great 
difficulty in obtaining them even provisions of any 
kind. 

" There is a dissension among the Germans about 
the conduct of the agents of their committee, and 
an examination among themselves instituted. What 
the result may be, cannot be anticipated, except 
that it will end in a row, of course, as usual. 

"The English are all very amicable, as far as I 
know ; we get on too with the Greeks very tolerably, 
always making allowance for circumstances ; and 
we have no quarrels with the foreigners." 



first time that you had placed them in similar cir- 
cumstances. Neither Mr. Hesketh nor myself 
could imagine that you were in bed, as we had been 
assured of the contrary, and certainly such a situa- 
tion was not contemplated. But Mr. Hesketh had 
positive orders to conduct you from your quarters to 
those of the Artillery Brigade, at the same time 
being desired to use no violence, nor does it appear 
that any was had recourse to. This measure was 
adopted, because your landlord assured me when/1 
proposed to put off the inquiry until the next day, 
that he could not return to his house without a 
guard for his protection, and that he had left his 
wife, and daughter, and family in tiie greatest alarm, 
and on that account putting them under our imme- 
diate protection. The case admitted of no delay. 
As I am not aware that Mr. Hesketh exceeded his 
orders, I cannot take any measures to punish him, 
but I have no objection to examine minutely into 
his conduct. You ought to recollect that entering 
into his Auxiliary Greek corps now under my orders, 
at your own sole request and positive desire, you 
incurred the obligation of obeying the laws of the 
country as well as those of the service. 

" I have the honor to be. &c, &c, 

" Noel Byrox.' 



LETTER DCXXXII. 



TO * * * * 



A PRUSSIAN OFFICER. 



' April 1, 1824. 



LETTER DCXXXIII. 

TO MR. BARFF. 

"AprilB. 

1 There is a quarrel, not yet settled, between the 
citizens and some of Cariascachi's people, which 
has already produced some blows. I keep my peo- 
ple quite neutral ; but have ordered them to be on 
their guard. 

' Some days ago we had an Italian private soldier 
drummed out for thieving. The German officers 
wanted to flog him ; but 1 flatly refused to permit 
the use of the stick or whip, and delivered him over 
to the police. Since then a Prussian officer rioted 
in his lodgings; and I put him under arrest, ac- 
cording to the order. This, it appears, did not 
please Jjis German confederation : but I stuck by 
my text ; and have given them plainly to under- 
stand, that those who do not choose to be amenable 
to the laws of the country and service, may retire; 
but that in all that I have to do, I will see them 
obeyed by foreigner or native. 

" I wish something was heard of the arrival of 
part of the loan, for there is a plentiful dearth of 
every thing at present." 



LETTER DCXXXIV. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



1 Apiil S. 



u Sir, 

" 1 have the honor to reply to your letter of this 
day. In consequence of an urgent, and, to all ap- 
pearance, a well-founded complaint made to me 
yesterday evening, I gave orders to Mr. Hesketh,* 
to proceed to your quarters with the soldiers of his 
guard, and to remove you from your house to the 
seraglio, because the owner of your house declared 
himself and his family to be in immediate danger 
from your conduct, and added that it was not the 



The Adjutant. 



" Since I wrote, we have had some tumult here 
with the citizens and Cariascachi's people, and all 
are under arms, our boys and all. They nearly fired 
on me and fifty of my lads,* by mistake, as we were 
taking our usual excursion into the country. To- 
day matters are settled, or subsiding ; but about an 
hour ago, the father-in-law of the landlord of the 
house where I am lodged (one of the primates the 
said landlord is) was arrested for high-treason. 

" They are in conclave still with Mavrocordato; 
and we have a number of new faces from the hills, 
come to assist, they say. Gun-boats and batteries 
all ready, &c. 

" The row has had one good effect — it has put 
them on the alert. What is to become of the father- 
in-law, I do not know ; nor what he has done, ex 
actly ; but 

' 'Tis a very fine thing to be father-in-law 
To a very magnificent tliree-tailed bashaw,' 



A corft of fifty Suliotei, his body-guard. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



979 



as the man in, Bluebeard says and sings. I wrote to 
you upon matters at length, some days ago ; the 
letter, or letters, you will receive with this. We are 
desirous to hear more of the loan ; and it is some 
time since I have had any letters (at least of an in- 
teresting description) from England, excepting one 
of 4th Feb., from Bowring (of no great import- 
ance). My latest dates are of 9 bre > or of the 6th 
10 bre four months exactly. 1 hope you get on well 
in the islands : here most of us are, or have been, 
more or less indisposed, natives as well as foreign- 
ers." 



LETTER DCXXXV. 



TO MR. BAKFF. 



1 April 7. 



" The Greeks here of the government have been 
boring me for more money. As I have the brigade 



to maintain, and the campaign is apparently now to 
open, and as I have already spent thirty thousand 
dollars in three months upon them in one way or 
other, and more especially as their public loan has 
succeeded, so that they ought not to draw from indi- 
viduals at that rate, I have given them a refusal, 
and — as they would not take that, — another refusal 
in terms of considerable sincerity. 

"They wish now to try in the islands for a few 
thousand dollars on the ensuing loan. If you can 
serve them, perhaps you will, (in the way of infor- 
mation, at any rate,) and I will see that you have 
fair play, but still I do not advise you, except to act 
as you please. Almost every thing depends upon 
the arrival, and the speedy arrival, of a portion of 
the loan to keep peace among themselves. If they 
can but have sense to do this, I think that they will 
be a match and better for any force that can be 
brought against them for the present. We are all. 
doing as well as we can." 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 



BEGUN NOVEMBER 14, 1813. 



" If this had been begun ten years ago, and faith- 
fully kept ! ! ! — heigho ! there are too many things I 
wish never to have remembered, as it is. Well, — I 
have had my share of what are called the pleasures 
of this life, and I have seen more of the European 
and Asiatic world than I have made a good use of. 
They say ' virtue is its own reward,' — it certainly 
should be paid well for its trouble. At five-and- 
twenty, when the better part of life is over, one 
should be something ; — and what am I ? nothing but 
five-and-twenty--and the odd months. What have 
I seen ? the same man all over the world, — ay, and 
woman too. Give me a Mussulman who never asks 
questions, and a she of the same race who saves 
one the trouble of putting them. But for this same 
plague — yellow-fever — and Newstead delay, I should 
have been by this time a second time close to the 
Euxine. If I can overcome the last, I don't so 
much mind your pestilence ; and, at any rate, the 
spring shall see me there, — provided I neither marry 
myself nor unmarry any one else in the interval. I 
wish one was — I don't know what I wish. It is odd 
I never set myself seriously to wishing without at- 
taining it — and repenting. I begin to believe with 
the good old Magi, that one should only pray for 
the nation, and not for the individual; — but, on my 
principle, this would not be very patriotic. 

" No more reflections. — Let me see — last night I 
finished ' Zuleika,'* my second Turkish Tale. I 
believe the composition of it kept me alive — for it 
was written to drive my thoughts from the recollec- 
tion of — 

' Dear, sacred name, rest ever unrevealM,' 

At least, even here, my hand would tremble to write 
it. This afternoon I have burned the scenes of my 
commenced comedy. I have some idea of expecto- 



rating a romance, or rather a tale, in prose ; — but 
what romance could equal the events — 



' quaxpie ipse 
Et quorum pars magna 



vidi, 



" To-day Henry Byron called on me with my little 
cousin Eliza. She will grow up a beauty and a 
plague ; but, in the mean time, it is the prettiest 
child ! dark eyes and eyelashes, black and long as 
the wing of a raven. I think she is prettier even 
than my niece, Georgiana, — yet I don't like to think 
so neither ; and, though older, she is not so clever. 

"Dallas called before I was up, so we did not 
meet. Lewis, too — who seems out of humor with 
every thing. What can be the matter ? he is not 
married — has he lost his own mistress, or any other 
person's wife ? Hodgson, too, came. He is going 
to be married, and he is the kind of man who will 
be the happier. He has talent, cheerfulness, every 
thing that can make him a pleasing companion; 
and his intended is handsome and young, and all 
that. But I never see any one much improved by 
matrimony. All my coupled contemporaries are 
bald and discontented. W. and S. have both lost 
their hair and good-humor ; and the last of the two 
had a good deal to lose. But it don't much signify 
what falls off a. man's temples in that state. 

" Mem. I must get a toy to-morrow for Eliza, 
and send the device for the seals of myself and * * 
*.**. Mem. too, to call on the Stael and. Lady 
Holland to-morrow, and on * *, who has advised 
me (without seeing it, by-the-by) not to publish 
' Zuleika ; ' I believe he is right, but experience 
might have taught him that not to print is physi- 
cally impossible. . No one has seen it but Hodgson 
and' Mr. Giflbrd. I never in my life read a compo- 
sition, save to Hodgson, as he pays me in kind. _ It 
is a horrible thing to'do too frequently ; — better print, 
and they who like may read, and, if they don't like. 



980 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



you have the satisfaction of knowing that they 
have, at least, purchased the right of saying so. 

" I have declined presenting the Debtor's Peti- 
tion, being sick of parliamentary mummeries. I 
have spoken thrice ; but I doubt my ever becoming 
an orator. My first was liked ; the second and third 
— I don't know whether they succeeded or not. I 
have never yet set to it con amore ; one must have 
some excuse to oneself for laziness, or inability, or 
both, and this is mine. ' Company, villanous com- 

Eany, hath been the spoil of me ; ' — and then, I 
ave 'drunk medicines,' not to make me love 
Others, but certainly enough to hate myself. 

" Two nights ago, I saw the tigers sup at Exeter 
: Change. Except Veli Pacha's lion in the Morea, 
—who followed the Arab keeper like a dog, — the 
fondness of the hyasna for her keeper amused me 
most. Such a conversazione ! There was a ' hip- 
popotamus,,' like Lord Liverpool in the face ; and 
the ' Ursine Sloth ' hath the very voice and manner 
of my valet — but the tiger talked too much. The 
elephant took and gave me my money again — took 
off my hat — opened a door — trunked a whip — and 
behaved so well, that I wish he was my butler. The 
handsomest animal on earth is one of the panthers ; 
but the poor antelopes were dead. I should hate to 
see one here : — the sight of the camel made me pine 
again for Asia Minor. ' Oh quando te aspiciam ? 



"Not. 16. 

" Went last night with Lewis to see the first of 
Antony and Cleopatra. It was admirably got up, 
and well acted — a salad of Shakspeare and Dryden. 
Cleopatra strikes me as the epitome of her sex — 
fond, lively, sad, tender, teasing, humble, haughty, 
beautiful, the devil! — coquettish to the last, as well 
with the ' asp ' as with Antony. After doing all 
she can to persuade him that — but why do they 
abuse him for cutting off that poltroon Cicero's 
head ? Did not Tully tell Brutus it was a pity to 
have spared Antony ? and did he not speak the 
Philippics? and are not ' words things?' and such 
'words' very pestilent 'things' too? If he had 
had a hundred heads, they deserved (from Antony) 
a rostrum (his was stuck up there) a-piece — though, 
after all, he might have as well have pardoned him, 
for the credit of the thing. But to resume — Cleopa- 
tra, after securing him, says, ' yet go ' — ' it is your 
interest,' &c. ; how like the sex ! and the questions 
about Octavia — it is woman all over. 

" To-day received Lord Jersey's invitation to Mid- 
dleton — to travel sixty miles to meet Madame de 
Statu ! I once travelled three thousand to get 
among silent people ; and this same lady writes 
octavos and talks folios. I have read her books — 
like most of them, and delight in the last: so I 
won't hear it, as well as read. ******* 

" Read Burns to-day. What would he have been, 
if a patrician ? We should have had more polish — 
less force — just as much verse, but no immortality 
— a divorce and a duel or two, the which had he 
survived, as his potations must have been less spir- 
ituous, he might have lived as long as Sheridan, 
and outlived as much as poor Brinsley. What a 
wreck is that man ! and all from bad pilotage ; for 
no one had ever better gales, though now arid then 
a little to squally. Poor dear Sherry ! I shall never 
forget the. day he, and Rogers, and Moore, and I 
passed together; when lie talked, and %oe listened, 
without one yawn, from six till one in the morning. 

" Got my seals * * * * * *. Have again forgot a 
plaything for my petite cousine Eliza ; but I must 
send for it to-morrow. I hope Harry will bring her 
to me. I sent Lord Holland the proofs of the last 
'Giaour,' and the 'Bride of Abydos.' He won't 
like the latter, and I don't think that I shall long 
It was written in four nights to distract my dreams 
from * *. Were it not thus, it had never been com- 
posed ; and had I not done something at that time, 
I must have gone mad, by eating my own heart — 



bitter diet ! Hodgson likes it better than the 
Giaour, but nobody else will, — and he never liked 
the Fragment. I am sure, had it not been for Mur 
ray, that would never have been published, though 
the circumstances which ar% the groundwork make 
it * * * heigh-ho! 

" To-night I saw both the sisters of * * ; my 
God ; the youngest so like ! I thought I should have 
sprung across the house, and am so glad no one was 
witli me in Lady Holland's box. I hate those like- 
nessess — the mock-bird, but not the nightingale — 
so like as to remind, so different as to be painful. 
One quarrels equally with the points of resemblance 
and of distinction. 

"Nov. 17. 

"No letter from**; but I must not complain. 
The respectable Job says, ' Why should a living 
man complain ? ' I really don't know, except it be 
that a dead man can't ; and he, the said patriarch, 
did complain, nevertheless, till his friends were 
tired, and his wife recommended that pious pro- 
logue, ' Curse — and die ; ' the only time, I suppose, 
when but little relief is to be found in swearing. I 
have had a most kind letter from Lord Holland, on 
'The Bride of Abydos,' which lie likes, and so (Iocs 
Lady H. This is very good-natured in both, from 
whom I don't deserve any quarter. Yet I did think, 
at the time, that my cause of enmity proceeded from 
Holland House, and am glad I was wrong, and wish 
I had not been in such a hurry with that confounded 
satire, of which I would suppress even the memory ; 
— but people, now they can't get it, make a fuss, I 
verily believe, out of contradiction. 

"George Ellis and Murray have been talking 
something about Scott and me, George pro Scoto, 
— and very right too. If they want to depose him, 
I only wish they would not set me up as a competi- 
tor. Even if I had my choice, I would rather be the 
earl of Warwick than all the kings he ever made ! 
Jeffrey and Gilford I take to be the monarch-makers 
in poetry and prose. The British Critic, in their 
Rokeby Review, have presupposed a comparison, 
which I am sure my friends never thought of, and 
W. Scott's subjects are injudicious in descending 
to. I like the man — and admire his works to what 
Mr. Braham calls entusymusy. All such stuff can 
only vex him, and do me no good. Many hate his 
politics, — (I hate all politics;) and, here, a man's 
politics are like the Greek soul — an etda>\ov, besides 
God knows what other soul ; but their estimate of 
the two generally go together. 

" Harry has not brought ma petite cousine. I 
want us to go to the play together ; she has been 
but once. Another short note from Jersey, invit- 
ing Rogers and me on the 23d. I must see my 
agent to night. I wonder when that Xewstead 
business will be finished. It cost me more than 
words to part with it — and to hace parted with it ! 
What matters it what I do ? or what becomes of 
me ? — but let me remember Job's saving, and con- 
sole myself with being ' a living man.' 

" I wish I could settle to reading again ; my life is 
monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, 
and fiing them down again. I began a comedy, and 
burned it because the scene ran into reality ; a novel, 
for the same reason. In rhyme, I can keep more 
away from facts ; but the thought always runs 

through, through yes, yes, through. I have 

had a letter from Lady Melbourne, the best friend 
I ever had in my life, and the cleverest of women. 

" Not a word from * *. Have they set out from 
* * ? or has my last precious epistle fallen into the 
lion's jaws ? If so — and this silence looks suspi- 
cious — I must clap on ' my musty morion ' and 
'hold out my iron.' I am out of practice, but I 
won't begin again at Manton's now. Besides, 1 
would not return his shot. I was once a famous 
wafer-splitter ; but then the bullies of society made 
it necessary. Ever since I began to feel that I hud 
a bad cause to support, I have left off the exercise. 

" What strange tidings from that Anakim ol 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



981 



anarchy — Bonaparte ! Ever since I defended my 
bust of him at Harrow against the rascally time- 
servers, when the war broke out in 1803, he has 
been a ' Heros de Roman ' of mine, on the conti- 
nent ; I don't want him here. But I don't like 
those same flights, leaving of armies, &c, &c. I 
am sure when I fought for his bust at school, I did 
not think he would run away from himself. But I 
should not wonder if he banged them yet. To be 
beat by men would be something ; but by three stu- 
pid, legitimate-old-dynasty boobies of regular-bred 
sovereigns — O-hone-a-rie ! — O-hone-a-rie f It must 
be, as Cobbet says, his marriage with the thick- 
lipped and thick-headed Autrichienne brood. He 
had better have kept to her who was kept by Barras. 
I never knew any good to come of your young wife, 
and legal espousals, to any but your ' sober-blooded 
boy,' who 'eats fish' and drinketh 'no sack.' Had 
he not the whole opera ? all Paris ? all France ? 
But a mistress is just as perplexing — that is, one, — 
two or more are manageable by division. 

" I have oegun, or had begun a song, and flung 
it into the fire. It was in remembrance" of Mary 
Duff, my first of flames, before most people begin to 
burn. I wonder what the devil is the matter with 
me ! I can do nothing, and — fortunately there is 
nothing to do. It has lately been in my power to 
make two persons (and their connexions) comforta- 
ble, pro tempore, and one happy ex tempore, — I re- 
joice in the last particularly, as it is an excellent 
man. I wish there had been more inconvenience 
and less gratification to my self-love in it, for then 
there had been more merit. We are all selfish 
— and I believe, ye gods, of Epicurus ! I believe 
in Rochefoucault above men, and in Lucretius, (not 
Busby's translation,) about yourselves. Your bard 
has made you very nonchalant and blest ; but as he 
has excused us from damnation, I don't envy you 
your blessedness much — a little, to be sure. I re- 
member last year, * * said to me at * *, ' Have we 
not passed our last month like the gods of Lucre- 
tius ? ' And so we had. She is an adept in the 
text of the original, (which I like too ;) and when 
that booby Bus. sent his translating prospectus, she 
subscribed. But, the devil prompting him to add a 
specimen, she transmitted him a subsequent answer, 
saying, ihat, ' after perusing it, her conscience would 
not permit her to allow her name to remain on the 
list of subscribers.' * * * . * 

* * Last night, at Lord Holland's 
— Mackintosh, the Ossulstones, Puysegur, &c., 
there — I was trying to recollect a quotation (as / 
think) of Stael's, from some Teutonic sophist about 
architecture. ' Architecture,' says this Macoronica 
Tedescho, ' reminds me of frozen music' It is 
somewhere — but where ? — the demon of perplexity 
must know and won't tell. I asked Moore, and he 

said it was not in her ; but P r said it must be 

hers, it was so like. * * * * * 

* * * * H. laughed, as he 
does at all ' De PAllemagne,' — in which, however, I 
think he goes a little too far. B., I hear, contemns 
it too. But there are fine passages ; — and after all, 
what is a work — any — or every work — but a desert 
with fountains, and, perhaps, a grove or two, every 
day's journey ? To be sure, in Madame, what we 
often mistake, and ' pant for,' as the ' cooling 
stream,' turns out to be the ' mirage,'' (critice, 
verbiage ;) but we do, at last, get to something like 
the temple of Jove Ammon, and then the waste 
we have passed is only remembered to gladden the 
contrast. 

****** 

" Called on C * *, to explain * * * *. She is 
very beautiful, to my taste, at least ; for on coming 
home from abroad, I recollect being unable to look 
at any woman but her — they were so fair, and un- 
meaning, and blonde. The darkness and regularity 
of her features reminded me of my ' Jannat al 
Aden.' But this impression wore off; and now I 
can look at a fair woman without longing for a 



Houri. She was very good-tempered, and every 
thing was explained. 

" To-day, great news, — ' the Dutch have taken 
Holland,' — which, I suppose, will be succeeded by 
the actual explosion of the Thames. Five provinces 
have declared for young Stadt, and there will be 
inundation, conflagration, constirpation, conster- 
nation, and every sort of nation and nations, fight- 
ing away up to their knees, in the damnable quags 
of this will-o'-the-wisp abode of Boors. It is said, 
Bernadotte is anions them, too ; and, as Orange 
will be there soon, they will have (Crown) Prince 
Stork and King Log in their Loggery at the same 
time. Two to one on the new dynasty ! 

" Mr. Murray has offered me one thousand guineas 
for the ' Giaour ' and the ' Bride of Abydos.' I 
won't — it is too much, though I am strongly tempt- 
ed, merely for the say of it. No bad price for a 
fortnight's (a week each) what ? — the gods know — 
it was intended to be called poetry. 

"I have dined regularly to-day, for the first time 
since Sunday last — this being Sabbath, too. All the 
rest, tea and dry biscuits — six per diem. I wish to 
God I had not dined now ! It kills me with heavi- 
ness, stupor, and horrible dreams ; — and yet it was 
but a pint of bucellas and fish. — Meat I never touch, 
— nor much vegetable diet. I wish I were in the 
country, to take exercise, — instead of being obliged 
to cool by abstinence, in lieu of it. I should not so 
much mind a little accession of flesh, — my bones can 
well bear it. But the worst is, the devil always 
came with it, — till I starve him out, — and I will not 
be the slave of ami appetite. If I do err, it shall 
be my heart, at least, that heralds the way. Oh 
my head — how it aches ! — the horrors of diges- 
tion ! I wonder how Bonaparte's dinner agrees with 
him ? 

" Mem. I must write to-morrow to ' Master 
Shallow who owes me a thousand pounds,' and 
seems, in his letter afraid that I should ask him for 
it ; — as if I would ! — I don't want it (just now, at 
least), to begin with ; and though I have often 
wanted that sum, I never asked for the repayment 
of 10/. in my life — from a friend. His bond is not 
due this year ; and I told him when it was, I should 
not enforce it. How often must he make me say 
the same thing ? 

" I am wrong — I did once ask * * * to repay me. 
But it was under circumstances that excused me to 
him, and would to anyone. I took no interest, nor 
required security. He paid me soon — at least, his 
padre. My head ! I believe it was given me to ache 
with. Good even. 

"Nov. 22, 1813. 

" ' Orange Boven ! ' So the bees have expelled 
the bear that broke open their hive. Well, — if we 
are to have new De Witts and De Ruyters, God 
speed the little republic ! I should like to see 
the Hague and the village of Brock, where they 
have such primitive habits. Yet, I don't know, 
— their canals would cut a poor figure by the memo- 
ry of the Bosphorus ; and the Zuyder Zee look 
awkwardly after ' Ak Degnity.' ]No matter, — the 
bluff burghers, puffing freedom out of their short 
tobacco-pipes mijfht be worth seeing ; though I pre- 
fer a cigar or a hooka, with the rose-leaf mixed with 
the milder herb of the Levant. I don't know what 
liberty means, — never having seen it, — but wealth 
is power all over the world ; and as a shilling per- 
forms the duty of a pound (besides sun and sky and 
beauty for nothing) in the East, — that is the coun- 
try. How I envy Herodes Atticus ! — more than 
Pomponius. And yet a little tumult, now and then, 
is an agreeable quickener of sensation ; such as a 
revolution, a battle, or an aventure of any lively 
description. I think I rather would have been Bon- 
neval, Ripperda, Alberoni, Hayreddin, or Horuc 
Barbarossa, or even Wortley Montague, than Ma- 
homet himself. 

" Rogers will be in town ?.oon ! — the 23d is fixed 
for our Middleton visit. Shall I go ? umph '. -In 



982 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



this island, where one can't ride out without over- 
taking the sea, it don't much matter where one 
goes. 

****** 

" I remember the effect of the first Edinburgh 
Review on me. I heard of it six week before, — 
read it the day of its denunciation, — dined and 
drank three bottles of claret, (with S. B. Davies, I 
think,) — neither ate nor slept the less, but never- 
theless, was not easy till I had vented my wrath 
and my rhyme, in the same pages, against every 
thing and every body. Like George, in the Vicar 
of Wakefield, ' the fate of my paradoxes ' would 
allow me to perceive no merit in another. I re- 
membered only the maxim of my boxing-master, 
which, in my youth was found useful in all general 
riots, — ' Whoever is not for you is against you — 
mill away right and left,' and so I did; — like 
Ishmael, my hand was against all men, and all 
men's anent me. I did wonder, to be sure at my 
own success — 

* And marvels so much wit is all his own.' 

as Hobhouse sarcastically says of somebody, (not 
unlikely myself, as we are old friends;) — but were 
it to come over again, I would not. I have since 
redde* the cause of my couplets, and it is not ade 
quate to the effect. C * * told me that it was be- 
lieved I alluded to poor Lord Carlisle's nervous dis- 
order in one of the lines. I thank heaven I did not 
know it — and would not, could not, if I had. I must 
naturally be the last person to be pointed on defects 
or maladies. 

" Rogers is silent, — and, it is said, severe. When 
he does talk, he talks well ; and, on all subjects of 
taste, his delicacy of expression is pure as his poe 
try. If you enter his house — his drawing-room — 
his library — you of yourself say, this is not the 
dwelling of a common mind. There is not a gem, 
a coin, a book, thrown aside on his chimney-piece, 
his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost 
fastidious elegance in the possessor. But this very 
delicacy must be the misery of his existence. Oh 
the jarrings his disposition must have encountered 
through life ! 

" Southey I have not seen much of. His appear- 
ance is Epic ; and he is the only existing entire man 
of letters. All the others have some pursuit an- 
nexed to their authorship. His manners are mild, 
but not those of a man of the world, and his talents 
of the first order. His prose is perfect. Of his 
poetry there are various opinions : there is, perhaps, 
too much of it for the present generation ; — poster- 
ity will probably select. He has passages equal to 
any thing. At present, he has a parti/, but no pub- 
lic — except for his prose writings. The life of Nel- 
son is beautiful. 

" * * is a Litterateur, the Oracle of the Coteries, 
of the * *s, L * W *, (Sidney Smith's ' Tory Vir- 
gin,') Mrs. Wilmot, (she, at least, is a swan, and 
might frequent a purer stream,) Lady B * *, and all 
the Blues, with Lady Caroline at their head — but I 
say nothing of her, — < look in her face, and you for- 
get them all,' and every thing else. Oh that face ! 
— by 'te, Diva potens Cypri,' I would, to be be- 
loved by that woman, build and burn another 
Troy. 

" Moore has a peculiarity of talent, or rather tal- 
ents,— poetry, music, voice, all his own ; and an ex- 
pression in each, which never was, nor will be, pos- 
sessed by another. But he is capable of still higher 
flights in poetry. By-the-by, what humor, what— 
every thing in the ' Post- Bag ! ' There is nothing 
Moore may not do, if he will but seriously set about 
it. In society, he is gentlemanly, gentle, and alto- 
gether more pleasing than any individual with 
whom I am acquainted. For his honor, principle, 
and independence, his conduct to * * * * speaks 
4 trumpet-tongued.' He has but one fault — and 
that one I daily regret — he is not here. 



• It was thus that he, in general, spelled this word. 



" Ward— I like Ward.* By Mahomet ! I begin 
to think I like every body ; a disposition not to be 
encouraged ; a sort of social gluttony, that swallows 
every thing set before it. But I like Ward. He is 
piquant ; and in my opinion, will stand very high in 
the House and every where else — if he applies reg- 
ularly. By-the-by, I dine with him to-morrow, 
which may have some influence on my opinion. It 
is as well not to trust one's gratitude after din- 
ner. I have heard many a host libelled by his guests, 
with his burgundy yet reeking on their rascally 
lips. 

* * * * * * 

" I have taken Lord Salisbury's box at Covent 
Garden for the season ; — and now I must go and 
prepare to join Lady Holland and party, in theirs, 
at Drury Lane, questa sera. 

" Holland doesn't think the man is Junius ; but 
that the yet unpublished journal throws great light 
on the obscurities of that part of George the Second's 
reign. — What is this to George the Third's ? I don't 
know what to thjnk. Why should Junius be yet 
dead ? If suddenly apoplexed, would he rest in his 
grave without sending his tiflwA'/f to shout in the 
ears of posterity, ' Junius was X. Y. Z., Esq., buried 
in the parish of * * *. Repair his monument, ye 
church-wardens ! Print a new edition of his letters, 
ye booksellers ! ' Impossible ; the man must be 
alive, and will never die without the disclosure. I 
like him ; he was a good hater. 

" Came home unwell and went to bed, — not so 
sleepy as might be desirable. / 

"Tuesday Morning. 

" I awoke from a dream — well ! and have not oth- 
ers dreamed ? — Such a dream ! but she did not over- 
take me. I wish the dead would rest, however. — 
Ugh ! how my blood chilled — and I could not wake 
— and — and — heigho ! 

( Shndows to-night 
Have struck more terror to the suul of Richard, 
Titan could the substance of ten thousand • * s, 
Arm'd all in proof, and led by shallow * *.' 

I do not like this dream, — I hate its ' foregone con- 
clusion.' And am I to be shaken by shadows ? Ay, 
when they remind us of — no matter — but, if I 
dream thus again, I will try whether all sleep has 
the like visions. Since I rose I've been in considera- 
ble bodily pain also ; but it is gone, and now, like 
Lord Ogleby, I am wound up for the day. ■ 

" A note from Mountnorris — I dine with Ward ; 
Canning is to be there, Ferere, and Sharpe, perhaps 
Gifford. I am to be one of 'the five,' (or rather 
six,) as Lady * * said, a little sneeringlv, yesterday. 
They are all good to meet, particularly Canning, and 
— Ward, when he likes. I wish I may be well enough 
to listen to these intellectuals. 

' No letters to-day ; so much the better, there are 
no answers. 1 must not dream again ; it spoils 
even reality. I will go but of doors, and see what 
the fog will do for me. Jackson has been here; 
the boxing world much as usual ; but the club in- 
creases. I shall dine at Crib's to-morrow : I like 
energy,, even animal energy, of all kinds ; and I 
have need of both mental and corporeal. I have not 
dined out, nor, indeed, at all, lately ; have heard 
no music, have seen nobody. Now for a plunge — 
high life and low life. ' Amant alterna Camoc- 
nse ! ' 

' I have burned my Roman, as I did the first 
scenes and sketch of my comedy — and, for aught I 
see, the pleasure of burning is quite as great as 
that of printing. These two last would not have 
done. I ran into realities more than ever ; and 
some would have been recognized and others guessed 
at. 

" Redde the Ruminator, a collection of essays, by 
a strange, but able, , old man (Sir Edgerton Bridges) 
and a half-wild young one, anthor of a poem on the 



• The preit.nl Lord Dudley. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



983 



Highlands, called 'Childe- Alarique.' The word 
* sensibility,' (always my aversion) occurs a thou- 
sand times in these essays ; and, it seems, is to be 
an excuse for all kinds of discontent. This young 
man can know nothing of life ; and, if he cherishes 
the disposition that runs through his papers, will 
become useless, and, perhaps, not even a poet, after 
all which he seems determined to be. God help 
him ! no one should be a rhymer who could be any 
thing better. And this is what annoys one, to see 
Scott and Moore, and Campbell and Rogers, who 
might all have been agents and leaders, now mere 
spectators. For, though they may have other os- 
tensible avocations, these last are reduced to a sec- 
ondary consideration. * *, too, frittering away his 
time among dowagers and unmarried girls. If it 
advanced any serious affair, it were some excuse ; 
but, with the unmarried, that is a hazardous specu- 
lation, and tiresome enough, too ; and, with the 
veterans, it is not much worth trying, — unless, per- 
haps, one in a thousand. 

" If I had any views in this country, they would 
probably be parliamentary. But I have no ambition ; 
at least, if any, it would be ' aut Ca;sar aut nihil.' 
My hopes are limited to the arrangement of my af- 
fairs, and settling either in Italy or the East, (rather 
the last,) and drinking deep of the languages and 
literature of both. Past events have unnerved me ; 
and all I can now do is to make life an amusement, 
and look on, while others play. After all — even the 
highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is it ? 
Vide Napoleon's last twelvemonth. It has com 
pletely upset my system of fatalism. I thought, if 
crushed, he would have fallen, when ' fractus illa- 
batur orbis,' and not have been pared away to grad- 
ual insignificance ; — that all this was not a mere jeu 
of the gods, but a prelude to greater changes and 
mightier events. But men never advance beyond a 
certain point ; — and here we are, retrograding to the 
dull, stupid, old system, — balance of Europe — pois- 
ing straws upon kings' noses, instead of wringing 
them off! Give me a republic, or a despotism of 
one, rather than the mixed government of one, two, 
three. A republic ! — look in the history of the 
Earth — Rome, Greece, Venice, France, Holland, 
America, our short (eheu!) commonwealth, ancL 
compare it with whaj they did under masters. The 
Asiatics are not qualified to be republicans, but they 
have the liberty of demolishing despots, — which 
is the next thing to it. To be the first man — not 
the Dictator — not the Sylla, but the Washington or 
the Aristides — the leader in talent and truth — is 
next to the divinity ! Franklin, Penn, and, next to 
these, either Brutus or Cassius — even Mirabeau — or 
St. Just. I shall never be any thing, or rather al- 
ways be nothing. The most I can hope is, that some 
will say, ' He might, perhaps, if he would.' 

"" 12, Midnight. 

" Here are two confounded proofs from the prin- 
ter. ' I have looked at the one, but, for the soul of 
me, I can't look over that ' Giaour ' again, — at least, 
just now, and at this hour — and yet there is no 
moon. 

"Ward talks of going to Holland, and we have 
partly discussed an ensemble expedition. It must 
be in ten days, if at all, if we wish to be in at the 
revolution. And why not ? * * is. distant, and will 
be at * *, still more distant, till spring. No one 
else, except Augusta, cares for me — no ties — no 
trammels — andiamo dunque — se torniamo, bene — se 
non ch' importa f Old William of Orange talked of 
dying in ' the last ditch ' of his dingy country. It is 
lucky I can swim, or I suppose I should not well 
weather the first. But let us see. I have heard 
hyenas and jackals in the ruins of Asia; and bull- 
frogs in the marshes, besides wolves and angry Mus- 
sulmans. Now, I should like to listen to the shout 
of a free Dutchman. 

; Alia ! Viva! For ever! Hourra ! Huzza! — 



cries? 'Orange Boven,' according to the Morning 
Post. 

" Wednesday, 24th, 

" No dreams last night of the dead nor the liv- 
ing — so — I am ' firm as the marble, founded as the 
rock ' — till the next earthquake. 

_ " Ward's dinner went off well. There was not a 
disagreeable person there — unless / offended any 
body, which I am sure I could not by contradiction, 
for I said little, and opposed nothing. Sharpe (a 
man of elegant mind, and who has lived much with 
thejpest — Fox, Home Tooke, Windham, Fitzpat- 
rick, and all the agitators of other times and 
tongues) told us the particulars of his last interview 
with Windham, a few days before the fatal opera- 
tion, which sent ' that gallant spirit to aspire the 
skies.' Windham, — the first in one department of 
oratory and talent, whose only fault was his refine- 
ment beyond the intellect o"f half his hearers, — 
Windham, half his life an active participator in the 
events of the earth, and one of those who governed 
nations, — he regretted, and dwelt much on that 
regret, that 'he ha«k«iot entirely devoted himself to 
literature and science ! ! ! ' His mind certainly 
would have carried him to eminence there, as else- 
where ; but I cannot comprehend what debility of 
that mind could suggest such a wish. I, who have 
heard him, cannot regret any thing but that I shall 
never hear him again. What ! would he have been 
a plodder ? a metaphysician ? — perhaps a rhymer ? a 
scribbler ? Such an exchange must have been sug- 
gested by illness. But he is gone, and Time 'shall 
not look upon his like again.' 

" I am tremendously in arrear with my letters, — 
except to * *, and to her my thoughts overpower 
me, — my words never compass them. To Lady 
Melbourne I write with most pleasure — and her 
answers, so sensible, so taetique — I never met with 
half her talent. If she had been a few years 
younger, what a fool she would have made of-me, 
had she thought it worth her while, — and I should 
have lost a valuable and most agreeable friend. 
Mem. — a mistress never is nor can be a friend. 
While you agree, you are lovers ; and, when it is 
over, any thing but friends. 

" I have not answered W. Scott's last letter, — but 
I will. I regret to hear from others that he has 
lately been unfortunate in pecuniary involvements. 
He is undoubtedly the monarch of Parnassus, and 
the most English of bards. I should place Rogers 
next in the living list — (I value him more as the 
last of the best school) — Moore and Campbell both 
third — Southey, and Wordsworth, and Coleridge— 
the rest, <5i iroAAut — thus : 




There is a triangular ' Gradus ad Parnassum ! ' The 
names are too numerous for the base of the triangle. 
Poor Thurlow has gone wild about the poetry of 
Queen Bess's reign— e'est dommage. I have ranked 
which is the most rational or musical of these the names upon my triangle more upon what I be- 



984 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



lieve popular opinion than any decided opinion of 
my own. For, to me, some of Moore's last Erin 
sparks — 'As a beam o'er the face of the waters ' — 
' When he who adores thee ' — ' Oh blame not ' — and 
' Oh breathe not his name ' — are worth all the Epics 
that ever were composed. 

"** thinks the Quarterly will attack me next. 
Let them. I have been ' peppered so highly' in my 
time, both ways, that it must be cayenne or aloes to 
make me taste. I can sincerely say that I am not 
very much alive now to criticism. But — in tracing 
this — I rather believe that it proceeds from niM<it 
attaching that importance to authorship which many 
do, and which, when young, 1 did also. ' One gets 
tired of every thing, my angel,' says Valmont. The 
' angels ' are the only things of which I am not a 
little sick — but I do think the preference of writers 
to agents — the mighty stir made about scribbling and 
scribes, by themselves and others — a sign of effemi 
naey, degeneracy, and weakness. Who would write, 
who had anything better to do? 'Action' — ' ac 
tion ' — ' action ' — said Demosthenes : ' Actions — ac- 
tions,' I say, and not writing.-^fteast of all rhyme 
Look at the querulous and monotonous lives of the 
' genus ; ' — except Cervantes, Tasso, Dante, Ari- 
osto, Kleist, (who were brave and active citizens,) 
iEschylus, Sophocles, and some other of the an- 
tiques also — what a worthless, idle brood it is ! 



" 12, Mczta notte. 

"Just returned from dinner with Jackson (the 
emperor of pugilism) and another of the select, at 
Cribb's the champion's. I drank more than I like, 
and have brought away some three bottles of very 
fair claret — for I have no headache. We had Tom 
Cribb up after dinner ; — very facetious, though 
somewhat prolix. He don't like his situation — 
wants to fight again — pray Pollux (or Castor, if he 
was the miller) he may ! Tom has been a sailor — a 
coal-heaver — and some other genteel professions, 
before he took to the cestus. Tom has been in ac- 
tion at sea, and is now only three-and-thirty. A 
great man ! has a wife and a mistress, and conver- 
sations well — bating some sad omissions and mis- 
applications of the aspirate. Tom is an old friend 
of mine ; I have seen some of his best battles in 
my nonage. He is now a publican, and, I fear, a 
sinner ; — for Mrs. * * is on alimony, and * *'s 
daughter lives with the champion. This * * told 
me, — Tom having an opinion of my morals, passed 
her off as a legal spouse. Talking of her, he said, 
' she was the truest of women ' — from which I im- 
mediately inferred she could nut be his wife, and so 
it turned out. 

" These panegyrics don't belong to matrimony ; 
for if ' true,' a man don't think it necessary to say 
bo ; and if not, the less he says the better. * * * * 
is the only man, except * * * *, I ever heard ha- 
rangue upon his wife's virtue ; and I listened to both 
with great credence and patience, and stuffed my 
handkerchief into my mouth, when I found yawning 
irresistible. By-the-by, I am yawning now — so, 
good-night to thee, Nuui^oj^. 

" Thursday, 26tli November. 

" Awoke a little feverish, but no headache — no 
dreams neither — thanks to stupor ! Two letters, 
one from * * * *, the other from Lady Melbourne 
— both excellent in their respective styles. * * * *'s 
contained also a very pretty lyric on ' concealed 
griefs *■ — if not her own, yet very like her. Why 
did she not say that the stanzas were, or were not, 
of her composition ? — I do not know whether to 
wish them hers or not. I have no great esteem for 
poetical persons, particularly women : — they have 
so much of the ' ideal ' in practies, as well as ethics. 

" I have been thinking lately a good deal of Mary 
Duff. How very odd that I should have been so 
utterly, devotedly fond of that girl, at an age when 
I could neither feel passion, nor know the meaning 
of the word. And the effect ! — My mother used 
always to rally me about this childish amour ; and, 



at last, many years aftar, when I was sixteen, she 
told me one day, ' Oh, Byron, I have had a letter 
from Edinburgh, from Miss Abercromby, and your 
old sweetheart^Mary Duff is married to a Mr. Co«-' 
And what was my answer ? I really cannot explain 
or account for my feelings at that moment ; but 
they nearly threw me into convulsions, and alarmed 
my mother so much, that, after I grew better, she 
generally avoided the subject — to me — and con- 
tented herself with telling it to all her acquaint- 
ance. Now, what could this be ? I had never seen 
her since her mother's faux-pas at Aberdeen had 
been the cause of her removal to her grandmother's 
at Banff; we were both the merest children. I had 
and have been attached fifty times since that period; 
yet I recollect all we said to each other, all our ca- 
resses, her features, my restlessness, sleeplessness, 
my tormenting my mother's maid to write for me to 
her, which she at last did, to quiet me. Poor Nancy 
thought I was wild, and, as I could not write for 
myself, became my secretary. I remember, too, our 
walks, and the happiness of sitting by Mary, in the 
children's apartment, at their house not far from 
the Plainstones at Aberdeen, while her less sister 
Helen played with the doll, and we sat gravely 
making love, in our way. 

" How the deuce did all this occur so early ? 
where could it originate ? I certainly had no sexual 
ideas for. years afterward ; and yet my misery, my 
love for that girl were so violent, that I sometimes 
doubt if I have ever been really attached since. Be 
that as it may, hearing of her marriage several years 
after, was like a thunder-stroke — it nearly choked 
me — to the horror of my mother and the astonish- 
ment and almost incredulity of every body. And it 
is a phenomenon in my existence (for I was not 
eight years old) which has puzzled, and will puzzle 
me to to the latest hour of it; and lately, I know 
not why, the recollection (not the attachment) has 
recurred as forcibly as ever. I wonder if she can 
have the least remembrance of it or me ? or remem- 
ber her pitying sister Helen for not having an ad- 
mirer too ? How very pretty is the perfect image of 
her in my memory — her brown dark hair, and hazel 
eyes — her very dress ! I should be quite grieved to 
itsee her now ; the reality, however beautiful, would 
destroy, or at least confuse, the features of the 
lovely Peri which then existed in her, and still lives 
in my imagination, at the distance of more than 
sixteen years. I am now twenty-five and odd 
months 

"I think my mother told the circumstances (on 
my hearing of her marriage) to the Parkynsi'os, and 
certainly to the Pigot family, and probably men- 
tioned it in her answer to Miss A., who was well 
acquainted with my childish penchant, and had sent 
the news on purpose for me, — and, thanks to her! 

"Next to the beginning, the conclusion has often 
occupied my reflections, in the way of investigation. 
That the facts are thus, others know as well as I, 
and my memory yet tells me so, in more than a 
whisper. But, the more I reflect, the more I am 
bewildered to assign any cause for this precocity of 
affection. 

" Lord Holland invited me to dinner to-day ; but 
three days' dining would destroy me. So, without 
eating at all since yesterday, I went to my box at 
Covent Garden. 

•**■** * * 

Saw * * * * looking very pretty, though quite a 
different style of beauty from the other two. She 
has the finest eyes in the world, out of which she 
pretends not to see, and the longest eyelashes I ever 
saw, since Leila's and Phannio's Moslem curtains 
of the light. She has much beauty, — just enough, 
— but is I think, michante. 

***■•**# 

I have been pondering on the miseries of sepa- 
ration, that — oh how seldom we see those we love ! 
yet we live ages in moments, when met. The only 
thing that consoles me during absence is the reflec- 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



985 



lion that no mental or personal estrangement, from 
ennui or disagreement, can take place ; — and when 
people meet hereafter, even though many changes 
may have taken place in the mean time, still — unless 
they are tired of each other — they are ready to re- 
unite, and do not blame each other for the circum- 
stances that severed them. 

" Saturday, 27t'n, (1 believe — or rather am in doubt, 

which is tlie ne plus ultra of mental faith). 

" I have missed a day ; and, as the Irishman 
said, or Joe Miller says for him, ' have gained a 
loss,' or by the loss. Every thing is settled for 
Holland, and nothing but a cough, or a caprice of 
my fellow-traveller's, can stop us. Carriage ordered 
— funds prepared — and, probably, a gale of wind 
into the bargain. N'importe — I believe, with Clym 
o' the Clow, or Robin Hood, ' By our Mary (dear 
name!) that art both Mother and May, I think it 
never was a man's lot to die before his day.' Heigh 
for Ilelvoetsluys, and so forth ! 

" To-night I went with young Henry Fox to see 
' Nourjahad ' — a drama, which the Morning Post 
hath laid to my charge, but of which I cannot even 
guess the author. I wonder what they will next 
indict upon me. They cannot well sink below a 
melodrama; but that is better 1 than a satire, (at 
least, a personal one,) with which I stand truly ar 
raigned, and in atonement of which I am resolved 
to bear silently all criticisms, abuses, and even 
praises for bad pantomimes never composed by me, 
— without even a contradictory aspect. I suppose 
the root of this report is my loan to the manager of 
my Turkish drawings for his dresses, to which he 
wis more welcome than to my name. I suppose the 
real author will soon own it, as it has succeeded; if 
not, Job be my model, and Lethe my beverage 

" * * * * has received the portrait safe; and, in 
answer, the only remark she makes upon it is, ' in- 
deed it is like ' — and again, ' indeed it is like.' * * * 
With her the likeness ' covered a multitude of sins ;' 
for I happen to know that this portrait was not a 
flatterer, but dark and stern, — even black as the 
mood in which my mind was scorching last July 
when I sate for it. All the others of me — like most 
portraits whatsoever — are, of course, more agreea- 
ble than nature. 

" Rcdde the Ed. Review of Rogers. He is 
ranked highly — but where he should be. There is a 
summary view of us all — Moore and me among the 
rest ; and both (the Jirst justly) praised ; though, by 
implication (justly again) placed beneath our mem- 
orable friend. Mackintosh is the writer, and also 
of the critic on the Stael. His grand essay on 
Burke, I hear, is for the next number. But I know 
nothing of the Edinburgh, or of any other Review, 
but -from rumor; and have long ceased — indeed, I 
could not, in justice, complain of any, even though 
I were to rate poetry in general, and my rhymes in 
particular, more highly than I really do. To with- 
draw myself from myself (oh that cursed selfish- 
ness !) has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere 
motive in scribbling at all, ; and publishing is also 
the continuance of the same object, by the action it 
affords to the mind, which else recoils upon itself. 
If I valued fame, I should flatter received opinions, 
which have gathered strength by time, and will yet 
wear longer than any living works to the contrary. 
But, for the soul of me, I cannot and will not give 
the lie to my own thoughts and doubts, come what 
may. If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting 
one ; and I envy no one the certainty of his self- 
approved wisdom. 

" All are inclined to believe what they covet, from 
a lottery-ticket up to a passport to Paradise ; in 
which, from description, I see nothing very tempt- 
ing. My restlessness tells me that I have some- 
thing within that ' passeth show.' It is for Him, 
who made it, to prolong that spark of celestial fire 
which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement; 
aut I see no such horror in a ' dreamless sleep,' and 
124 



I have no conception of any existence which dura- 
tion would render tiresome. How else ' fell^he 
angels,' even according to your creed ! They were 
immortal, heavenly, and happy as their apostate 
Abdtel is now by his treachery. Time must decide; 
and eternity won't be the less agreeable or more 
horrible because one did not expect it. In the 
mean time, I am grateful for some good, and tol- 
erably patient under certain evils — grace a Dieu et 
mon bon temperament. * 

" Sunday, 28th. 

" Monday, 29th. 

" Tuesday 30th. 

" Two days missed in my log-book ; hiatus hand 
deflendus. They were as little worth recollection 
as the rest, and, luckily, laziness or society pre- 
vented me from note/ring them. 

" Sunday, I dined with Lord Holland in St. 
James's Square. Large party — among them Sir S. 
Romily and Lady R.y. ; General Sir Somebody 
Bentham, a man of science and talent, I am told ; 
Horner — the Horner, an Edinburgh Reviewer, an 
excellent speaker in the ' Honorable House,' very 
pleasing, too, and gentlemanly in company, as far 
as I have seen — Sharpe — Phillips of Lancashire — 
Lord John Russell, and others, 'good men and 
true.' Holland's society is very good ; you always 
see some one or other in it worth knowing. Stuffed 
myself with sturgeon, and exceeded in champagne 
and wine in general, but no confusion of head. 
When I do dine, I gorge like an Arab or a boa 
snake, on fish and vegetables, but no meat. I am 
always better, however, on my tea and biscuit than 
any other regimen, — and even that sparingly. 

" Why does Lady H. always have that dammed 
screen between the whole room and the fire ? I, 
who bear cold no better than an antelope, and never 
yet found a sun quite done to my taste, was abso- 
lutely petrified, and could not even shiver. All the 
rest, too, looked as if they were just unpacked, like 
salmon in an ice-basket, and set down to table for 
that day only. When she retired, I watched their 
looks as I dismissed the screen, and every cheek 
thawed and every nose reddened with the antici 
pated glow. 

" Saturday, I went with Harry Fox to see Nour- 
jahad; and. I believe, convinced him, by incessant 
yawning, that it was mine. I wish the precious 
author would own it and release me from his fame. 
The dresses are pretty, but not in costume — Mrs. 
Home's, all but the turban, and the want of a 
small dagger, (if she is a Sultana,) perfect. I never 
saw a Turkish woman with a turban in my life — nor 
did any one else. The Sultanas have a small 
poniard at the waist. The dialogue is drowsy — the* 
action heavy — the scenery fine — the actors tolerable. 
I can't say much for their seraglio ; Teresa, Phan 
nio, or * * * * worth them all. 

" Sunday, a very handsome note from Mackin- 
tosh, who is a rare instance of the union of very 
transcendent talent and great good-nature. To- 
day, (Tuesday,) a very pretty billet from M. la Ba- 
ronne de Stael Holstein. She is pleased to be much 
pleased with my mention of her and her last work 
in my notes. I spoke as I thought. Her works 
are my delight, and so is she herself, for — half an 
hour. I don't like her politics — at least, her having 
changed them ; had she been qualis ab incepto, it 
were nothing. But she is a woman by herself, and 
has done more than all the rest of them together, 
intellectually, — she ought to have been a man. She 
flatters me very prettily in her note ; — but I know it. 
The reason that adulation is not displeasing is, that, 
though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence 
enough, in one way or other, to induce people to 
lie, to make us their friend : — that is their concern. 
* * is, I hear, thriving on the repute of a pun 
(which was mine at Mackintosh's dinner some time 



986 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



back) on Ward, who was asking 'how much it 
wowl take to re-whig him ? ' I answered that, 
probably, he ' must first, before he was re-wKigged, 
be re-warded.' This foolish quibble, before the Stael 
and Mackintosh and a number of conversationers, 
has been mouthed about, and at last settled on the 
head of * *, where long may it remain ! 

" George* is returned from afloat to get a new 
ship. He looks thin, but better than I expected. I 
like George much more than most people like their 
heirs. He is a fine fellow, and every inch a sailor. 
I would do any thing, but apostatize, to get him on 
in his profession. 

"Lewis called. It is a good and good-humored 
man, but pestilently prolix, and paradoxical, and 
personal. If he would but talk half, and reduce his 
visits to an hour he would add to his popularity. 
As an author, he is very good, and his vanity is 
ouverte, like Erskine's, and yet not offending. 

" Yesterday, a very pretty letter from Annabella,t 
which I answered. What an odd situation and 
friendship is ours ! without one spark of love on 
either side, and produced by circumstances which 
in general lead to coldness on one side, and aversion 
on the other. She is a very superior woman, and 
very little spoiled, which is strange in an heiress — a 
girl of twenty — a peeress that is to be, in her own 
right — an only child, and a savant e, who has al- 
ways had her own way. She is a poetess — a mathe- 
matician — a metaphysician ; and yet, withal, very 
kind, generous, and gentle, with verv little preten- 
sion. Any other head would be turned with half 
her acquisitions, and a tenth of her advantages. 

"Wednesday, December 1, 1813. 

" To-day responded to»La Baronne de Stael Hol- 
stein, and sent to Leigh Hunt-(an acquisition to my 
acquaintance — through Moore — of last summer) a 
copy of the two Turkish tales. Hunt is an extra- 
ordinary character and not exactly of the present 
age. He reminds me more of the Pym and Hamp- 
len times — much talent, great independence of 
spirit, and an austere, yet not repulsive, aspect. If 
he goes on qualis ah incepto, I know few men who 
will deserve more praise or obtain it. I must go and 
see him again ; ttu rapid succession of adventure 
since last summer, added to some serious uneasiness 
and business, have interrupted our acquaintance ; 
but he is a man worth knowing ; and though, for 
his own sake, I wish him out of prison, I like to 
study character in such situations. He has been 
unshaken, and will continue so. I don't think him 
deeply versed in life ; — he is the bigot of virtue, 
(not religion,) and enamored of the beauty of 
that empty name, as the last breath of Brutus pro- 
nounced, and every day proves it. He is, perhaps, 
a little opinionated, as all men who are the centre of 
circles, wide or narrow — the Sir Oracles, in whose 
name two or three are gathered together — must be, 
and as even Johnson was ; but, withal, a valuable 
man, and less vain than success and even the 
consciousness of preferring ' the right to the expe- 
dient' might excuse. 

" To-morrow there is a party of purple at the 
'blue' Miss * * *'s. Shall I go ? um ! I don't 
much affect your blue-bottles ; but one ought to be 
civil. There will be, ' I guess now,' (as the Amer- 
icans say,) the Staels and Mackintoshes — good — 
the * * * s and * * * s — not so good — the * * * s, 
&c., &c. — good for nothing. Perhaps that blue- 
winged-Kashmirian butterfly of book-learning, 
Lady * * * *, will be there. I hope so ; it is a pleas- 
ure to look upon that most beautiful of faces. 

" Wrote to Hodgson ; he has been telling that 
I , J I am sure, at least, / did not mention it, 



• His cousin, afterward Lord Byron. 

t Miss Milbanke, afterward Lady Byron. 

J Two or three words are here scratched out in the manuscript, but the 
import of the sentence evidently is, that Mr. Hodgson (to whom the pas: 
refers) had been revealing to some friends the secret of Lord Byron's kindness 
to him — Moore. 



and I wish he had not. He is a good fellow, and I 
obliged myself ten times more by being of use than 
1 did him ; and there's an end on't. 

" Baldwin is boring me to present their King's 
Bench petition. I presented Cartwright's last year , 
and Stanhope and I stood against the whole House, 
and mouthed it valiantly — and had some fun and a 
little abuse for our opposition. But ' I am not i' 
the vein' for this business. Now, had * * been 
here, she would have made me do it. There is a 
woman, who, amid all her fascination, always urged 
a man to usefulness or glory. Had she remained, 
she had been my tutelar genius. * * * 

' Baldwin is very importunate — but, poor fellow, 'I 
can't get out, I can't get out — said the starling.' Ah, 
I am as bad as that dog Sterne, who preferred whining 
over ' a dead ass to relieving a living mother' — villain 
— hypocrite — slave — sycophant ! but /am no better. 
Here I cannot stimulate myself to a speech for 
the sake of these unfortunates, and three words and 
half a smile of * *, had she been here to urge it, 
(and urge it she infallibly would — at least, she al- 
ways pressed me on senatorial duties, and particu- 
larly in the cause of weakness,) would have made 
me an advocate, if not an orator. Curse on Roche- 
/oucault for being always right ! In him a lie were 
virtue, — or, at least, a comfort to his readers. 

" George Byron has not called to-day ; I hope he 
will be an admiral, and, perhaps, Lord Byron into 
the bargain. If he would but marry, I would en- 
gage never to marry, myself, or cut him out of the 
heirship. He would be happier, and I should like 
nephews better than sons. 

•• I shall soon be six-and-twenty, (January 22d, 
1814.) Is there any thing in the future that can 
possibly console us for not being always tiocnty-Jive? 

1 Oh Gioventu 1 
Oh Primavera ! Gioventu dell' anno. 
Oh Gioventu ! primavera della vita.' 

" Sunday, Dec. 5. 

" Dallas's nephew (son to the American Attorney- 
General) is arrived in this country, and tells Dallas 
that my rhymes are very popular in the United 
States. These are the first tidings that have ever 
sounded like fame to my ears — to be redde on the 
banks of the Ohio ! The greatest pleasure I ever 
derived, of this kind, was from an extract, in Cooke 
the actor's life, from his journal, stating, that in 
the reading-room of Albany, near Washington, he 
perused English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. To 
be popular in a rising and far country has a kind of 
posthumous feel, very different from the ephemeral 
eclat and fete-ing, buzzing and party-ing compli- 
ments of the well-dressed multitude. I can safely 
say that, during my reign in the spring of 1812, I 
regretted nothing but its duration of six weeks in- 
stead of a fortnight, and was heartily glad to re- 
sign. 

" Last night I supped with Lewis ; — and, as usual, 
though I neither exceeded in solids nor fluids, have 
been half dead ever since. My stomach is entirely 
destroyed by long abstinence, and the rest will 
probably follow. Let it — I only wish the pain over. 
The ' leap in the dark' is the least to be dreaded. 

" The Duke of * * called. I have told them 
forty tim.es that, except to half-a-dozen old and 
specified acquaintances, I am invisible. His grace 
is a good, noble, ducal person ; but I am content to 
think so at a distance, and so — I was not at home. 

"Gait called. — Mem. — to ask some one to speak 
to Raymond in favor of his play. We are old fel- 
low travellers, and, with all his eccentricities, he 
has much strong sense, experience of the world, 
and is, as far as I have seen, a good-natured philo- 
sophical fellow. I showed him Sligo's letters on 
the report of the Turkish girl's aventure at Athens 
soon after it happened. He and Lord Holland, 
Lewis, and Moore, and Rogers, and Lady Melbourne 
have seen it. Murray has a copy. 1 thought i* 
had been xmknown, and wish it were ; but Sligo ar« 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



98 < 



rived only some days after, and the rumors are the 
subject of his letter. That I shall preserve — it is as 
well. Lewis and Gait were both horrified ; and L. 
wondered I did not introduce the situation into 
' the Giaour.' He may wonder — he might wonder 
more at that production's being written at all. But 
to describe the feelings of that situation were im- 
possible — it is icy even to recollect them. 

"The Bride of Abydos was published on Thurs- 
day the second of December ; but how it is liked or 
.lislikcd, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not 
is no fault of the public, against whom I can have 
no complaint. But I am much more indebted to 
the tale than I can ever be to the most partial 
reader ; as it wrung my thoughts from reality to im- 
agination — from selfish regrets to vivid recollections 
— and recalled me to a country replete with the 
brightest and darkest, but always most lively colors 
of my memory. Sharpe called, but was not let in, 
which I regret. 

****** 

" Saw * * yesterday. I have not kept my ap- 
pointment at Middleton, which has not pleased 
him, perhaps ; and my projected voyage with * * 
will, perhaps, please him less. But I wish to keep 
well with bqth. They are instruments that don't 
do, in cone-c^t ; but, surely, their separate tones 
are very musical, and I won't give up either. 

" It is well if I- don't jar between these great dis- 
cords. At present, I stand tolerably well with all-, 
but I cannot adopt their dislikes; — so many sets. 
Holland's is the first; — every thing distingue is 
welcome there, and certainly the ton of his society 
is the best. — Then there is M de . de Stael's — there I 
never go, though I might, had I courted it. It is 
composed of the * *s and the * * family, with a 
strange sprinkling, — orators, dandies, and all kinds 
of blue, from the regular Grub street uniform, 
down to the azure jacket of the LUerateur. To 
see * * and * * sitting together, at dinner, always 
reminds me of the grave, where all distinctions of 
friend and foe are levelled ; and they — the Reviewer 
and Reviewee, the rhinoceros and elephant, the 
mammoth and Megalonyx — all will lie quietly to- 
gether. They now sit together, as silent, but not 
so quiet, as if they were already immured. 

* * * * * * 

" I did not go to the Berry's the other night. 
The elder is a woman of much talent, and both are 
handsome, and must have been beautiful. To-night 
asked to Lord H.'s — shall I go ? urn ! perhaps. 

" Morning, two o'clock. 

" Went to Lord H.'s — party numerous — mt'lady 
in perfect good humor, and consequently perfect. 
No one more agreeable, or perhaps so much so, 
when she will. Asked for Wednesday to dine and 
meet the Stai?l ; — asked particularly, I believe, out 
of mischief, to see the first interview after the note, 
with which Corinne professes herself to be so much 
taken. I don't much like it ; — she always talks of 
myself or herseU, and I am not (except in solilo- 
quy, as now) much enamored of either subject — 
especially one's works. What the devil shall I say 
about ' De l'Allemagne ? ' I like it prodigiously ; 
but unless I can twist my admiration into some fan- 
tastical expression, she won't believe me ; and I 
know, by experience, I shall be overwhelmed with 
fine things about rhyme, &c, &c. The lover, Mr. 
Rocia, was there to-night, and Campbell said, 4 it 
was the only proof he had seen of her good taste.' 
Monsieur L'Amant is remarkably handsome ; but I 
don't think mo/e so than her book. 

"Campbell looks well — seemed pleased, and dressed 
to sprucery. A blue coat becomes him, so does his 
new wig. He really looked as if Apollo had sent 
him a birth-day suit, or a wedding-garment, and was 
witty and lively. * * * He abused Corinne's book, 
which I regret; because, firstly, he understands 
German, and is, consequently, a fair judge; and, 
secondly, he is first-rate, and, consequently, the best 



of judges. I reverence and admire him ; hut I won't 
give up my opinion — why should I ? I read her again 
and again, and there can be no affectation in this. I 
cannot be mistaken (except in taste) in a book I 
read and lay down, and take up again ; and no book 
can be totally bad, which finds one, even one reader, 
who can say as much sincerely. 

"Campbell talks of lecturing next spring; his 
last lectures were eminently successful. Moore 
thought of it, but gave it up, I don't know why. 
* * had been prating dignity to him, and such stuff; 
as if a man disgraced' himself by instructing and 
pleasing at the same time. 

"Introduced to Marquis Buckingham — r,aw Lord 
Gower — he is going to Holland; Sir J. and Lady 
Mackintosh and Horner, G. Lamb, with, I know 
not how many, (R. Wellesley, one — a clever man,) 
grouped about the room. Little Henry Fox, a fine 
boy, and very promising in mind and manner, — he 
went away to bed, before I had time to talk to him. 
I am sure I had rather hear him than all the savans. 

" Monday, Dec. 6. 

" Murray tells me that Croker asked him why the 
thing was called the Bride of Abydos ? It is a 
cursed awkward question, being unanswerable. She 
is not a bride, only about to be one; but for, &c, 
&c., &c. 

"I don't wonder at his finding out the bull; but 
the detection * * * is too late to do any good. I was 
a great fool to make it, and am ashamed of not being 
an Irishman. * * * * 

"Campbell la'st night seemed a little nettled at 
something or other — I know not what. We were 
standing in the ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought 
out of the other room a vessel of some composition 
similar to that which is used in Catholic churches, 
and, seeing us, he exclaimed, ' Here is some incense 
for you.' Campbell answered — ' Carry it to Lord 
Byron — he is used to it.' 

" Now, this comes of ' bearing no brother near the 
throne.' I, who have no throne, nor wisfc to have 
one now — whatever I may have done — am at perfect 
peace with all the poetical fraternity ; — or, at least, 
if I dislike any, it is not poetically, but personally. 
Surely, the field of thought is infinite ; — what does 
it signify who is before or behind in a race where 
there is no goalf The temple of Fame is like that 
of the Persians, the Universe ; — our altar, the tops 
of mountains. I should be equally content with 
Mount Caucasus or Mount Anything ; and those 
who like it may have Mont Blanc or Chimborazo, 
without my envy of their elevation. 

" I think I may noio speak thus ; for I have just 
published a poem, and am quite ignorant whether it 
is likely to be liked or not. I have hitherto heard 
little in its commendation, and no one can down- 
right abuse it to one's face, except in print. It can't 
be good, or I should not have stumbled over the 
threshold, and blundered in my very title. But I 
begun it with heart full of * * *, and my head of 
orientiahYj'es, (I can't call them isms,) and wrote on 
rapidly. 

" This journal is a relief. When I am tired — as 
I generally am — out comes this, and down goes every 
thing. But I can't read it over ; — and God knows 
what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere 
with myself, (but I fear one lies more to one's self 
than to any one else,) every page should confute, 
refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor. 

"Another scribble from Martin Baldwin the peti- 
tioner: I have neither head nor nerves to present 
it. That confounded supper at Lewis's has spoiled 
my digestion and my philanthropy. I have no more 
charity than a cruet of vinegar. Would I were an 
ostrich, and dieted on fire-irons — or any thing that 
my gizzards could get the better of. 

"To-day saw W. His uncle is dying, and W. 
don't much affect our Dutch determinations. I dine 
with him on Thursday, provided I'oncle is not dined 
upon, or peremptorily bespoke by the posthumoui 



988 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



epicures, before that day. I wish he may recover — 
not for our dinner's sake, but to disappoint the un- 
dertaker, and the rascally reptiles that may well 
wait, since they will dine at last. 

" Gell called — he of Troy — after I was out. Mem. 
—to return his visit. But my Mems. are the very 
landmarks of forgetfulness : — something like alight- 
house, with a ship wrecked under the nose of its 
lantern. I never look at a Mem. without seeing that 
I have remembered to forget. Mem. — I have for- 
gotten to pay Pitt's taxes, and suppose I shall be 
surcharged. ' An' I do not turn rebel when thou art 
king ' — oons ! I believe my very biscuit is leavened 
with that impostor's imposts. 

" Ly. M e . returns from Jersey's to-morrow; — I 
must call. A Mr. Thomson has sent a song, which 
I must applaud. I hate annoying them with cen- 
sure or silence, and yet I hate lettering. 

" Saw Lord Glenbervie and his prospectus, at 
Murray's, of a new Treatise on Timber. Now here 
is a man more useful than all the historians and 
rhymers ever planted. For, by preserving our 
woods and forests, he furnishes materials for all the 
history of Britain worth reading, and all the odes 
worth nothing. 

" Redde a good deal, but desultorily. My head 
is crammed with the most useless lumber. It is 
odd that when I do read, I can only bearthe chicken- 
broth of — any thing but rfovels. It is many a year 
since I have looked into one, (though they are some- 
times ordered, by way of experiment, but never 
taken,) till I looked yesterday at the worst parts of 
the Monk. These- descriptions ought to have been 
written by Tiberias at Caprca — they are forced— 
the philtred ideas of a jaded voluptuary. It is to 
me inconceivable how they could have been com- 
posed by a man of only twenty — his age when he 
wrote them. They have no nature — all the sour 
cream of cantharides. I should have suspected 
Buffon of writing them on the death-bed of his de- 
testable dotage. I had neverVedde this edition, and 
merely looked at them from curiosity and recollec- 
tion of the noise they made, and the name they 
have left to Lewis. But they could do no harm 
except * * *. 

" Called this evening on my agent — my business 
as usual. Our strange adventures are the only in- 
heritances of our family that have not diminished. 

" I shall now smoke two cigars, and get me to 
bed. The cigars don't keep well here. They get 
as old as a donna di quaranti anni in the sun of 
Africa. The Havana are the best ; — but neither are 
so pleasant as a hooka or chibouque. The Turkish 
tobacco is mild, and their horses entire — two things 
as they should be. I am so far obliged to this jour- 
nal, that it preserves me from verse, — at least from 
keeping it. I have just thrown a poem into the 
fire (which it has relighted to my great comfort), 
and have smoked out of my head the plan of an- 
other. I wish I could as easily get rid of thinking, 
or, at least, the confusion of thought. 

" Tuesday, Dec. 7. 

" Went to bed, and slept dreamlessly, but not 
refreshingly. Awoke and up an hour before being 
called ; but dawdled three hours in dressing. When 
one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation) 
— sleep, eating, and swilling — buttoning and unbut- 
toning — how much remains of downright existence ? 
The summer of a dormouse. * * * * 

" Redde the papers and tea-ed, and soda-watered, 
and found out that the fire was badly lighted. Ld. 
Glenbervie wants me to go to Brighton — um ! 

" This morning a very pretty billet from the StaOl 
about meeting her at Ld. H.'s to-morrow. She has 
written, 1 dare say, twenty such this morning to 
different people, all equally flattering to each. So 
much the better for her and those who believe all 
she wishes them, or they wish to believe. She has 
been pleased to be pleased with my slight eulogy in 



the note annexed to the ' Bride.' This is to be ac- 
counted for in several ways : — firstly, all women like 
all, or any praise; secondly, this was unexpected, 
because I have never courted her ; and, thirdly, as 
Scrub says, those who have been all their lives regu- 
larly praised, by regular critics, like a little variety, 
and are glad when any one goes out of his way to 
say a civil thing ; and, fourthly, she is a very good- 
natured creature, which is the best reason, after all, 
and, perhaps, the only one. 

" A knock — knocks single and double. Bland 
called. He says Dutch society (he has been in Hol- 
land) is second-hand. French ; but the women are 
like women every where else. This is a bore ; I 
should like to see them a little w»like ; but that 
can't be expected. 

" Went out — came home — this, that, and the 
other — and 'all is vanity, saith the preacher,' and 
so say I, as part of his congregation. Talking of 
vanity — whose praise do I prefer ? Why, Mrs. 
Inchbald's, and that of the Americans. The first, 
because her ' Simple Story ' and ' Nature and Art ' 
are, to me, true to their titles ; and consequently, 
her short note to Rogers about the ' Giaour ' de- 
lighted me more than any thing, except the Edin- 
burgh Review. I like the Americans, because 1 
happened to be in Asia, while the English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers were redde in America. If I 
could have had a speech against the Slave Trade, 
in Africa, and an epitaph on a dog, in Europe, (i. 
e. in the Morning Post,) my vertex sublimis would 
certainly have displaced stars enough to overthrow 
the Newtonian system. 

" Friday, Dec. 10, 1813. 

" I am ennuy'n beyond my usual tense of that 
yawning verb, which I am always conjugating ; and 
I don't find that society much mends the matter. 
I am too lazy to shoot myself — and it would annoy 
Augusta, and perhaps * * ; but it would be a good 
thing for George, on the other side, and no bad one 
for me ; but I won't be tempted. 

" I have had the kindest letter from Moore. 
do think that man is the best-hearted, the only 
hearted being I ever encountered ; and then, his 
talents are equal to his feelings. 

"Dined on Wednesday at Lord H.'s — the Staf- 
fords, Stalls, Cowpers, Ossulstones, Melbourne-;, 
Mackintoshes, &c, &c, — and was introduced to 
the Marquis and Marchioness of Stafford, — an un- 
expected event. My quarrel with Lord Carlisle 
(their or his brother-in-law) having rendered it im- 
proper, I suppose, brought it about. But, if it was 
to happen at all, I wonder it did not occur before. 
She is handsome, and must have been beautiful — 
and her manners are princessly. * * * 

" The Stael was at the other end of the table, and 
less loquacious than heretofore. We are now very 
good friends ; though she asked Lady M c lb° urne 
whether I had really any bonhommie. She'might as 
well have asked that question before she told C. L. 
' e'est un demon.' True enough, but rather prema- 
ture, for she could not have found it out, and so — 
she wants me to dine there next Sunday. 

" Murray prospers, as far as circulation. For my 
part, I adhere (in liking) to my Fragment. It is no 
wonder that I wrote one — my mind is a fragment. 

"Saw Lord Gower, Tierney, &c, in the square. 
Took leave of Lord Gr., who is going to Holland 
and Germany. He tells me, that he carries with 
him a parcel of 'Harolds' and 'Giaours,' fee, for 
the readers of Berlin, who, it seems, read English, 
and have taken a caprice for mine. Um ! — have I 
been German all this time, when I thought myself 
oriental t * * * 

"Lent Tierney my box for to-morrow; and re- 
ceived a new comedy sent by Lady C. A. — but not 
hers. I must read'it, and endeavor not to displease 
the author. I hate annoying them with cavil ; but 
a comedy I take to be the most difficult of compo- 
sitions, more so than tragedy. 

" Gait says there is a coincidence between the 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



989 



first part of 'the Bride' and some story of his — 
whether published or not, I know not, never having 
seen it. He is almost the last person on whom any 
one would commit literary larceny, and I am not 
conscious of any writing thefts on any of the genus. 
As to originality, all pretensions are ludicrous, — 
' there is nothing new under the sun.' 

" Went last night to the place. * * * * 
Invited out to a ptirty, but did not go ; — right. Re- 
fused to go to Lady * *'s on Monday; — right again. 
If I must fritter away my life, I would rather do it 
alone. I was much tempted ; — C * * looked so 
Turkish with her red turban, and her regular dark 
and clear features. Not that sAs and / ever were, 
or could be, any thing; but I love any aspect that 
reminds me of the ' children of the sun.' 

" To dine to-day with Rogers and Sharpe, for. 
which I have some appetite, not having tasted food 
for the preceding forty-eight hours. I wish I could 
leave oft' eating altogether. 

"Saturday, Dec. 11. 
" Sunday, Dec. 12. 

" By Gait's answer, I find it is some story in real 
life, and not any work with which my late composi- 
tion coincides. It is still more singular, for mine is 
drawn from existence also. 

" I have sent an excuse to M. de Stael. I do not 
feel sociable enough for dinner to-day ; and I will 
not go to Sheridan's on Wednesday. Not that I do 
not admire and prefer his unequalled conversation ; 
but — that 'but ' must only be intelligible to thoughts 
I cannot write. Sheridan was in good talk at Rog- 
ers's the other night, but I only stayed till nine. 
All the world are to be at the StaeTs to-night, and 
I am not sorry to escape any part of it. I only go 
out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone. 
Went out — did not go to the Stall's, but to Ld. 
Holland's. Party numerous — conversation general. 
Stayed late — made a blunder — got over it — came 
home and went to bed, not having eaten. Rather 
empty, but fresco, which is the great point with me. 

" Monday, Dec. 13, 1313. 

"Called at three places— ^read, and got ready to 
leave town to-morrow. Murray has had a letter 
from his brother Bibliopole of Edinburgh, who says 
'he is lucky in having such a poet ' — something as 
if one was a pack-horse, or ' ass, or any thing that 
is his:' or, like Mrs. Packwood, who replied to 
some inquiry after the Odes on Razors, ' Law, sir, 
we keeps a Poet.' The same illustrious Edinburgh 
bookseller once sent an order for books, poesy, and 
cookery, with this agreeable postscript — ' The Har- 
old and Cookerij are much wanted.' Such is fame, 
and, after all, quite as good as any other ' life in 
other's breath.' 'Tis much the same to divide pur- 
chasers with Hannah Glasse or Hannah More. 

" Some editor of some Magazine has announced 
to Murray his intention of abusing the thing ' with- 
out reading it.' So much the better; if he redde it 
first, he would abuse it more. 

" Allen (Lord Holland's Allen — the best informed 
and one of the ablest men I know — a perfect Mag- 
liabecchi — a devourer, a Helluo of books, and an 
observer of men) has lent me a quantity of Burns's 
unpublished, and never-to-be-published, letters. 
They are full of oaths and obscene songs. What 
an antithetical mind ! — tenderness, roughness — del- 
icacy, coarseness — sentiment, sensuality — soaring 
and grovelling, dirt and deity — all mixed up in that 
one compound of inspired clay ! 

" It seems strange ; a true voluptuary will never 
abandon his mind to the grossness of reality. It is 
by exalting the earthly, the material, the physique 
of our pleasures, by veiling these ideas, by forget- 
ting them altogether, or, at least, never naming 
them hardly to one's self, that we alone can prevent 
them from disgusting. 



"Dec. 14, 15, IS. 

" Much clone, hut nothing to record. It is quite 
enough to set down my thoughts ; my actions wil] 
rarely bear retrospection. 

" Dec. 17, 13. 

" Lord Holland told me a curious piece of senti- 
mentality in Sheridan. The other night we were 
all delivering our respective and various opinions 
on him and other homines marquans, and mine was 
this. ' Whatever Sheridan has dc^ne or chosen to 
do, has been, par excellence, always the best of its 
kind. He has written the best comedy, (School for 
Scandal,) the best drama, (in my mind, far before 
that St. Giles's lampoon, the Beggar's Opera,) the 
best farce, (the Critic — it is only too good for a 
farce,) and the best address, (Monologue on Gar- 
rick,) and, to crown all, delivered the very best 
oration (the famous Begum Speech) ever conceived 
or heard in this country.' Somebody told S. this 
the next day, and on hearing it, he burst into tears ! 

" Poor Brinsley ! if they were tears of pleasure, I 
would rather have said these few, but most sincere 
words, than have written the Iliad, or made his own 
celebrated Philippic. Nay, his own comedy never 
gratified me more than to hear that he had derived 
a moment's gratification from any praise of mine, 
humble as it must appear to my elders and my bet- 
ters. 

"Went to my box at Covent Garden to-night; 
and my delicacy felt a little shocked at seeing 
S * * *'s mistress (who, to my certain knowledge, 
was actually educated, from her birth, for her pro- 
fession) sitting with her mother, ' a three-piled 

b d, b d-Major to the army,' in a private 

box opposite. I felt rather indignant ; but, casting 
my eyes round the house, in the next box to me, 
and the next, and the next, were the most distin- 
guished old and young Babylonians of quality ; — so 
I burst out a laughing. It was really odd ; Lady 

* * divorced — Lady * * and her daughter, Lady * *, 
both divorceable — *Mrs. * *, in the next, the' like, 
and still nearer * *#***! What an assemblage 
to me, who know all their histories. It was as it 
the house had been divided between your public and 
your understood courtesans; but the intriguantes 
much outnumbered the regular mercenaries. On 
the other side were only Pauline and Iter mother, 
and, next box to her, three of inferior note. Now, 
where lay the difference between her and mamma, 
and Lady ** and daughter? except that the two 
last may enter Carleton and any other house, and 

the two first are limited to the opera and 1, 

house. How I do delight in observing lite as it 
really is ! and myself, after all, the worst of any. 
But, no matter, I must avoid egotism, which, just 
now, would be no vanity. 

"I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfin- 
ished rhapsody, called 'The Devil's Drive, 'f the 
notion of which I took from Porson's ' Devil's 
Walk.' 

"Redde some Italian, and wrote two sonnets on 

* * *.J I never wrote but one sonnet before, and 
that was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an 
exercise — and I will never write another. They are 
the most puling, petrifying, stupidly platonic com- 
positions. I detest the Petrarch so much, that I 
would not be the man even to have obtained his 
Laura, which the metaphysical, whining dotard 
never could 



" To-morrow I leave town for a few days. I saw 
Lewis to-day, who has just returned from Oatlands, 
where he has been squabbling with Mad. de Stae 
about himself, Clarissa Harlowe, Mackintosh, anc" 



! all left blank in the original. 



t See Poems, p. 566. 
J See Poems, p. 548. 



990 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



me. My homage has never been paid in that quar- 
ter, or we would have agreed still worse. I don't 
talk — I 'can't natter, and won't listen, except to a 
pretty or a foolish woman. She bored Lewis with 
praises of himself till he sickened — found out that 
Clarissa was perfection, and Mackintosh the first 
man in England. There I agree, at least, one of 
the first — but Lewis did not. As to Clarissa, I 
leave to those who can read it to judge and dispute. 
I could not do the one, and am, consequently, not 
qualified for the other. She told Lewis wisely, he 
being my friend, that I was affected, in the first 
place ; and that, in the next place, I committed the 
heinous offence of sitting at dinner with my eyes 
shut, or half shut. * * * I wonder if I really 
have this trick. I must cure myself of it, if true. 
One insensibly acquires awkward habits, which 
should be broken in time. If this is one, I wish I 
had been told of it before. It would not so much 
signify if one was always to be checkmated by a 
plain woma-n, but one may as well see some of one's 
neighbors, as well as the plate upon the table. 

" I should like, of all things, to have heard the 
Amaba-an eclogue between her and Lewis, — both 
obstinate, clever, odd, garrulous, and shrill. In 
fact, one could have heard nothing else. But they 
fell out, alas ! — and now they will never quarrel 
again. Could not one reconcile them for the 
' nonce ? ' Poor Corinne, — -she will find that some 
of her fine sayings won't suit our fine ladies and 
gentlemen. 

"I am getting rather into admiration of * *, the 
youngest sister of * *. A wife would be my salva- 
tion. I am sure the wives of my acquaintances 
have hitherto done me little good. * * is beautiful, 
but very young, and, I think, a fool. But I have 
not seen enough to judge ; besides, I hate an esprit 
in petticoats. That she won't love me is very pro- 
bable, nor shall I love her. But on my system, and 
^he modern system in general, that don't signify. 
The business (if it came to business) would proba- 
bly be arranged between papa and me. She would 
have her own way; I am good-humored to women, 
and docile ; and, if I did not fall in love with her, 
which I should try to prevent, we should be a very 
comfortable couple. As to conduct, that she must 
look to. * * * * * But if I love, I shall be jeal- 
ous ; — and for that reason I will not be in love. 
Though, after all, I doubt my temper, and fear I 
should not be so patient as becomes the biensancc 
of aTnarried man in my station. ***** Divorce 
ruins the poor femmc, and damages are a paltry 
compensation. I do fear my temper would lead me 
into some of our oriental tricks of vengeance, or, 
at any rate, into a summary appeal to the court of 
twelve paces. So ' I'll none on 't,' but e'en remain 
single and solitary ; — though I should like to have 
somebody, now and then, to yawn with one. 

" Ward, and, after hiur, * *, has stolen one of my 
buffooneries about Mde. de StaeTs Metaphysics and 
the Fog, and passed it, by speech and letter, as 
their own. As Gibbet says, ' they are the most of 
a gentleman of any on the road.' W. is in sad 
enmity with the whigs about this review of Fox, (if 
he did review him;) — all the epigrammatists and 
essayists are at him. I hate odds, and wish he may 
beat them. As for me, by the blessing of indiffer- 
ence, I have simplified my politics into an utter 
detestation of all existing governments ; and, as it 
is the shortest and most agreeable and summary 
feeling imaginable, the first moment of a universal 
republic would convert me into an advocate for sin- 
gle and uncontradicted despotism. The fact is, 
riches are power, and poverty is slavery, all over 
the earth, and one sort of establishment is no bet- 
ter, nor worse, for a people than another. I shall 
adhere to my party, because it would not be honor- 
able to act "otherwise ; but, as to opinions, I don't 
think polities worth an opinion. Conduct is another 
thing : — if you begin with a party, go on with them. 
I have no consistency, except in politics, and that 



probably arises from my indifference on the subject 
altogether. 

11 February 18. 

"Better than a month since I last journalized: — 
most of it out of London, and at Notts., but a busy 
one and a pleasant, at least three weeks of it. On 
my return, I find all the newspapers in hysterics, 
and town in an uproar, on the avowal and repub- 
lication of two stanzas on Princess Charlotte's 
weeping at Regency's speech to Lauderdale in 1812. 
They are daily at it still ; — some of the abuse good, 
all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in our 
House upon it — he it so. 

" Got up — read the Morning Post containing the 
battle of Bonaparte, the destruction of the Custom- 
house, and a paragraph on me as long as my pedi- 
gree, and vituperative, as usual. * * * 

"Hobhouse is returned to England. He is my 
best friend, the most lively, and a man of the most 
sterling talents extant. 

" 'The Corsair' has been conceived, written, pub- 
lished, &c, since I last took up this journal. They 
tell me it has great success ; — it was written con 
amore, and much from existence. Murray is satis- 
fied with its progress ; and if the public are equally 
so with the perusal, there's an end of the matter. 



"Been to Hanson's on business. Saw Rogers, 
and had a note from Lady Melbourne, who says, it 
is said that I am 'much out of spirits.' I wonder 
if I really am or not ? I have certainly enough of 
' that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart,' 
and it is better they should believe it to be the re- 
sult of these attacks than of the real cause ; but— » 
ay, ay, always but, to the end of the chapter. * * 

" Hobhouse has told me ten thousand anecdotes 
of Napoleon, all good and true. My friend II. is 
the most entertaining of companions, and a fine 
fellow to boot. 

" Redde a little — wrote notes and letters, and am 
alone, which, Locke says, is bad company. ' Be not 
solitary, be not idle !' — Urn ! — the idleness is trouble- 
some ; but I can't see so much to regret in the soli- 
tude. The more I see of men, the less I like them. 
If I could but say so of women, too, all would be 
well. Why can't I ? I am now six-and-twentv ; 
my passions have had enough to cool them : my 
affections more than enough to wither them, — and 
yet — and yet — always yet and but — ' Excellent well, 
you are a fishmonger — get thee to a nunnery.' 
' They fool me to the top of my bent.' 

" Midnight. 

" Began a letter, which I threw into the fire. 
Redde — but to little purpose. Did not visit Hob- 
house, as I promised and ought. No matter, the 
loss is mine. Smoked cigars. 

" Napoleon! — this week will decide his fate. All 
seems against him ; but I believe and hope he will 
win — at least, beat back the invaders. What right 
have we to prescribe sovereigns to France ? Oh for 
a republic! 'Brutus, thou sleepest.' Hobhouse 
abounds in continental anecdotes of this extraordi- 
nary man ; all in favor of his intellect and courage, 
but against his bonhommic. No wonder; — how 
should he, who knows mankind well, do other than 
despise and abhor them. 

"The greater the equality, the more impartially 
evil is distributed, and becomes lighter by the di- 
vision among so many — therefore, a republic ! 

"More notes from Mad. de Stael unanswered — 
And so they shall remain. I admire her abilities, 
but really her society is overwhelming — an avalanche 
that buries one in glittering nonsense — all snow and 
sophistry. 

" Shall I go to Mackintosh's on Tuesday ? lira ! — 
I did not go to Marquis Lansdowne's, nor to Miss 
Berry's, though both are pleasant. So is Sir James's, 
— but I don't know — I believe one is not the better 
for parties ; at least, unless some regnante is there. 

"I wonder how the deuce any body could maka 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



991 



auch a world; for what purpose dandies, for in 
stance, were ordained — and kings — and fellows of 
colleges — and women of ' a certain age ' — and many 
men of any age — and myself, most of all ! 

' Divesne prisco et natus ab Inacho, 
Nil interest, an pauper, et iufima 
De {rente, sub dio moreris, 
Victims nil infeerantis Orci. 

Chimes' eodem coghnur.' 

" Is there any thing beyond ? — who knows ? He 
that can't tell. Who tells that there is? He who 
don't know. And when shall he know ? perhaps, 
when he don't expect, and, generally, when he don't 
wish it. In this last respect, however, all are not 
alike : it depends a good deal upon education, — 
something upon nerves and habits — but most upon 
digestion. 

" Saturday, Feb. 19. 

" Just returned from seeing Kean in Richard. By 
Jove, he is a soul ! Life — nature — truth — without 
exaggeration or diminution. Kemble's Hamlet is 
perfect ! — but Hamlet is not Nature. Richard is a 
man ; and Kean is Richard. Now to my own con- 
cerns. 

* * * * * * 

" Went to Waite's. Teeth all right and white ; 
but he says that I grind them in my sleep and chip 
the edges. That same sleep is no friend of mine, 
though I court him sometimes for half the twenty- 
four. 

" February 20. 

" Got up and tore out two leaves of this Journal 
— I don't know why. Hodgson just called and 
gone. He has much bonhommie with his other 
good qualities, and more talent than he has yet 
had credit for beyond his circle. 

" An invitation to dine at Holland House to meet 
Kean. He is worth meeting ; and I hope, by get- 
ting into good society, he will be prevented from 
falling like Cooke. He is greater now on the stage, 
and off he should never be less. There is a stupid 
and underrating criticism upon him in one of the 
newspapers. I thought that, last night, though 
great, he rather underacted more than the list 
time. This may be the eifect of these cavils ; but I 
hope he has more sense than to mind them. He 
cannot expect to maintain his present eminence, or 
to advance still higher, without the envy of his 
green-room fellows, and the nibbling of their ad- 
mirers. But, if he don't beat them all, why, then — 
merit hath no purchase in ' these coster-monger 
days.' 

" I wish that I had a talent for the drama; I 
would write a tragedy now. But no, — it is gone. — 
Hodgson talks of one, — he will do it well ; — and I 
think Moore should try. He has wonderful powers, 
and much variety ; besides, he has lived and felt. — 
To write so as to bring home to the hearfe the heart 
must have been tried, — but, perhaps, ceased to be 
so. While you are under the influence of passions, 
you only feel, but cannot describe them, — any more 
than, when in action, you could turn round, and tell 
the story to your next neighbor ! When all is over, 
— all, all, and irrevocable, — trust to memory — she is 
then but too faithful. 

"Went out, and answered some letters, yawned 
now and then, and redde the Robbers. Fine, — but 
Fiesco is better ; and Alfieri and Monti's Aristade- 
mo beat. They are more equal than the Tedeschi 
dramatists. 

" Answered — or, rather, acknowledged — the re- 
ceipt of young Reynolds's poem, Sane. The lad is 
clever, but much of his thoughts are borrowed, — 
whence, the Reviewers may find out. I hate dis- 
couraging a young one ; and I think, — though wild, 
and more oriental than he would be, had he seen the 
scenes where he has placed his tale, — that he has 
much talent, and certainly, fire enough. 



" Received a very singular epistle ; and the mode 
of its conveyance, through Lord H.'s hands, as curi- 
ous as the letter itself. But it was gratifying and 
pretty. 

" Sunday, Feb. 27. 

" Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord 
H.'s, where I was asked, — but not inclined to go 
any where. Hobhouse says I am growing a loup 
garou, — a solitary hobgoblin. True ; — ' I am my- 
self alone.' The last week has been passed in read- 
ing — seeing plays — now and then, visitors — some- 
times yawning and sometimes sighing, but no writ- 
ing—save of letters. If I could always read, I 
should never feel the want of society. Do I regret 
it ? — urn !— ' Man delights not roe,' and only one 
woman — at a time. 

" There is something to me very softening in the 
presence of a woman, — some strange influence, even 
if one is not in love with them, — which I cannot at 
all account for, having no very high opiijon of the 
sex. But yet, — I always feel in better humor with 
myself and every thing else, if there is a woman 
within ken. Even Mrs. Mule, my fire-lighted, — 
the most ancient and withered of her kind and (ex- 
cept to myself) not the best tempered — always 
makes me laugh, — no difficult task when I am ' i' 
the vein.' 

" Heigho ! I would I were in mine island ! — I am 
not well ; and yet I look in good health. At times, 
I fear, ' I am not in my perfect mind ; ' — and yet my 
heart and head have stood many a crash, and what 
should ail them now ? They prey upon themselves, 
and I am sick — sick — ' Prithee, undo this button ; 
why should a cat, a rat, a dog, have life, and thou 
no life at all ? ' Six-and-twenty years, as they call 
them : — why, I might and should have been a Pasha 
by this time. ' I 'gin to be a weary of the sun.' 

" Bonaparte is not yet beaten ; but has rebutted 
Blucher, and repiqued Swartzenburg. This it is to 
have a head. If he again wins, ' Vse victis ! ' 



(l Sunday, March 6. 

" On Tuesday last dined with Rogers, — Mad e - de 
Stail, Mackintosh, Sheridan, Erskine, and Payne 
Knight, Lady Donegall and Miss R. there. Sheri- 
dan told a very good story of himself and M p - de 
Recamier's handkerchief ; Erskine a few stories of 
himself only. She is going to write a big book about 
England, she says ; — I believe her. Asked by her 
how I liked Miss * *'s thing, called * *, and an- 
swered (very sincerely) that I thought it very bad 
for her, and worse than any of the others. After- 
ward thought it possible Lady Donegall, being Irish, 
might be a patroness of * *, and was rather sorry 
for my opinion, as I hate putting people into fusses, 
either with themselves, or their favorites ; it looks 
as if one did it on purpose. The party went oil 
very well, and the fish was very much to my gusto. 
But we got up too soon after the women ; and Mrs. 
Corinne always lingers so long after dinner that we 
wish her in — the drawing-room. 

" To-day C. called, and, while sitting here, in came 
Merivale. During our colloquy, C. (ignorant that 
M. was the writer) abused the ' mawkishness of the 
Quarterly Review of Grimm's Correspondence.' I 
(knowing the secret) changed the conversation as 
soon as I could ; and C. went away, quite convinced 
of having made the most favorable impression on 
his new acquaintance. Merivale is luckily a very 
good-natured fellow, or God knows what might have 
been engendered from such a malaprop. I did not 
look at him while this was going on, but I felt like 
a coal, — for I like Merivale, as well as the article in 
questfon. 

****** 

" Asked to Lady Keith's to-morrow evening — I 
think I will go ; but it is the first party invitation I 
have accepted this ' season,' as the learned Fletcher 
called it, when that youngest brat of Lady * *'s cut 



992 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



my eye and cheek open with a misdirected pebble — 
'Never mind, my lord, the scar will be gone before 
the season ; ' as if one's eye was of no importance in 
the mean time. 

" Lord Erskine called, and gave me his famous 
pamphlet, with a marginal note and corrections in 
his handwriting. Sent it to be bound superbly, and 
shall treasure it. 

" Sent my fine print of Napoleon to be framed. — 
It is framed ; and the emperor becomes his robes 
as if he had been hatched in them. 

" March 7. 

" Rose at seven — ready by half-past eight — went 
to Mr. Hanson's, Berkley square — went to church 
with his eldest daughter, Mary Anne, (a good girl,) 
and gave her away to the Earl of Portsmouth. — 
Saw her fairly a countess — congratulated the family 
and groom (bride) — drank a bumper of wine (whole- 
some sherris) to their felicity, and all that, — and 
came home^ Asked to stay to dinner, but could 
not. At tWee sat to Phillips for faces. Called on 
Lady M. — I like her so well, that I always stay too. 
long. (Mem. — to mend of that.) 

" Passed the evening with Hobhouse, who has 
begun a poem, which promises highly ; wish he 
would go on with it. Heard some curious extracts 
from a life of Morosini, the blundering Venetian, 
who blew up the Acropolis at Athens with a bomb, 
and be d — d to him ! Waxed sleepy, — just come 
home, — must go to bed, and am engaged to meet 
Sheridan to-morrow at Rogers's. 

"Queer ceremony that same of marriage — saw 
many abroad, Greek and Catholic — one, at home, 
many years ago. There be some strange phrases in 
the prologue, (the exhortation,) which made me 
turn away, not to laugh in the face of the surplice- 
man. Made one blunder, when I joined the hands 
of the happy — rammed their left hands, by mistake, 
into one another. Corrected it — bustled back to 
the altar-rail, and said ' Amen.' Portsmouth re- 
sponded as if he had got the whole by heart ; and, 
if any thing, was rather before the priest. It is 
now midnight, and * * * * 

"M;irch 10, Thor'sDay. 

" On Tuesday dined with Rogers — Mackintosh, 
Sheridan, Sharpe — much talk, and good — all, ex- 
cept my own little prattlement. Much of old times 
— HorneTooke, — the Trials, — evidence of Sheridan, 
— and anecdotes of those times, when / alas ! was 
an infant. If I had been a man, I would have made 
an English Lord Edward Fitzgerald. 

" Set down Sheridan at Brookes's — where, by-the- 
by, he could not have well set down himself, as he 
and I were the only drinkers. Sherry means to 
stand for Westminster, as Cochrane (the stock- 
jobbing hoaxer) must vacate. Brougham is a can- 
didate. I fear for poor dear Sherry. Both have 
talents of the highest order, but the youngster has 
yet a character. We shall see, if he lives to Sherry's 
age, how he will pass over the red-hot ploughshares 
of' public life. I don't know why, but I hate to see 
the old ones lose ; particularly Sheridan, notwith- 
standing all his meehaneete. 

" Received many, and the kindest, thanks from 
Lady Portsmouth, pre and m re, for my match- 
making. I don't regret it, as she looks the count- 
ess well, and is a very good girl. It is odd how well 
she carries her new honors. She looks a different 
woman, and high-bred, too. I had no idea that I 
could make so good a peeress. 

'• Went to the play with Hobhouse. Mrs. Jordan 
superlative in Hoyden, and Jones well enough in 
Foppington. What plays ! what wit ! — helas ! Con- 
greve and Vanbrugh are your only comedy. • Our 
society is too insipid now for the like copy. Would 
not go to Lady Keith's. Hobhouse thought it odd. 
1 wonder he should like parties. If one isiin love, 
and wants to break a commandment and covet any 
thing that is there, they do very well. But to go 
out among the mere herd, without a motive, pleas- 



ure, or pursuit — 'sdeath ! ' I'll none of it.' He told 
me an odd report ; that / am the actual Conrad, the 
veritable Corsair, and that part of my travels are 
supposed to have passed in piracy. Um ! people 
sometimes hit near the truth ; but never the whole 
truth. H. don't know what I was about the year 
after he left the Levant ; nor does any one — nor— 
nor — nor — however, it is a lie ; but, ' I doubt the 
equivocation of the fiend that lies like truth ! ' 

" I shall have letters of importance to-morrow. — 
Which, * *, or * * ? heigho ! — * * is in my heart, 
* * in my head, * * in my eye, and the single one, 
heaven knows where. All write, and will be an- 
swered. ' Since I have crept in favor with myself, 
I must maintain it ; ' but I never ' mistook my per- 
son,' though I think others have. 

" * * called to-day in great despair about his 
mistress, who has taken a freak of * * *. He 
began a letter to \ev, but was obliged to stop short 
— I finished it for him, and he copied and sent it. — 
If he holds out and keeps to my instructions of 
affected indifference, she will lower her colors. If 
she don't, he will, at least, get rid of her, and she 
don't seem much worth keeping. But the poor 
lad is in love — and if that is the case, she will win. 
When they once discover their power, finita e la . 
musica. 

" Sleepy, and must go to bed. 

" Tuesday, March 15. 

"Dined yesterday with R., Mackintosh, and 
Sharpe. Sheridan could not come. Sharpe told 
several very amusing anecdotes of Henderson, the 
actor. Stayed till late, and came home, — having 
drank so much tea, that I did not get to sleep till 
six this morning. R. says that I am to be in this 
Quarterly — cut up, I presume, as they ' hate us 
youth.' N'importe. As Sharpe was passing by the 
doors of some debating society (the Westminster 
Forum) in his way to dinner, he saw rubricked on 
the walls, Scott's name and mine — ' Which is the 
best poet ? ' being the question of the evening ; 
and I suppose all the Templars and would-bes took 
our rhymes in vain, in the course of the controversy. 
Which had the greater show of hands, I neither 
know nor care ; but I feel the coupling of the names 
as ^compliment, — though I think Scott deserves 
better company. 

****** 

"W. W. called— Lord Erskine, Lord Holland, 
&c, &c. Wrote to * * the Corsair report. She says 
she don't wonder, since ' Conrad is so like.' It is 
odd that one, who knows me so thoroughly, should 
tell me this to my face. However, if she don't know, 
nobody can. 

" Mackintosh is, it seems, the writer of the de- 
fensive letter in the Morning Chronicle. If so, it is 
very kind, and more than I did for myself. 

****** 

"Told Murray to secure for me Bandello's Italian 
novels at the sale to-morrow. To me they will be 
nuts. Redd* a satire on myself, called ' Anti-Byron,' 
and told Murray to publish it, if he liked. The ob- 
ject of the author is to prove me an Atheist and a 
systematic conspirator against law and government. 
Some of the verse is good ; the prose I don't quite 
understand. He asserts that my ' deleterious 
works ' have had an ' effect upon civil society, which 
requires, &c, &c. &.,' and his own poetry. It is a 
lengthy poem, and a long preface, with an harmo- 
nious title-page. Like the fly in the fable, I seem to 
have got upon a wheel which makes much dust ;— 
but, unlike the said fly, I do not take it all for my 
own raising. 

" A letter from Bella, which I answered. I shall 
be in love with her again, if I don't take care. 
* * ^* * * * 

" I shall begin a more regular system of reading 
soon. 

" Thtlrsihv, March 17. 

" I have been sparring with Jackson for exercise 
this morning ; and mean to continue and renew my 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



993 



acquaintance with the muffles. My chest, and arms, 
and wind are in very good plight, and I am not in 
flesh. I used to be a hard hitter, and my arms are 
very long for my height (-5 feet 8 1-2 inches.) At 
any rate, exercise is good, and this the severest of 
all ; fencing and the broadsword never fatigued me 
half >o much. 

".Redde the ' Quarrels of Authors ' (another sort 
of sparring) — a new work, by that most entertain- 
ing and researching writer, Israeli. They seem to 
be an irritable set, and I wish myself well out of it. 
' I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's 
fiat.' What the devil had I to do with scribbling ? 
It is too late to inquire, and all regret is useless. — 
But, an' it were to do again, — I should write again, 
I suppose. Such is human nature, at least my share 
of it ; — though I shall think better of myself, if I 
have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, and that 
wife has a son — by any body — I will bring up mine 
heir in the most anti-poetical way — make him a 
lawyer, or a pirate, or — any thing. But if he writes 
too, I shall be sure he is none of mine, and cut him 
oft' with a bank-token. Must write a letter — three 
o'clock. 

r- " Sunday, March 20. 

" I intended to go to Lady Hardwicke's, but won't. 
I always begin the day with a bias towards going to 
parties ; but as the evening advances my stimulus 
fails, and I hardly ever go out — and, when I do, al- 
ways regret it. This might have been a pleasant 
one ; — at least the hostess is a very superior wo- 
man. Lady Lansdowne's to-morrow — Lady Heath- 
cote's Wednesday; Urn ! — I must spur myself into 
going to some of them, or it will look like rudeness, 
and it is better to do as other people do — confound 
them ! 

" Redde Machiavel, parts of Chardin, and Sis- 
raondi, and Bandello, — by starts. Redde the Edin- 
burgh, xliv., just' come out. In the beginning of 
the article on ' Edgeworth's Patronage,' I have got- 
ten a high compliment, I perceive. Whether this 
is creditable to me, I know not ; but it does honor 
to the editor, because he once abused me. Many a 
man will retract praise ; nqne but a high-spirited 
mind will revoke its censure, or can praise the man 
it has once attacked. I have often, since my return 
to England, heard Jeffrey most highly commended 
by those who know him for things independent of 
his talents. I admire him for this — not because he 
has praised me (I have been so praised elsewhere 
and abused, alternately, that mere habit has ren- 
dered me as indifferent to both as a man at twenty- 
six can be to any thing), but because he is, perhaps, 
the only man who, under the relations in which he 
and I stand, or stood, with regard to each other, 
would have had the liberality to act thus ; none but 
a great soul dared hazard it. The height on which 
he stands' has not made him giddy ; — a little scrib- 
bler would have gone on cavilling to the end of the 
chapter. As to the justice of his panegyric, that is 
matter of taste. There are plenty to question it, 
and glad, too, of the opportunity. 

" Lord Erskine called to-day. He means to carry 
down his reflections on the war — or rather wars — to 
the present day. I trust that he will. Must send 
to Mr. Murray to get the binding of my copy of his 
pamphlet finished, as Lord E. lias promised me to 
correct it, and add some marginal notes to it. Any 
thing in his handwriting will be a treasure, which 
will gather compound interest from years. Erskine 
has high expectations of Mackintosh's promised 
history. Undoubtedly it must be a classic, when 
finished. 

" Sparred with Jackson again yesterday morning, 
and shall to-morrow. I feel all the better for it, in 
spirits, though my arms and shoulders are very stiff 
from it. Mem. — to attend the pugilistic dinner. 
Marquis Huntley is in the chair. 

****** 

" Lord Erskine thinks that ministers must be in 
peril of going out. So much the better for him. 
125 



To me it is the same who are in or out ; — we want 
something more than a change of ministers, and 
some day we will have it. 

"I remember, in riding from Chrisso to Castri 
(Delphos) along the sides of Pernassus, I saw six 
eagles in the air. It is uncommon to see so many 
together ; and it was the number — not the species, 
which is common enough — that excited my atten- 
tion. 

" The last bird I ever fired at was an ear/let, on the 
shore of the Gulf of Lepanto, near Vo'stitza. It 
was only wounded, and I tried to save it, the eye 
was so bright ; but it pined, and died in a few days ; 
and I never did since, and never will, attempt the 
death of another bird. I wonder what put these 
two things into my head just now ? I have been 
reading Sismondi, and there is nothing there that 
could induce the recollection. 

" I am mightily taken with Braccio di Montone, 
Giovanni Galeazzo, and Eccellino. But the last is 
not Bracciaferro, (of the same name,) Count of Ra- 
venna, whose history I want to trace. There is a 
fine engraving in Lavater, from a picture by Fuseli, 
of that Ezzelin, over the body of Meduna, punished 
by him for a hitch in her constancy during his ab- 
sence in the Crusades. He was right — but I want 
to know the story. 



" Tuesday, March 22. 

" Last night, party at Lansdowne House. To- 
night, party at Lady Charlotte Greville's — deplora- 
ble waste of time, and something of temper. No- 
thing imparted — nothing acquired — talking without 
ideas — if any thing like thought in my mind, it was 
not on the subjects on which we were gabbling. 
Heigho ! — and in this way half London pass what is 
called life. To-morrow there is Lady Heathcote's — 
shall I go ? yes — to punish myself for not having a 
pursuit. 

" Let me see — what did I see ? The only person 
who much struck me was Lady S * * d's eldest 
daughter, Lady C. L. They say she is not pretty. 
I don't know — every thing is pretty that pleases ; 
but there is an air of soul about her — and her color 
changes — and there is that shyness of the antelope 
(which I delight in) in her manner so much, that I 
observed her more than I did any other woman in 
the rooms, and only looked at any thing else when 
I thought she might perceive and feel embarrassed 
by my scrutiny. After all, there may be something 
of association in this. She is a friend of Augusta's, 
and whatever she loves, I can't help liking. 

" Her mother, the marchioness, talked to me a 
little ; and I was twenty times on the point of ask- 
ing her to introduce me to sa fille, but I stopped 
short. This comes of that affray with the Carlisles. 

" Earl Grey told me, laughingly, of a paragraph 
in the last Moniteur, which has stated, among other 
symptoms of rebellion, some particulars of the sen- 
sation occasioned in all our government gazettes by 
the 'tear' lines, — only amplifying, in its restate- 
ment, an epigram (by-the-by, no epigram except in 
the Greek acceptation of the word) into a Roman. 
I wonder the Couriers, &c, &c, have not translated 
that part of the Moniteur, with additional com- 
ments. 

"The Princess of Wales has requested Fuseli to 
paint from ' the Corsair ; ' leaving to him the choice 
of any passage for the subject: so Mr. Locke tells 
me. Tired, jaded, selfish, and supine — must go to 
bed. 

" Roman, at least Romance, means a song some- 
times, as in the Spanish. I suppose this is the 
Moniteur's meaning, unless he has confused it with 
' the Corsair.' 

" Albany, March 28. 

" This night got into my new apartments, rented 
of Lord Althorpe, on a lease of seven years. Spa- 
cious, and room for my books and sabres. In the 
house, too, another advantage. The last few days, 



994 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



or whole week, have been very abstemious, regular 
In exercise, and yet very unwell. 

" Yesterday, dined tHe-a-tHe at the Cocoa with 
Scrope Davies — sate from six till midnight — drank 
between us one bottle of champagne and six of claret, 
neither of which wines ever affect me. Offered to 
take Scrope home in my carriage ; but he was tipsy 
and pious, and I was obliged to leave him on his 
knees, praying to I know not what purpose or pagod. 
No headache, nor sickness that night nor to-day. 
Got up, if any thing, earlier than usual — sparred 
with Jackson ad sudorem, and have been much bet- 
ter than for many days. I have heard nothing more 
from Scrope. Yesterday paid him four thousand 
eight hundred pounds — a debt of some standing, 
and which I wished to have paid before. My mind 
is much relieved by the removal of that debit. 

" Augusta wants me to make it up with Carlisle. 
I have refused every body else, but I can't deny her 
any thing ; so I must e'en do it, though I had as 
lief ' drink up Eisel — eat a crocodile.' Let me see — 
Ward, the Hollands, the Lambs, Rogers, &c, &c, 
— every body more or less, have been trying for the 
last two years to accommodate this couplet quarrel 
to no purpose. I shall laugh if Augusta succeeds. 

" Redde a little of many things — shall get in all 
my books to-morrow. Luckily, this room will hold 
them — with ' ample room and verge, &c, the charac- 
ters of hell to trace.' I must set about some em- 
ployment soon ; my heart begins to eat itself again. 

" April 8. 

"Out of town six days. On my return, find my 
poor little pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal ; 
the thieves are in Paris. It is his own fault. Like 
Milo he would rend the oak ; but it closed again, 
wedged his hands, and now the beasts — lion, bear, 
down to the dirtiest jackal — may all tear him. That 
Muscovite winter wedged his arms ; ever since, he 
has fought with his feet and teeth. The last may 
still leave their marks ; and ' I guess now (as the 
Yankees say) that he will yet play them a pass.' 
He is in their rear — between them and their homes. 
Query — will they ever reach them ? 

" Saturday, April, 9 1811. 

" I mark this day ! 

"Napoleon Bonaparte has abdicated the throne 
of the world. ' Excellent well.' Methinks Sylla 
did better ; for he revenged, and resigned in the 
height of his sway, red with the slaughter of his 
foes — the finest instance of glorious contempt of 
the rascals upon record. Diocletian did well too — 
Amurath not amiss, had he become aught except a 
dervise — Charles the Fifth but so, so — but Napoleon, 
worst of all. What ! wait till they were in his 
capital, and then talk of his readiness to give up 
what is already gone ! ! ' What whining monk art 
thou — what holy cheat ? ' 'Sdeath ! Dionysius at 
Corinth was yet a king to this. The ' Isle of Elba ' 
to retire to ! Well — if it had been Caprea, I should 
have marvelled less. ' I see men's minds are but a 



parcel of their fortunes.' I am utterly bewildered 
and confounded. 

" I don't know — but I think 7, even 7, (an insect 
compared with this creature,) have set my life on 
casts not a millionth part of this man's. But, after 
all, a crown may be not worth dying for. Yet, to 
outlive Lodi for this ! ! ! Oh that Juvenal or John- 
son could rise from the dead ! ' Expende — quot 
libras in duce summo invenies ? ' I knew they were 
light in the balance of mortality ; but I thought 
their living dust weighed more carats. Alas ! this 
imperial diamond hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly 
fit to stick in a glazier's pencil ; the pen of the his- 
torian won't rate it worth a ducat. 

" Psha ! ' something too much of this.' But I 
won't give him up even now ; though all his admi 
rers have, 'like the Thanes, fall'n from him.' 

" April 10. 

"I do not know that I am happiest when alone; 
but this I am sure of, that I never am long in the 
society even of her I love, (God knows too well, and 
the Devil probably too,) without a yearning for the 
company of my lamp and my utterly-confused and 
tumbled-over library. Even in the day, I send away 
my carriage oftener than I use or abuse it. Per 
esemjiio, — I have not stirred out of these rooms for 
these four days past : but I have sparred for exer- 
cise (windows open) with Jackson an hour daily, to 
attenuate and keep up the ethereal part of me. 
The more violent the fatigue, the better my spirits 
for the rest of the day ; and then, my evenings 
have that calm nothingness of languor, which I most 
delight in. To-day I have boxed one hour — written 
an ode to Napoleon Bonaparte — copied it — eaten 
six biscuits — drank four bottles of soda-water — redde 
away the rest of my time — besides giving poor * * 
a world of advice about this mistress of his, who is 
plaguing him into a phthisic and intolerable tedi- 
ousness. I am a pretty fellow truly to lecture about 
' the sect.' No matter, my counsels are all thrown 
away. 

" April 19, 18H. 

"There is ice at both poles, north and south — all 
extremes are the same — misery belongs to the high- 
est and the lowest only, — to the emperor and the 
beggar, when unsixpenced and unthroned. There 
is, to be sure, a damned insipid medium — an equi- 
noctial line — no one knows where, except upon 
maps and measurement. 

•And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
The way to dusty death.' 

I will keep no further journal of that same hesternal 
torchlight ; and, to prevent me from returning, like 
a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the re- 
maining leaves of this volume, and write, in ipecacu- 
anha, — ' that the Bourbons are restored ! ! ! ' ' Hang 
up philosophy.' To be sure, 1 have long despised 
myself and man, but I never spat in the face of my 
species before — ' fool ! I shall go mad.' " 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 



IN SWITZERLAND. 



" September 18, 1816. 

" Yesterday, September 17th, I set out with Mr. 
Hobhuuse on an excursion of some days to the 
mountains. 

" September 17. 

" Rose at five ; left Diodati about seven, in one of 
the country carriages, (a char-a-banc,) our#servants 
on horseback. Weather very fine ; the lake calm 
and clear ; Mont Blanc and the Aiguille of Ar- 
gentines both very distinct ; the borders of the 
lake beautiful. Reached Lausanne before sunset ; 

stopped and slept at . Went to bed at nine ; 

slept till five o'clock. 

" September 18. 

" Called by my courier ; got up. Hobhouse walk- 
ed on before. A mile from Lausanne, the road 
overflowed by the lake ; got on horseback, and 
rode till within a mile of Vevay. The colt young, 
but went very well. Overtook Hobhouse, and re- 
sumed the carriage, which is an open one. Stopped 
at Vevay two hours, (the second time I had visited 
it ;) walked to the church ;- view from the church- 
yard superb : within it General Ludlow (the regi- 
cide s) monument — black marble — long inscription 
—Latin, but simple ; he was an exile two-and-thirty 
years — one of King Charles's judges. Near him 
Broughton (who read King Charles's sentence to 
Charles Stuart) is buried, with a queer and rather 
canting, but still a republican inscription. Ludlow's 
house shown ; it retains still its inscription — 'Omne 
solum forti patria.' Walked down to the lake side; 
servants, carriage, saddle-horses — all set off and 
left us plantrs la, by some mistake, and we walked 
on after them towards Clarens ; Hobhouse ran on 
before, and overtook them at last. Arrived the 
second time (first time was by water) at Clarens. 
Went to Chillon through scenery worthy of I know 
not whom ; went over the Castle of Chillon again. 
On our return, met an English party in a carriage; 
a lady in it fast asleep — fast asleep in the most anti- 
narcotic spot in the world — excellent ! I remember 
at Chamouni, in the very eyes of Mont Blanc, hear- 
ing another woman, English also, exclaim to her 
party, ' Did you ever see any thing more rural?' — 
as if it was Highgate, or Hampstead, or Brompton, 
or Hayes — ' Rural ! ' quotha ? rocks, pines, torrents, 
glaciers, clouds, and summits of eternal snow far 
above them — and ' rural ! ' 

" After a slight and short dinner we visited the 
Chateau de Clarens ; * an English woman has rented 
it recently ; (it was not let when I saw it first ;) the 
roses arc gone with their summer ; the family out, 
but the servants desired us to walk over the interior 
of the mansion. Saw on the table of the saloon 
Blair's Sermons, and somebody else (I forget who's) 



• See Childe Harold, canto iii., stanza xcix., &c. 22d note to Childe 
Harold, canto iii. 



sermons, and a set of noisy children. Saw all worth 
seeing, and then descended to the ' Bosquet de 
Julie,' &c., &c. ; our guide full of Rousseau, whom, 
he is eternally confounding with St. Preaux, and 
mixing the man and the book. Went again as far 
as Chillon to re-visit the little torrent from the hill 
behind it. Sunset reflected in the lake. Have to 
get up at five to-morrow to cross the mountains on 
horseback; carriage to be sent round; lodged at my 
old cottage — hospitable and comfortable; tired with 
a longish ride on the colt, and the subsequent jolting 
of the char-a-banc, and my scramble in the hot sun. 
" Mem. The corporal who showed the wonders of 
Chillon was as drunk as Blucher ; he was deaf also, 
and thinking every one else so, roared out the 
legends of the castle so fearfully. — However, we saw 
things from the gallows to the dungeons,* (the 
poteuce and the cachots,) and returned to Clarens 
with more freedom than belonged to the fifteenth 
century. 

"September 19. 

" Rose at five. Crossed the mountains to Mont- 
bovon on horseback, and on mules, and, by dint of 
scrambling, on foot also ; the whole route beauti- 
ful as a dream, and now to me almost as indistinct. 
I am so tired : — for, though healthy, I have not the 
strength I possessed but a few years ago. At Mont- 
bovon we breakfasted ; afterward, on a steep ascent, 
dismounted ; tumbled down ; cut a finger open ; 
the baggage also got loose and fell down a ravine, 
till stopped by a large tree ; recovered baggage ; 
horse tired and drooping : mounted mule. At the 
approach of the summit of Dent Jumentf dis- 
mounted again with Hobhouse and all the party. 
Arrived at a lake in the very bosom of the moun- 
tains ; left our quadrupeds with a shepherd, and 
ascended farther ; came to some snow in patches, 
upon which my forehead's perspiration fell like 
rain, making the same dints as in a sieve; the chill 
of the wind and the snow turned me giddy,, but I 
scrambled on and upwards. Hobhouse went to the 
highest pinnacle ; I did not, but paused, within a 
few yards (at an opening of the cliff.) In coming 
down, the guide tumbled three times ; I fell a 
laughing, and tumbled too — the descent luckily soft, 
though steep and slippery : Hobhouse also fell, but 
nobody hurt. The whole of the mountains superb. 
A shepherd on a very steep and high cliff playing 
upon his pipe ; t very different from Arcadia, where 
I saw the pastors with a long musket instead of a 
crook, and pistols in their girdles. Our Swiss shep- 
herd's pipe was sweet, and his tune agreeable. I 
saw a cow strayed ; am told that they often break 
their necks on and over the crags. Descended to 



* Prisoner of Cbillon, note 3d, &c. 

f Dant de Jaman. 

I Manfred, Act I., Scene II. 



996 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Montbovon j- pretty, scraggy village, with a wild 
river and a wooden bridge. Hobhouse went to fish 
— caught one. Our carriage not come ; our horses 
mules, &c, knocked up; ourselves fatigued. 

" The view from the highest points of to-day's 
journey comprised on one side the greatest part of 
Lake Leman : on the other, the valleys and moun- 
tain of the canton of Fribourg, and an immense 
plain, with the lakes of Neufchatel-and Morat, and 
all which the borders of the Lake of Geneva in- 
herit ; we had both sides of the Jura before us in 
one point of view, with Alps in plenty. In passing 
a ravine, the guide recommended strenuously a 
quickening of pace, as the stones fall with great 
rapidity and occasional damage ; the advice is ex- 
cellent, but, like most good advice, impracticable, 
the road being so rough that neither mules, nor 
mankind, nor horses, can make any violent pro- 
gress. Passed without fractures or menace thereof. 

" The music of the cow's bells* (for their wealth, 
like the patriarch's, is cattle) in the pastures, which 
reach to a height far above any mountains in Britain, 
and the shepherds shouting to us from crag to crag, 
and playing on their reeds where the steeps appeared 
almost inaccessible, with the surrounding scenery, 
realized all that I have ever heard or imagined of a 
pastoral existence : — much more so than Greece or 
Asia Minor ; for there we are a little too much of 
the sabre and musket order, and if there is a crook 
in one one hand, you are sure to see a gun in the 
other : — but this was pure and unmixed — solitary, 
savage, and patriarchal. As we went, they played 
the ' Rans des Vaches ' and other airs, by way of 
farewell. I have lately repeopled my mind with 
nature. 

11 September 20. 

" Up at six ; off at eight. The whole of this day's 
journey at an average of between from two thousand 
seven hundred to three thousand feet above the level 
of the sea. This valley, the longest, narrowest, and 
considered the finest of the Alps, little traversed by 
travellers. Saw the bridge of La Roche. The bed 
of the river very low and deep, between immense 
rocks, and rapid as anger ;— a man and mule said to 
have tumbled over without damage. The people 
looked free, and happy, and rich (which last implies 
neither of the former) ; the cows superb ; a bull 
nearly leaped into the char-a-banc — ' agreeable com- 
panion in a post-cliaise ; ' goats and sheep very 
thriving. A mountain, with enormous glaciers, to 
the right — the Klitzgerberg ; farther on, the Hock- 
thorn— nice names — so soft ! — Stockhorn, I believe, 
very lofty and scraggy, patched with snow only ; no 
glaciers on it, but some good epaulettes of clouds. 

"Passed the boundaries, out of Vaud and into 
Berne canton ; French exchanged for bad German ; 
the district famous for cheese, liberty, property, and 
no taxes. Hobhouse went to fish — caught none. 
Strolled to the river ; saw boy and kid ; kid followed 
him like a clog ; kid could not get over a fence, and 
bleated piteously; tried myself, to help kid, but 
nearly overset both self and kid into the river. 
Arrived here about six in the evening. Nine 
o'clock — going to bed ; not tired to-day, but hope 
to sleep, nevertheless. 

" September 21. 

" Off early. The valley of Simmenthal as before. 
Entrance to the plain of Thoun very narrow ; high 
rocks, wooded to the top ; river ; new mountains, 
with fine glaciers. Lake of Thoun ; extensive plain 
with a girdle of Alps. Walked down to the Cha- 
teau de Schadau ; view along the lake ; crossed the 
river in a boat rowed by women. Thoun a very 
pretty town. The whole day's journey Alpine and 
proud. 

" September 22. 

" Left Thoun in a boat, which carried us the 
length of the lake in three hours. The lake small ; 



but the banks fine. Rocks down to the water's 
edge. Landed at Newhause ; passed Interlachen ; 
entered upon a range of scenes beyond all descrip- 
tion, or previous conception. Passed a rock ; in 
scription — two brothers — one murdered the other; 
just the place for it. After a variety of windings 
came to an enormous rock. Arrived at the foot ol 
the mountain, (the Jungfrau, that is, the Maiden ;) 
glaciers; torrents; one of these torrents nine hun- 
dred feet in height of visible descent. Lodged at 
the curate's. Set out to see the valley ; heard an 
avalanche fall, like thunder; glaciers enormous; 
storm came on, thunder, lightning, hail ; all in per- 
fection, and beautiful. I was on horseback ; guide 
wanted to carry my cane ; I was going to give it 
him, when I recollected that it was a sword-stick, 
and I thought the lightning might be attracted 
towards him; kept it myself: a good deal encum- 
bered with it, as it was too heavy for a whip, and 
the horse was stupid, and stood with evorj i.iher 
peal. Got in, not very wet, the cloak being stanch. 
Hobhouse wet through ; Hobhouse took refuge in 
cottage ; sent man, umbrella, and cloak (from the 
curate's when I arrived) after him. Swiss curate's 
house very good indeed — much better than most 
English vicarages. It. is immediately opposite the 
torrent I spoke of. The torrent is in shape curving 
over the rock, like the tail of a white horse stream- 
ing in the wind, such as it might be conceived 
would be that of the 'pale horse' on which Death 
is mounted in the Apocalypse * It is neither mist 
nor water, but a something between both ; its im- 
mense height (nine hundred feet) gives it a wave or 
curve, a spreading here, or condensation there, won- 
derful and indescribable. I think, upon the whole, 
that this day has been better than any of tlfts pres- 
ent excursion. 

"September 33, 

" Before ascending the mountain, went to the 
torrent (seven in the morning) again ; the sun upon 
it, forming a rainboief of the lower part of all 
colors, but principally purple and gold; the bow 
moving as you move ; I never saw any thing like 
this; it is only in the sunshine. Ascended the 
AVengen mountain ; at. noon reached a valley on 
the summit; left the horses, took off my coat, and 
went to the summit, seven thousand feet (English 
feet) above the level of the sea, and about five 
thousand above the valley we left in the morning. 
On one side, our view comprised the Jungfrau, with 
all her glaciers; then the Dent d' Argent, shining 
like truth ; then the Little Giant, (the Kleine 
Eigher;) and the Greaft Giant, (the Grosse Eigher,) 
and last, not least, the Wetterhorn. The height of 
the Jungfrau is thirteen thousand feet above the 
sea. eleven thousand above the valley : she is the 
highest of this range. Heard the avalanches fall- 
ing every five minutes, nearly. From whence we 
stood, on the Wengen Alp,j we had all these in 
view on one side ; on the other, the clouds rose 
from the opposite valley, curling up perpendicular 
precipices like the foam of the ocean of hell, during 
a spring tide — it was white and sulphury, and 
immeasurably deep in appearance. The side we 
ascended was (of course) not of so precipitous a 
nature ; but on arriving at the summit, we looked 
down upon the other side upon a boiling sea ot 
cloud, dashing against the crags on which we 
stood, (these crags on one side quite perpendicu- 
lar.) Stayed a quarter of an hour; began to de- 
scend; quite clear from cloud on that side of the 
mountain. In passing the masses of snow, I made 
a snowball and pelted Hobhouse with it. 

' Got down to our horses again ; eat something ; 
remounted; heard the avalanches still; came to a 
morass ; Hobhouse dismounted to get over well ; 



• Manfred, Act II., Scene II. 
t Manfred, Act II., Scene II. 
J Manfred, Act I., Scene 11. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN SWITZERLAND. 



997 



I tried to pass my horse over ; the horse sunk up 
to the chin, and of course ho and I were in the 
mud together; bemired, but not hurt; laughed, 
and rode on. Arrived at the Grindelwald ; dined, 
mounted again, and rode to the higher glacier — 
like a, frozen hurricane * Starlight, beautiful, but 
a devil of a path ! Never mind, got safe in ; a little 
lightning, but the whole of the day as fine in point 
of weather as the day on which Paradise was made. 
Passed whole tcoods of withered pines, all withered ,f 
trunks stripped and lifeless, branches lifeless ; done 
by a single winter. 

" September 24. 

" Set off at seven ; up at five. Passed the black 
glacier, the mountain Wctterhorn on the right ; 
crossed the Scheideck mountain ; came to the Rose 
glacier, said to be the largest and finest in Switzer- 
land. / think the Bossons glacier at Chamouni as 
fine ; Hobhouse does not. Came to the Reichen- 
bach waterfall, two hundred feet high ; halted to 
rest the horses. Arrived in the valley of Oberland ; 
rain came on ; drenched a little ; only four hours' 
rain, however, in eight days. Came to the lake of 
Brientz, then to the town of Brientz ; changed. 
In the evening, four Swiss peasant girls of Ober- 
hasli came and sang the airs of their country ; two 
of the voices beautiful — the tunes also ; so wild and 
original, and at the same time of great sweetness. 
The singing is over ; but below stairs I hear the 
notes of a riddle, which bode no good to my night's 
rest ; I shall go down and see the dancing. 

" September 25. 

" The whole town of Brientz were apparently 
gathereM together in the rooms below ; pretty 
music and excellent waltzing : the dancing much 
better than in England ; the English can't waltz, 
never could, never will. One man, with his pipe 
in his mouth, but danced as well as the others ; 
some other dances in pairs and in fours, and very 
good. I went to bed, but the revelry continued 
below late and early. Brientz but a village. Rose 
early. Embarked on the lake of Brientz ; rowed 
by the women in a long boat ; presently we put to 
shore, and another woman jumped in. It seems it 
is the custom here for the boats to be manned by 
women ; four or five men and three women in our 
bark, all the women took an oar, and but one man. 

" Got to Interlachen in three hours ; pretty lake ; 
not so large as that of Thoun. Dined at Inter- 
lachen. Girl gave me some flowers]; and made me 



• Manfred, Act II., Scene 111. 

t Manfred, Act 1., Scene II. 

% Cbilds Harold, Canto III.— Song after itania T. 



a speech in German, of which I know nothing ; I 
do not know whether the speech was pretty, but as 
the woman was, I hope so. RcPmbarked on the 
lake of Thoun; fell asleep part of the way; sent 
our horses round ; found people on the shore, 
blowing up a rock with gunpowder ; they blew it 
up near our boat, only telling us a minute before ; — 
mere stupidity, but they might have broken our 
noddles. Got to Thoun in the evaning; the wea- 
ther has been tolerable the whole day. But as the 
wild part of our tour is finished, it don't matter to 
us ; in all the desirable part, we have been the most 
lucky in warmth and clearness of atmosphere. 

" September 26. 

"Being out of the mountains, my journal must 
be as flat as my journey. From Thoun to Berne, 
good road, hedges, villages, industry, property, and 
all sorts of tokens of insipid civilization. From 
Berne to Fribourg ; different canton; Catholics; 
passed a field of battle; Swiss beat the French in 
one of the late wars against the French republic. 
Bought a dog. The greater part of this tour has 
been on horseback, on foot, and on mule. 

" September 28. 

"Saw the tree planted in honor of the battle of 
Morat ; three hundred and forty years old ; a good 
deal decayed. Left Fribourg, but first saw the 
cathedral ; high tower. Overtook the baggage of 
the nuns of La Trappe, who are removing to Nor- 
mandy, afterward a coach, with a quantity of nuns 
in it. Proceeded along the banks of the lake of 
Neufchatel ; very pleasing and soft, but not so 
mountainous — at least, the Jura, not appearing 
so, after the Bernese Alps. Reached Yverdun in 
the dusk ; a long line of large trees on the border 
of the lake ; fine and sombre ; the Auberge nearly 
full — a German Princess and suite ; got rooms. 

" September 29. 

"Passed through a fine and flourishing country, 
but not mountainous. In the evening reached Au- 
bonne, (the entrance and bridge something like that 
of Durham,) which commands by far the fairest 
view of the Lake of Geneva ; twilight ; the moon 
on the lake ; a grove on the height, and of very 
noble trees. Here Tavernicr (the eastern traveller) 
bought (or built) the chateau, because the site re- 
sembled and equalled that of Erican, a frontier city 
of Persia ; here he finished his voyages, and I this 
little excursion, — for I am within a few hours ot 
Diodati and have little more to see, and no more to 
say." 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 



IN ITALY. 



" Ravenna, January 4, 1821. 

" ' A 5Uddex thought strikes me.' Let me begin a 
Journal once more. The last I kept was in Swit- 
zerland, in record of a tour made in the Bernese 
Alps, which I made to send to my sister in 1816, 
and I suppose that she has it still, for she wrote to 
me that she was pleased with it. Another, and 
longer, I kept in 1813-1814, which I gave to Thomas 
Moore in the same year. 

"This morning I gat me up late, as usual — 
weather bad — bad as England — worse. The snow 
of last week melting to the sirocco of to-day, so 
that there were two d — d things at once. Could not 
even get to ride on horseback in the forest. Stayed 
at home all the morning — looked at the fire — won- 
dered when the post would come. Post came at 
the Ave Maria, instead of half-past one o'clock, as 
it ought. Galignani's Messengers, six in number — 
a letter from Faenza, but none from England. — 
Very sulky in consequence, (for there ought to have 
been letters,) and ate in consequence a copious din- 
ner ; for when I am vexed, it makes me swallow 
quicker — but drank very little. 

" I was out of spirits — read the papers — thought 
what fame was, on reading, in a case of murder, that 
' Mr. Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, 
flour, cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to 
some gipsy woman accused. He had on his counter 
(I quote faithfully) a book, the Life of Pamela, 
which he was tearing for waste paper, &c, &c. In 
the cheese was found, &c, and a ' leaf of Pamela 
wrapped round the bacon ! ' What would Richardson, 
the vainest and luckiest of living authors (i. e. while 
alive) — he who, with Aaron Hill, used to prophecy 
and chuckle over the presumed fall of Fielding (the 
prose Homer of human nature) and of Pope (the 
most beautiful of poets) — what would he have said 
could he have traced his pages from their place on 
the French prince's toilets (see Boswell's Johnson) 
to the grocer's counter and the gipsy-murderess's 
bacon ! ! ! 

" What would he have said ? what can any body 
say, save what Solomon said long before us ? After 
all, it is but passing from one counter to another, 
from the bookseller's to the other tradesman's — 
grocer or pastry-cook. For my part, I have met 
with most poetry upon trunks ; so that I am apt 
to consider the trunk-maker as the sexton of author- 
ship. 

" Wrote five letters in about half an hour, short 
and savage, to all my rascally correspondents. Car- 
riage came. Heard the news of three murders at 
Faenza and Forli — a carabinier, a smuggler, and an 
attorney — all last night._ The first two in a quarrel, 
the latter by premeditation.* 

"Three weeks ago — almost a month — the 7th it 



See Letter ccctliT., &c. 



was — 1 picked up the commandant, mortally wound- 
ed, out of the street ; he died in my house ; assas- 
sins unknown, but presumed political. His brethren 
wrote from Rome last night to thank me for having 
assisted him in his last moments. Poor fellow i- it 
was a pity ; he was a good soldier, but imprudent. — 
It was eight in the evening when they killed him. 
We heard the shot ; my servants and I ran out, and 
found him expiring, with five wounds, two whereot 
mortal — by slugs they seemed. I examined him, 
but did not go to the dissection next morning. 

" Carriage at eight or so — went to visit La Contessa 
G. — found her playing on the pianoforte — talked 
till ten, when the Count, her father, and the no less 
Count, her brother, came in from the theatre. — 
Play, they said, Alfieri's Filippo — well received. 

" Two days ago the King of Naples passed 
through Bologna on his way to congress. My ser- 
vant Luigi brought the news. I had sent him to 
Bologna for a lamp. How will it end ? Time will 
show. 

" Came home at eleven, or rather before. If the 
road and weather are comformable, mean to ride to- 
morrow. High time — almost a week at this work — 
snow, sirocco, one day — frost and snow the other- 
sad climate for Italy. But the two seasons, last and 
present, are extraordinary. Read a Life of Leonardo 
da Vinci, by Rossi — ruminated — wrote this much, 
and will go to bed. 

" January 5, 1821. 

" Rose late — dull and drooping — the weather drip- 
ping and dense. Snow on the ground, and sirocco 
above in the sky, like yesterday. Roads up to the 
horse's belly, so that riding (at least for pleasure) is 
not very feasible. Added a postscript to my letter 
to Murray. Read the conclusion, for the fiftieth 
time (I have read all W. Scott's novels at least fifty 
times) of the third series of ' Tales of my Land- 
lord,' — grand work — Scotch Fielding, as well as 
great English poet — wonderful man ! I long to get 
drunk with him. 

" Dined versus six o' the clock. Forgot that 
there was a plum-pudding, (I have added, lately, 
eating to my 'family of vices,') and had dined before 
I knew it. Drank half a bottle of some sorts of 
spirits — of wine ; for what they call brandy, rum 
&c, &c, here is nothing but spirits of wine, colored 
accordingly. Did not eat two apples, which were 
placed, by way of dessert. Fed the two cats, the 
hawk, and tame (but not tamed) crow. Read Mit- 
ford's History of Greece — Xenophon's Retreat of 
the Ten Thousand. Up to this present moment 
writing, six minutes before eight o' the clock — 
French hours, not Italian. 

" Hear the carriage — order pistols and greatcoat, 
as usual — necessary articles. Weather cold — car- 
riage open, and inhabitants somewhat savage — rather 
treacherous and highly inflamed by politics. Fine 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN ITALY. 



999 



fellows, though — good materials for a nation. Out 
of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions 
comes a people. 

" Clock strikes — going out to make love. Some- 
what perilous, but not disagreeable. Memorandum 
— a new screen put up to-day. It is rather antique, 
but will do with a little repair. 

" Thaw continues — hopeful that riding may be 
practicable to-morrow. Sent the papers to Alii- 
grand events coming. 

" Eleven o' the clock and nine minutes. Visited 
La Contessa G. Nata G. G. Found her beginning 
my letter of answer to the thanks of Alessio del 
Pinto of Rome for assisting his brother, the late 
commandant, in his last moments, as I had begged 
her to pen my reply for the purer Italian, I being an 
ultra-montane, little skilled in the set phrase of 
Tuscany. Cut short the letter — finish it another 
day. Talked of Italy, patriotism, Alfieri, Madame 
Albany, and other branches of learning. Also Sal- 
lust's Conspiracy of Catiline, and the war of Jugur- 
tha. At nine came in her brother, II Conte Pietro — 
at ten, her father, Conte Ruggiero. 

"Talked of various modes of warfare — of the 
Hungarian and Highland modes of broadsword ex- 
ercise, in both whereof I was once a moderate ' mas- 
ter of fence.' Settled that the R. will break out on 
the 7th or 8th of March, in which appointment I 
should trust, had it not been settled that it was to 
have broken out in October, 1820. But those Bo- 
lognese shirked the Romagnuoles. 

" ' It is all one to Ranger.' One must not be par- 
ticular, but take rebellion when it lies in the way. 
Came home — read the ' Ten Thousand ' again, and 
will go to bed. 

" Mem. — Ordered Fletcher (at four o'clock this 
afternoon) to copy out seven or eight apothegms 
of Bacon, in which I have detected such blunders as 
a school-boy might detect, rather than commit. — 
Such are the sages ! What must they be, when such 
as I can stumble on their mistakes or mistatements ? 
I will go to bed, for I find that I grow cynical. 

"January 6, 1821. 

" Mist — thaw — slop — rain. No stirring out on 
horseback. Read Spence's Anecdotes. Pope a fine 
fellow — always thought him so. Corrected blunders 
in nine apothegms of Bacon — all historical — and 
read Mitford's Greece. Wrote an epigram. Turned 
to a passage in Guinguenc — ditto, in Lord Hol- 
land's Lope de Vega. Wrote a note on Don Juan.* 

" At eight went out to visit. Heard a little music 
— like music. Talked with Count Pietro G. of the 
Italian comedian Vestris, who is now at Rome — 
have seen him often act in Venice — a good actor — 
very. Somewhat of a mannerist ; but excellent in 
broad comedy, as well as in sentimental pathetic. He 
has made me frequently laugh and cry, neither of 
which is now a very easy matter — at least, for a 
player to produce in me. 

" Thought of the state of women under the ancient 
Greeks — convenient enough. Present state, a rem- 
nant of the barbarism of the chivalry and feudal 
ages — artificial and unnatural. They ought to mind 
home — and be well fed and clothed — but not mixed 
in society. Well educated, too, in religion — but to 
read neither poetry nor politics — nothing but books 
of piety and cookery. Music — drawing — dancing — 
also a little gardening and ploughing now and then. 
I have seen them mending the road in Epirus with 
good success. Why not, as well as hay-making and 
milking ? 

" Came home, and read Mitford again, and played 
with my mastiff — gave him his supper. Made an- 
other reading to the epigram, but the turn the same. 
To-night at the theatre, there being a prince on his 
throne in the last scene of the comedy, — the audi- 
ence laughed, and asked him for a Constitution. — 
This shows the state of the public mind here, as 



• Don Juan, note 9, to Canto i 



well as the assassinations. It won't do. There must 
be a universal republic, — and there ought to be. 

" The crow is lame of a leg — wonder how it hap- 
pened — some fool trod upon his toe, I suppose.— 
The falcon pretty brisk — the cats large and noisy— 
the monkeys I have not looked to since the cold 
weather, as they suffer by being brought up. Horses 
must be gay — get a ride as soon as weather serves. 
Deused muggy still — an Italian winter is a sad thing, 
but all the other seasons are charming. 

" What is the reason that I have been, all my 
lifetime more or less ennuyt ? and that, if any thing, 
I am rather less so now than I was at twenty, as far 
as my recollection serves ? I do not know how to 
answer this, but presume that it is constitutional, — 
as well as the waking in low spirits, which I have 
invariably done for many years. Temperance and 
exercise, which I have practised at times, and for a 
long time together vigorously and violently, made 
little or no difference. Violent passions did ; — 
when under their immediate influence — it is odd, 
but — I was in agitated, but not in depressed spirits. 

" A dose of salts has the effect of a temporary 
inebriation, like light champagne upon me. But 
wine and spirits make me sullen and savage to fe- 
rocity — silent, however and retiring, and not quar- 
relsome, if not spoken to. Swimming also raises 
my spirits, — but in general they are low, and get 
daily lower. That is hojieless ; for I do not think 
I am so much ennuye as I was at nineteen. — 
The proof is, that then I must game, or drink, 
or be in motion of some kind, or I was miser- 
able. At present, I can mope in quietness ; and 
like being alone better than any company — except 
the lady's whom I serve. But I feel a something, 
which makes me think that, if I ever reach near to 
old age, like Swift, ' I shall die at top ' first. Only 
I do not dread idiotisfn or madness so much as he 
did. On the contrary, I think some quieter stages 
of both must be preferable to much of what men 
think the possession of their senses. 

" January 7, 1821, Sunday. 

' Still rain — mist — snow — drizzle — and all the in- 
calculable combinations of a climate, where beat and 
cold struggle for mastery. Read Spence, and turned 
over Roscoe, to find a passage I have not found. — 
Read the fourth vol. of W. Scott's second series of 
Tales of my Landlord.' Dined. Read the Lugano 
Gazette. Read — I forget what. At eight went to 
conversazione. Found there the Countess Gel- 
trude, Betti V., and her husband, and others. — 
Pretty black-eyed woman that — only twenty-two — 
same age as Teresa, who is prettier, though. 

''The Count Pietro G. took me aside to say that 
the Patriots have had notice from Forli (twenty 
miles off) that to-night the government and its 
party mean to strike a stroke — that the Cardinal 
here has had orders to make several arrests imme- 
diately, and that, in consequence, the Liberals are 
arming, and have posted patrols in the streets, to 
sound the alarm and give notice to fight for it. 

' He asked me ' what should be done ? ' — I an- ' 
swered, ' fight for it, rather than be taken in detail ;' 
and offered, if any of them are in immediate appre- 
hension of arrest, to receive them in my house, 
(which is defensible,) and to defend them, with my 
servants and themselves, (we have arms and ammu- 
nition,) as long as we can, — or to try to get them 
away under cloud of night. On going home, I offered 
him the pistols which I had about me — but he re- 
fused, but said he would come off to me in case of 
accidents. 

" It wants half an hour of midnight, and rains ; — 
as Gibbet says, ' a fine night for their enterprise — 
dark as hell, and blows like the devil.' If the row 
don't happen iwic, it must soon. I thought that 
their system of shooting people would soon produce 
a reaction — and now it seems coming. I will do 
what I can in the way of combat, though a little out 
of exercise. The cause is a gr-od one. 



1000 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" Turned over and over half a score of books for 
the passage in question, and can't find it. Expect 
to hear the drum and the lmisketry momently (for 
they swear to resist, and are right) — but I hear no- 
thing, as yet, save the splash of the rain and the 
gusts of the wind at intervals. Don't like to go to 
bed, because I hate to be waked, and would rather 
sit up for the row, if there is to be one. 

"Mended the fire — have got the arms — and a 
book or two, which I shall turn over. I know little 
of their numbers, but think the Carbonari strong 
enough to beat the troops, even here. With twenty 
men, this house might be defended for twenty-four 
hours against any force to be brought against it, 
now in this place, for the same time ; and, in such a 
time, the country would have notice, and would 
rise, — if ever they will rise, of which there is some 
doubt. In the mean time, I may as well read as do 
any thing else, being alone. 

"January 8, 1821, Moiiday. 

" Rose, and found Count P. G. in my apartments. 
Sent away the servant. Told me that, according to 
the best information, the government had not issued 
orders for the arrests apprehended ; that the attack 
in Forli had not taken place (as expected) by the 
Sanfedisti — the opponents of the Carbonari or Lib- 
erals — and that, as yet, they are still in apprehension 
only. Asked me for some arms of a better sort, 
which I gave him. Settled that, in case of a row, 
the Liberals were to assemble here, (with me.) and 
that he had given the word to Vinccnzo G. and 
others of the Chiefs for that purpose. He himself 
and father are going to the chase in the forest ; but 
V. G-. is to come to me, and an express to be sent off 
to him, P. G., if any thing occurs. Concerted opera- 
tions. They are to seize — but no matter. 

"I advised them to attack in detail, and in differ- 
ent parties, in different places, (though at the same 
time,) so as to divide the attention of the troops, 
who, though few, yet being disciplined, would beat 
any body of people (not trained) in a regular fight — 
unless dispersed in small parties, and distracted 
with different assaults. Offered to let them assem- 
ble here, if they choose. It is a strongish post — 
narrow street, commanded from within — and tenable 
walls. * * * 

"Dined. Tried on a new coat. Letter to Mur- 
ray, with corrections of Bacon's Apothegms and 
an epigram — the latter not for publication. At eight 
went to Teresa, Countess G. * * * * At nine 
and a half came in II Conte P. and Count P. G. 
Talked of a certain proclamation lately issued. 
Count R. G. had been with * * (the * *), to sound 
him about the arrests. He, * *, is a trimmer, and 
deals, at present, his cards with both hands. If he 
don't mind, they'll be full. * * pretends (7 doubt 
him — they don't, — we shall see) that there is no such 
order, and seems staggered by the immense exer- 
tions of the Neapolitans, and the fierce spirit of the 
Liberals here. The truth is, that * * cares for little 
but his place (which is a good one) and wishes to 
play pretty with both parties. He has changed his 
mind thirty times, these last three moons, to my 
knowledge, for he corresponds with me. But he is 
not a bloody fellow — only an avaricious one. 

"It seems that, just at this moment (as Lydia 
Languish says) there will be no elopement after all. 
I wish that I had known as much last night — or, 
rather, this morning — I should have gone to bed 
two hours earlier. And yet I ought not to com- 
plain ; for, though it is a sirocco, and heavy rain, I 
have not yawned for these two days. 

" Came home — read History of Greece — before 
dinner had read Walter Scott's Rob Roy. Wrote 
address to the letter in answer to Alessio del Pinto, 
who has thanked me for helping his brother (the 
ate commandant, murdered here last month) in his 
last moments. Have told him I only did a duty of 
humanity — as is true. The brother lives at Rome. 

" Mended the fire with some ' sgobole,' (a Romag- 
nuole word,) and gave the falcon some water. — 



Drank some Seltzer-water. Mem. — received to-day 
a print, or etching of the story of Ugolino, by an 
Italian painter — different, of course, from Sir Joshua 
Reynolds's, and I think (as far as recollection goes) 
no ivorse, for Reynolds is not good in history. Tore 
a button in my new coat. 

"I wonder what figure these Italians will make 
in a regular row. I sometimes think that, like the 
Irishman's gun, (somebody had sold him a crooked 
one,) they will only do for ' shooting round a cor- 
ner ; ' at least this sort of shooting has been the late 
tenor of their exploits. And yet, there are mate- 
rials in this people, and a noble energy, if well di- 
rected. But who is to direct them ? No matter. 
Out of such times heroes spring. Difficulties are 
the hot-beds of high spirits, and Freedom the mother 
of the few virtues incident to human nature. 

" Tuesday, January 9, 1821. 

"Rose — the day fine. Ordered the horses, but 
Lega (my secretary, an Italianism for steward or 
chief servant) coming to tell me that the painter had 
finished the work in fresco, for the room he has been 
employed on lately, I went to see it before I set out. 
The painter has not copied badly the prints from 
Titian, &c, considering all things. 

* * * * * * 

" Dined. Read Johnson's ' Vanity of Human 
Wishes,' — all the examples and mode of giving 
them sublime, as well as the latter part, with the 
exception of an occasional couplet. I do not so 
much admire the opening. I remember an observa- 
tion of Sharpe's (the conversationist, as he was called 
in London, and a very clever man), that the first line 
of this poem was superfluous, and that Pope (the 
very best of poets I think) would have begun at 
once, only changing the punctuation — 

* Surrey mankind from China to Peru I ' 

The former line. ' Let observation,' &c, is certainly 
heavy and useless. But 'tis a grand poem — and so 
true ! — true as the 10th of Juvenal himself. The 
lapse of ages changes all things — time — language — 
the earth — the bounds of the sea — the stars of the 
sky, .and every thing ' about, around, and under- 
neath ' man, except man himself, who has always 
been, and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The 
infinite variety of lives conducts but to death, and 
the infinity of wishes leads but to disappointment. 
All the discoveries which have yet been made have 
multiplied little but existence. An extirpated dis- 
ease is succeeded by some new pestilence ; and a 
discovered world has brought little to the old one, 
except the p — first and freedom afterward — the latter 
a fine thing, particularly as they gave it to Europe 
in exchange for slavery. But it is doubtful whether 
' the sovereigns ' would not think the first the best 
present of the two to their subjects. 

" At eight went out — heard some news. They say 
the king of Naples has declared, by couriers from 
Florence, to the powers (as they call now those 
wretches with crowns) that his constitution was 
compulsive, &c., &c, and that the Austrian barba- 
rians are placed again on icar pay, and will march. 
Let them — ' they come like sacrifices in their trim,' 
the hounds of hell !* Let it still be a hope to see 
their bones piled like those of the human dogs at 
Morat, in Switzerland, which I have seen. 

" Heard some music. At nine the usual visiters 
— news, war, or rumors of war. Consulted with P. 
G., &c, &c. They mean to insurrect here, and are 
to honor me with a call thereupon. I shall not fall 
back ; though I don't think them in force or heart 
sufficient to make much of it. But onward ! — it is 
now the time to act, and what signifies self, if a 
single spark of that which would be worthy of the 
past can be bequeathed unquenchedly to the future ? 
It is not one man, nor a million, but the spirit of 
liberty, which must be spread. The waves which 



C'hilde Harold, Canto HI., stanza lxiii., and note 14. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN ITALY. 



1001 



dash upon the shore are, one by one, broken, but 
yet the ocean conquers, nevertheless. It overwhelms 
the Armada, it wears the rock, and, if the Neptu- 
nians are to be believed, it has not only destroyed, 
but made a world. In like manner, whatever the 
sacrifice of individuals, the great cause will gather 
strength, sweep down what is rugged, and fertilize 
(for sea-weed is manure) what is cultivable. And 
so, the mere selfish calculation ought never to be 
made ou such occasions ; and, at present, it shall 
not be computed by me. I was never a good arith- 
metician of chances, and shall not commence now. 

" January 10, 1821. 

"Day fine — rained only in the morning. Looked 
over accounts. Read Campbell's Poets — marked 
errors of Tom (the author) for correction.* Dined 
—went out — music — Tyrolese air, with variations. 
Sustained the cause of the original simple air against 
the variations of the Italian school. 

****** 

" Politics somewhat tempestuous, and cloudier 
daily. To-morrow being foreign post-day, probably 
something more will be known. 

" Came home — read. Corrected Tom Campbell's 
slips of the pen. A good work, though — style af- 
fected — but his defence of Pope is glorious. To be 
sure, it is his own cause, too, — but no matter, it is 
very good, and does him great credit. 

" Midnight. 

" I have been turning over different Lives of the 
Poets. I rarely read their works, unless an occa- 
sional flight over the classical ones, Pope, Dryden, 
Johnson, Gray, and those who approach them near- 
est, (I leave the rant of the rest to the cant of the 
day,) and — I had made several reflections, but I feel 
sleepv, and may as well go to bed. 

"January 11, 1821. 

" Read the letters. Corrected the tragedy and 
the ' Hints from Horare.' Dined, and got into bet- 
ter spirits. Went out — returned — finished letters, 
five in number. Read poets, and an anecdote in 
Spence. 

"All' writes to me that the Pope, and Duke of Tus- 
cany, and King of Sardinia have also been called to 
Congress ; but the Pope will only deal there by 
pro$y. So the interests of millions are in the hands 
of about twenty coxcombs, at a place called Lei- 
bach ! 

" I should almost regret that my own affairs went 
well, when those of nations are in peril. If the in- 
terests of mankind could be essentially bettered, 
(particularly of these oppressed Italians,) I should 
not so much mind my own ' sma' peculiar.' God 
grant us all better times, or philosophy. 

" In reading, I have just chanced upon an expres- 
sion of Tom Campbell's ; — speaking of Collins, he 
says that ' no reader cares any more about the char- 
acteristic manners of his eclogues than about the 
authenticity of the tale of Troy.' 'Tis false — we do 
care about ' the authenticity of the tale of Troy.' 
I have stood upon the plain daily, for more than a 
month in 1810 ; and, if any thing diminished my 
pleasure, it was that the blackguard Bryant had 
impugned its veracity. It is true I read ' Homer 
Travestied,' (the first twelve books,) because Hob- 
house and others bored me with their learned locali- 
ties,*and I love quizzing. But I still venerated the 
grand original as the truth of history (in the mate- 
rial facts) and of place. Otherwise it would have 
given me no delight. Who will persuade me, when 
I reclined upon a mighty tomb, that it did not 
contain a hero ? — its very magnitude proved this. 
Men do riot labor over, the ignoble and petty dead — 
and why should not the dead be Homer's dead ? 
The secret of Tom Campbell's defence of inaccuracy 
in costume and description is, that his Gertrude, 
*&c, has no more locality in common with Pennsyl- 
vania than with Penmanmaur. It is notoriously 



• Don Juan, note 9, to Canto V. 

126 



full of grossly false scenery, as all Americans de- 
clare, though they praise parts of the poem. It is 
thus that self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, 
to sting any thing which happens, even accidentally, 
to stumble upon it. 

"January 12, 1321. 

" The weather still so humid and impracticable, 
that London, in its most oppressive fogs, were a 
summer-bower to this mist and sirocco, which has 
now lasted, (but with one day's interval,) checked 
with snow or heavy rain only, since the 30th of 
December, 1820. It is so far lucky that I have a 
literary turn ; but it is very tiresome not to be able 
to stir out, in comfort, on any horse but Pegasus, 
for so many days. The roads are even worse than 
the weather, by the long splashing, and the heavy 
soil, and the growth of the waters. 

" Read the poets — English, that is to say — out of 
Campbell's edition. There is a good deal of taffeta 
in some of Tom's prefatory phrases, but his work is 
good, as a whole. I like him best, though, in his 
own poetry. 

" Murray writes that they want to act the tragedy 
of Marino Faliero ; more fools they — it was written 
for the closet. I have protested against this piece 
of usurpation, (which, it seems, is legal for mana- 
gers over any printed work, against the author's 
will,) and I hope they will not attempt it. Why 
don't they bring out some of the numberless aspi- 
rants for theatrical celebrity, now encumbering their 
shelves, instead of lugging me out of the library ? 
I have written a fierce protest against any such at- 
tempt, but I still would hope that it will not be 
necessary, and that they will see, at once, that it is 
not intended for the stage. It is too regular — the 
time, twenty-four hours — the change of place not 
frequent — nothing jMe/o-dramatic — no surprises, no 
starts, nor trap-doors, nor opportunities ' for tossing 
their heads and kicking their heels ' — and no love — 
the grand ingredient of a modern play. 

"I have found out the seal cut oh Murray's let- 
ter. It is meant for Walter Scott — or »S'*> Walter- 
he is the first poet knighted since Sir Richard 
Blackmore. But it does not do him justice. Scott's 
— particularly when he recites — is a very intelligent 
countenance, and this seal says nothing. 

" Scott is certainly the most wonderful writer of 
the day. His novels are a new literature in them- 
selves, and his poetry as good as any — if not better 
(only on an erroneous system) — and only ceased to 
be so popular, because the vulgar learned were tired 
of hearing ' Aristides called the Just,' and Walter 
Scott the Best, and ostracised him. 

" I like him, too, for his manliness of character, 
for the extreme pleasantness of his conversation, 
and his good nature towards myself, personally. — 
May he prosper ! — for he deserves it. I know no 
reading to which I fall with such alacrity as a work 
of W. Scott's. I shall give the seal with his bust 
on it, to Madame la Contessa G. this evening, who 
will be curious to have the effigies of a man so cele- 
brated. 

" How'' strange are my thoughts ! — The reading of 
the song of Milton, ' Sabrina fair,' has brought 
back upon me — I know not how or why — the hap- 
piest, perhaps, days of my life (always excepting, 
here and there, a Harrow holyday in the two latter 
summers of my stay there,) which living at Cam- 
bridge with Edward Noel Long, afterward of the 
Guards, — who, after having served honorably in the 
expedition to Copenhagen, (of which two or three 
thousand scoundrels yet survive in plight and pay,) 
was drowned early in 1809, on his passage to Lisbon 
with his regiment in the St. George transport, which 
was run foul of, in the night, by another transport. 
We were rival swimmers— fond of riding — reading, 
and of conviviality. We had been at Harrow to- 
gether ; but — there, at least— his was a less boiste- 
rous spirit than mine. I was always cricketing — 
rebelling — fighting — roiving, (from row, not boat- 
rowing, a different practice,) and in all manner of 



1002 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



mischiefs ; while he was more sedate and polished. 
At Cambridge — both of Trinity — my spirit rather 
softened, or his roughened, for we became very great 
friends. The description of Sabrina's seat reminds 
me of our rival feats in divine/. Though Cam's is 
not a very ' translucent wave,' it was fourteen feet 
deep, where we used to dive for, and pick up — hav- 
ing thrown them in on purpose — plates, eggs, and 
even shillings. I remember, in particular, there 
was the stump of a tree (at least ten or twelve feet 
deep) in the bed of the river, in a spot where we 
bathed most commonly, round which I used to 
cling, and ' wonder how the devil I came there.' 

" Our evenings we passed in music (he was musi- 
cal, and played on more than one instrument, flute 
and violincello), in which I was audience; and 1 
think that our chief beverage was soda-water. In 
the day we rode, bathed, and lounged, reading occa- 
sionally. I remember our buying, with vast alacrity, 
Moore's new quarto, (in 1806,) and reading it to- 
gether in the evenings. 

"We only passed the summer together; — Long 
had gone into the Guards during the year I passed 
in Notts., away from college. His friendship and a 
violent, though pure, love and passion — which held 
me at the same period — were the then romance of 
the most romantic period of my life. 

* * * * * * 

''I remember that, in the spring of 1809, II * * 
laughed at my being distressed at Long's death, 
and amused himself with making epigrams upon his 
name, which was susceptible of a pun — Long, short, 
&c. But three years after he had ample leisure to 
repent it, when our mutual friend, and his, H * *'s, 
particular friend, Charles Matthews, was drowned 
also, and he, himself, was as much affected by a sim- 
ilar calamity. But / did not pay him back in puns 
and epigrams, for I valued Matthews too much, 
myself, to do so ; and, even if I had not, I should 
have respected his griefs. 

" Long's father wrote to me to write his son's epi- 
taph. I promised, — but had not the heart to com- 
plete it. He- was such a good, amiable being as 
rarely remains long in this world ; with talent and 
accomplishments, too, to make him the more re- 
gretted. Yet, although a cheerful companion, he 
had strange melancholy thoughts sometimes. I 
remember once that we were going to his uncle's, 
I think, — I went to accompany him to the door 
merely, in some Upper or Lower Grosvenor or 
Brook street, I forgot which, but it was in a street 
leading out of some square, — he told me that, the 
night before, he ' had taken up a pistol — not know- 
ing or examining whether it was loaded or no — and 
had snapped it at his head, leaving it to chance 
whether it might, or might not, be charged.' The 
letter too, which he wrote me, on leaving college, 
to join the Guards, was as melancholy in its tenor 
as it could well be on such an occasion. But he 
showed nothing of this in his deportment, being 
mild and gentle ; — and yet with much turn for the 
ludicrous in his disposition. We were both much 
attached to Harrow, and sometimes made excursions 
there together from London, to revive our schoolboy 
recollections. 

" Midnight. 

" Read the Italian translation of Guido Sorelli of 
the German Grill ( parzer — a devil of a name, to be 
sure, for posterity ; but they must learn to pro- 
nounce it. With all the allowance for a translation, 
and, above all, an Italian translation (they are the 
rery worst of translators, except from the Classics 
— Annibale Caro, for instance — and there the bas- 
tardy of their language helps them, as, by way of 
looking legitimate, they ape their father's tongue) — 
but with every allowance for such a disadvantage, 
the tragedy of Sappho is superb and sublime ! 
There is no denying it. The man has done a 
great thing in writing that play. And who is he? 
I know him not ; but ages will. 'Tis a high intel- 
lect. 



" 1 must premise, however, that 1 have read no 
thing of Adolph Milliner's, (the author of 'Guilt,') 
and much less of Goethe, and Schiller, and Wie- 
land than I could wish. I only know them through 
the medium of English, French, and Italian trans- 
lations. Of the real language I know absolutely 
nothing — except oaths learned from postillions and 
officers in a squabble. I can swear in German po- 
tently, when I like — 'Sacrament — Verflutcher — 
Hundsfott '—and so forth ; but I have little of their 
less energetic conversation. 

" I like, however, their women, (I was once so 
desperately in love with a German woman, Con- 
stance,) and all that I have read, translated of their 
writings, and all that I have seen on the Rhine of 
their country and people — all, except the Austrians, 
whom I abhor, loathe, and — I cannot find words for 
my hate of them, and should be sorry to find deeds 
correspondent to my hate ; for I abhor cruelty more 
than I abhor the Austrians — except on an impulse, 
and then I am savage — but not deliberately so. 

" Grillparzer is grand — antique — not so simple as 
the ancients, but very simple for a modern — too 
Madame de Stael-w/t now and then — but altogether 
a great and goodly writer. 

"January 13, 1821, Saturday. 

" Sketched the outline and drams, pers. of an 
intended tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have for 
some time meditated. Took the names from Dio- 
dorus Siculus, (I know the history of Sardanapalus, 
and have known it since I was twelve years old,) 
and read over a passage in the ninth vol. octavo of 
Mitford's Greece, where he rather vindicates the 
memory of this last of the Assyrians. 

"Dined — news come — the poicers mean to war 
with the peoples. The intelligence seems positive 
— let it be so — they will be beaten in the end. The 
king-times are fast finishing. There will be blood 
shed like water, and tears like mist ; but the peo- 
ples will conquer in the end. I shall not live to see 
it, but I foresee it. 

" I carried Teresa the Italian translation of Grill- 
parzer's Sappho, which she promises to read. She 
quarrelled with me, because I said that love was not 
the loftiest theme for true tragedy; and, having the 
advantage of her native language, and natural fe- 
male eloquence, she overcame my fewer arguments. 
I believe she was right. I must put more love 
into 'Sardanapalus' than I intended. I speak, of 
course, //'the times will allow me leisure. That if 
will hardly be a peacemaker. 

"January 14, 1821. 

"Turned over Seneca's tragedies. Wrote the 
opening lines of the intended tragedy of Sardanap- 
alus. Rode out some miles into the forest. Misty 
and rainy. Returned — dined — wrote some more of 
my tragedy. 

"Read Diodorus Siculus — turned over Seneca, 
and some other books. Wrote some more of the 
tragedy. Took a glass of grog. After having rid- 
den hard in rainy weather, and scribbled, and scrib- 
bled again, the spirits (at least mine) need a little 
exhilaration, and I don't like laudanum now as I 
used to do. So I have mixed a glass of strong 
waters and single waters, which I shall now proceed 
to empty. Therefore and thereunto I conclude this 
day's diary. 

" The effect of all wines and spirits upon me is, 
however, strange. It settles, but it makes me gloomy 
— gloomy at the very moment of their effect, and 
not gay hardly ever. But it composes for a time, 
though sullenly. 

" January 15, 1821. 

" Weather fine. Received visit. Rode out into 
the forest — fired pistols. Returned home — dined — 
dipped into a volume of Mitford's Greece — wrote 
part of a scene of 'Sardanapalus.' Went out — 
heard some music — heard some politics. More* 
ministers from the other Italian powers gone to 
Congress. War seems certain — in that case, it will 
be a savage one. Talked over various important 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN ITALY. 



1003 



matters with one of the initiated. At ten and half 
returned home. 

"I have just thought of something odd. In the 
year 1814, Moore (' the poet,' par excellence, and he 
deserves it) and I were going together, in the same 
carriage, to dine with Earl Grey, the Capo Politico 
of the remaining whigs. Murray, the magnificent, 
(the illustrious publisher of that name,) had just 
sent me a Java gazette — I know not why or where- 
fore. Pulling it out, by way of curiosity, we found 
it to contain a dispute (the said Java gazette) on 
Moore's merits and mine. I think, if I had been 
there, that I could have saved them the trouble of 
iisputing on the subject. But, there is fame for 
you at six-and-twenty ! Alexander had conquered 
India at the same age ; but I doubt if he was dis- 
puted about, or his conquests compared with those 
of Indian Bacchus, at Java. 

"It was great fame to be named with Moore; 
greater to be compared with him; greatest — -pleasure, 
at least — to be with him ; and, surely, an odd coin- 
cidence, that we should be dining together while 
they were quarrelling about us beyond the equinoc- 
tial line. 

" AVell, the same evening I met Lawrence, the 
painter, and heard one of Lord Grey's daughters 
(a fine, tall, spirit-looking girl, with much of the 
patrician thorough-bred look of her father, which I 
dote upon) play on the harp, so modestly and in- 
genuously, that she looked music. Well, I would 
rather have had my talk with Lawrence (who talked 
delightfully) and heard the girl, than have had all 
the fame of Moore and me put together. 

" The only pleasure of fame is that it paves the 
way to pleasure ; and the more intellectual our plea- 
sure, the better for the pleasure and for us too. It 
was, however, agreeable to have heard our fame 
before dinner, and a girl's harp after. 

" January 16, 1821. 

" Read — rode — fired pistols — returned — dined — 
wrote — visited — heard music — talked nonsense — and 
went home. 

"Wrote part of a tragedy — advance in act 1st 
with ' all deliberate speed.' Bought a blanket. 
The weather is still muggy as a London May — 
mist, mizzle, the air replete with Scotticisms, which, 
though fine in the descriptions of Ossian, are some- 
what tiresome, in real, prosaic perspective. Poli- 
tics still mysterious. 

"January 17, 1821. 

" Rode i' the forest — fired pistols — dined. Ar- 
rived, a packet of books from England and Lom- 
bard)' — English, Italian, French, and Latin. Read 
till eight — went out. 

" January 18, 1821. 

"To-day, the post arriving late, did not ride. 
Read letters — only two gazettes, instead of twelve 
now due. Made Lega write to that negligent Galig- 
nani, and added a postscript. Dined. 

" At eight proposed to go out. Lega came in 
with a letter about a bill unpaid at Venice, which I 
thought paid months ago. I flew into a paroxysm 
of rage, which almost made me faint. I have not 
been well ever since. I deserve it for being such a 
fool — but it was provoking — a set of scoundrels ! 
It is, however, but five-and-twenty pounds. 

" January 19, 1821. 

" Rode. Winter's wind somewhat more unkind 
than ingratitude itself, though Shakspeare says 
otherwise. At least, I am so much more ac- 
customed to meet with ingratitude than the north 
wind, that I thought the latter the sharper of the 
two. I had met with both in the course of the 
twenty-four hours, so could judge. 

" Thought of a plan of education for my daugh- 
ter Allegra, who ought to begin soon with her 
studies. Wrote a letter — afterward a postscript. 
Rather in low spirits — certainly hippish — liver 
touched — will take a dose of salts. 



" I have been reading the Life, by himself and 
daughter, of Mr. R. L. Edgeworth, the father of 
the Miss Edgeworth. It is altogether a great name. 
In 1813, I recollect to have met them in the fash- 
ionable world of London (of which I then formed 
an item, a fraction, the segment of a circle, the 
unit of a million, the nothing" of something) in the 
assemblies of the hour, and at a breakfast of Sir 
Humphrey and Lady Davy's, to which I was invited 
for the nonce. I had been the lion of 1812 ; Miss 
Edgeworth and Madame de Stael, with ' the Cos- 
sack,' towards the end of 1813, were the exhibitions 
of the succeeding year. 

"I thought Edgeworth a fine old fellow, of a 
clarety, elderly, red complexion, but active, brisk, 
and endless. He was seventy, but did not look 
fifty— no, nor forty-eight even. I had seen poor 
Fitzpatrick not very long before— a man of pleasure, 
wit, eloquence, all things. He tottered— but still 
talked like a gentleman, though feebly. Egdeworth 
bounced about, and talked loud and long"; but he 
seemed neither weakly nor decrepit, and hardly old. 

" He began by telling ' that he had given Dr. 
Parr a dressing, who had taken him for an Irish 
bog-trotter,' &c, &c. Now I, who know Dr. Parr, 
and who know (not by experience — for I never 
should have presumed so far as to contend with 
him— but by hearing him with others, and o/others) 
that it is not so easy a matter to ' dress him,' 
thought Mr. Edgeworth an assertor of what was 
not true. He could not have stood before Parr an 
instant. For the rest, he seemed intelligent, vehe- 
ment, vivacious, and full of life. He bids fair for a 
hundred years. 

" Ke was not much admired in London, and I 
remember a 'ryghte merrie ' and conceited jest 
which was rife among the gallants of the day, — viz., 
a paper had been presented for the recall of Mrs. 
Siddons to the stage, (she having lately taken leave, 
to the loss of ages, — for nothing ever was, or can 
be, like her,) to which all men had been called to 
subscribe. Whereupon, Thomas Moore, of profane 
and poetical memory, did propose that a similar 
paper should be Ascribed ,and e«rao?»scribed ' for 
the recall of Mr. Edgeworth to Ireland.'* 

" The fact was — every body cared more about her. 
She was a nice little unassuming ' Jeannie Deans'- 
looking bodie,' as we Scotch say — and, if not hand- 
some, certainly not ill-looking. Her conversation 
was a quiet as herself. One would never have 
guessed she could write her name ; whereas her 
father talked, not as if he could write nothing else, 
but as if nothing else was worth writing. 

"As for Mrs. Edgeworth, I forget — except that I 
think she was the youngest of the party. Alto- 
gether, they were an excellent cage of the kind; 
and succeeded for two months, till the landing of 
Madame de Stael. 

"To turn from them to their works, I admire 
them ; but they excite no feeling, and they leave 
no love — except for some Irish steward or postillion. 
However, the impression of intellect and prudence 
is profound — and may be useful. 

"January 20, 1821. 

" Rode — fired pistols. Read from Grimm's Cor- 
respondence. Dined — went out — heard music — re- 
turned — wrote a letter to the Lord Chamberlain to 
request him to prevent the theatres from represent- 
ing the ■ Doge,' which the Italian papers say that 
they are going to act. This is pretty work — what ! 
without asking my consent, and even in opposition 
to it! 

"January 12, 1821. 

" Fine, clear, frosty day — that is to say, an Ital- 
ian frost, for their winters hardly get beyond snow ; 
for which reason nobody knows how to skate (or 
skait) — a Dutch and English accomplishment. -~ 



In this, I rather think he was misinformed ; — whatever merit there maj 
be in the jest, I have not, as far as I can recollect, the slightest claim to U.-» 
Moore. 



1004 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Rode out, as usual, and fired pistols. Good shoot- 
ing — broke four common, and rather small, bottles, 
in four shots, at fourteen paces, with a common pair 
of pistols and indifferent powder. Almost as good 
watering or shooting — considering the difference of 
powder and pistols — as when in 1809, 1810, 1811, 
1812, 1813, 1811, it was* my luck to split walking- 
sticks, wafers, half-crowns, shillings, and even the 
eye of a walking-stick, at twelve paces, with a sin- 
gle bullet — and all by eye and calculation ; for my 
hand is not steady, and apt to change with the very 
weather. To the prowess which I here note, Joe 
Manton and others can bear testimony; — for the 
former taught and the latter have seen me do, these 
feats. 

" Dined — visited — came home — read. Remarked 
on an anecdote in Grimm's Correspondence, which 
says that ' Regnard et la plupart des poetes comi- 
ques etatient gens bilieux et melancoliques ; et que 
M. de Voltaire, qui est tres gai, n'a jamais fait que 
des tragedies — et que la comedie gaie est leseul 
genre on il n'ait point reussi. C'est que celui qui 
rit et celui qui fait rire sont deux hommes fort dif- 
fcrens.' — Vol. vi. 

"AC this moment a feel as bilious as the best 
comic writer of them all, (even as Regnard himself, 
the next to Moliere, who has written some of the 
best comedies in any language, and who is supposed 
to have committed suicide,) and am not in spirits 
to continue my proposed tragedy of Sardanapalus, 
which I have, for some days, ceased to compose. 

"To-morrow is my birth-day — that is to say, at 
twelve o' the clock, midnight, i. e. in twelve min- 
utes, I shall have completed thirty and three years 
of age ! ! ! — and I go to my bed with a heaviness of 
heart at having lived so long, and to so little pur- 
pose. 

" It is three minutes past twelve. — ' 'Tis the mid- 
dle of night by the castle clock,' and I am now 
thirty-three. 

* Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthuine, 
Labuntur anni ; ' — 

but I don't regret them ,so much for what I have 
done, as for what I might have done. 

" Through life's road, so dim and dirty, 
1 have dragged to thrce-and thirty. 
What have these years left to me ? 
Nothing except thirty-three. 

"January 22, 1821.* 



1821. 

HERE LIES, 
INTERRED IN THE ETERNITY 

OF THE PAST, 

FROM WHENCE THERE IS NO 

RESURRECTION 

FOR THE DAYS — WHATEVER THERE MAY BE 

FOR THE DUST — 

THE THIRTY-THIRD YEAR 

OF AN ILL-SPENT LIFE, 

WHICH AFTER 

A LINGERING DISEASE OF MANY MONTHS, 

SUNK INTO A LETHARGY, " 

AND EXPIRED 

JANUARY 22D, 1821, A. D. 

LEAVING A SUCCESSOR 

INCONSOLABLE 

FOR THE VERY LOSS WHICH 

OCCASIONED ITS 

EXISTENCE. 



" January 23, 1821. 

" Fine day. Read — rode — fired pistols, and re- 
turned. Dined — read. Went out at eight — made 
the usual visit. Heard of nothing but war, — ' the 



See letter cccclxzii. 



cry is still, They come.' The Car'- seem to have no 
plan — nothing fixed among themselves, how, when, 
or what to do. In that ca^se, they will make nothing 
of this project, so often postponed, and never put in 
action. 

" Came home, and gave some necessary orders, in 
case of circumstances requiring a change of place. 
I shall act according to what may seem proper, 
when I hear decidedly what the Barbarians mean to 
do. At present, they are building a bridge of boats 
over the Po, which looks very warlike. A few days 
will probably show. I think of retiring towards 
Ancona, nearer the northern frontier ; that is to 
say, if Teresa and her father are obliged to re- 
tire, which is most likely, as all the family are Lib 
erals. If not, I shall stay. But my movements 
will depend upon the lady's wishes, for myself, it is 
much the same. 

" I am somewhat puzzled what to do with my lit- 
tle daughter, and my effects, which are of some 
quantity and value, — and neither of them do in the 
seat of war where I think of going. But there is 
an elderly lady who will take charge of her, and T. 
says that the Marchese C. will undertake to hold the 
chattels in safe keeping. Half the city are getting 
their affairs in marching trim. A pretty Carnival ! 
The blackguards might as well have waited till 
Lent. 

"January 24, 1821. 

"Returned — met some masques in the Corso — 
' Vive la bagatelle ! ' — the Germans are on the Po, 
the Barbarians at the gate, arid their masters in 
council at Leybach, (or whatever the eructation of 
the sound may syllable into a human pronuncia- 
tion,) and lo ! they dance and sing and make merry, 
' for to-morrow they may die.' Who can say that 
the Arlequins are not right ? Like the Lady Baus- 
siere, and my old friend Burton — I ' rode on.' 

Dined — (damn this pen !) — beef tough — there 
is no beef in Italy worth a curse ; unless a man 
could eat an old ox with the hide on, singed in the 
sun. 

" The principal persons in the events which may 
occur in a few days, are gone out on a shooting party, 
If it were like a ' Highland hunting,' a pretext of 
the chase for a grand reunion of counsellors and 
chief, it would be all very well. But it is nothing 
more or less than a real snivelling, popping, small- 
shot, water-hen waste of powder, ammunition, and 
shot, for their own special amusement : — a rare set 
of fellows for ' a man to risk his neck with,' as 
' Marishal Wells ' says in the Black Dwarf. 

" If they gather, — ' whilk is to be doubted,' — they 
will not muster a thousand men. The reason of 
this is, that the populace are not interested, — only 
the higher and middle orders. I wish that the 
peasantry were : they are a fine savage race of two- 
legged leopards. But the Bolognese won't — the 
Romangnuoles can't without them. Or, if they 
try, what then ? They will try, and man can do no 
more — and, if he would but try his utmost, much 
might be done. The Dutch, for instance, against 
the Spaniards — then, the tyrants of Europe — since, 
the slaves — and, lately, the freedmen. 

" The year 1820 was not a fortunate one for the 
individual me, whatever it may be for the nations. 
I lost a lawsuit, after two decisions in my favor. — 
The project of lending money on an Irish mortgage 
was finally rejected by my wife's trustee, after a 
year's hope and trouble. The Rochdale lawsuit had 
endured fifteen years, and always prospered till I 
rharried ; since which, every thing has gone wrong — 
with me, aj; least. 

" In the same year, 1820, the Countess T. G. nata 
Ga. G>. in despite of all I said and did to pre- 
vent it, tcould separate from her husband, II Cava- 
lier Commeddatore G'. &c, &c, &c, and all on the 
account of ' P. P. clerk of this parish.' The other 
little petty vexations of the year — overturns in car- 
riages — the murder of people before one's door, and 
dying in one's beds — the cramp in swimming — 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN ITALY. 



100* 



colics —indigestions and bilious attacks, &c, &c, 
&c— 

1 Many small articles make up a sum, 
And hey ho for Caleb Q,uotem, oh ! ' 

"January 25, 1821. 

"Received a letter from Lord Sidney Osborne, 
state secretary of the Seven Islands — a fine fellow — 
clever — dished in England five years ago, and came 
abroad to retrench and renew. He wrote from An- 
cona, in his way back to Corfu, on some matters of 
our own. He is son of the late Duke of Leeds by 
a second marriage. He wants me to go to Corfu. 
Why not ? — perhaps I may, next spring. 

" Answered Murray's letter — read — lounged. — 
Scrawled this additional page of life's log-book. 
One day more is over, of it and of me ; — but ' which 
is best, life or death, the gods only know,' as Socra- 
tes said to his judges, on the breaking up of the tri- 
bunal. Two thousand years since that sage's decla- 
ration of ignorance have not enlightened us more 
upon this important point ; for, according to the 
Christian dispensation, no one can know whether he 
is sure of salvation — even the most righteous — since 
a single slip of faith may throw him on his back, 
like a skater, while gliding smoothly to his paradise. 
Now, therefore, whatever the certainty of faith in 
the facts may be, the certainty of the individual as 
to his happiness or misery is no greater than it was 
under Jupiter. 

" It has been said that the immortality of the 
soul, is a 'grand peutetre' — but still it is a grand 
one. Every body clings to it — the stupidest, and 
dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still 
pft-suaded that he is. immortal. 

" January 26, 1821. 

" Fine day — a few mares' tails portending change, 
but the sky clear, upon the whole. Rode — fired 
pistols — good shooting. Coming back, met an old 
man. Charity — purchased a shilling's worth of sal- 
vation. If that was to be bought, I have given 
more to my fellow-creatures in this life — sometimes 
for vice, but, if not more often, at least more consid- 
erabhj, for virtue — than I now possess. I never in 
my life gave a mistress so much as I have some- 
times given a poor man in honest distress ; — but, no 
matter. The scoundrels who have all along perse- 
cuted me* (with the help of** who has crowned their 
efforts) will triumph ; — and, when justice is done to 
me, it will be when this hand that writes is as cold 
as the hearts which have stung me. 

" Returning, on the bridge near the mill, met an 
old woman. I asked her age — she said, ' Trecroci.' 
I asked my groom (though myself a decent Italian) 
what the devil her three crosses meant. He said, 
ninety years, and that she had five years more to 
boot ! ! I repeated the same three times, not to 
mistake — ninety-five years ! ! ! — and she was yet 
rather active — heard my question, for she answered 
it — saw me, for she advanced towards me ; and did 
not appear at all decrepit, though certainly touched 
with years. Told her to come to-morrow, and will 
examine her myself. I love phenomena. If she is 
ninety-five years old, she must recollect the Cardinal 
Alberoni, who was legate here. 

" On dismounting, found Lieutenant E. just ar- 
rived from Faenza. Invited him to dine with me 
to-morrow. Did not invite him for to-day, be- 
cause there was a small turbot, (Friday, fast regu- 
lar' y and religiously,) which I wanted to eat all my- 
.eli. Ate it. 

" Went out— "found Teresa as usual — music. The 
gentlemen, who make revolutions, and are gone 
on a shooting, are not yet returned. They don't 
return till Sunday — that is to say, they have been 
out for five days, buffooning, while the interests of 
a whole country are at stake, and even they them 
selves compromised. 

" It is a difficult part to play among such a set of 



Childe Harold, Canto IV., stanza cxxxvji., and note to the Two Foscari. 



assassins and blockheads — but, when the scum is 
skimmed off, or has boiled over, good may come oi 
it. If this country could but be freed, what would 
be too great for the accomplishment of that desire ? 
for the extinction of that Sigh of Ages ? Let us 
hope. They have hoped these thousand years. The 
very revolvement of the chances may bring it — it is 
upon the dice. 

" If the Neapolitans have but a single Massani- 
ello among them, they will beat the bloody butchers 
of the crown and sabre. Holland, in worse circum- 
stances, beat the Spains and Philips ; America beat 
the English ; Greece beat Xerxes ; and France 
beat Europe, till she took a tyrant ; South America 
beats her old vultures out of their nest ; and, if 
these men are but firm in themselves, there is 
nothing to shake them from without. 

"January 28, 1821. 

" Lugano Gazette did not come. Letters from 
Venice. It appears that the Austrian brutes have 
seized my three or four pounds of English powder. 
The scoundrels ! — I hope to pay them in ball for that 
powder. Rode out till twilight. 

" Pondered the subjects of four tragedies to be 
written, (life and circumstances permitting,) to wit, 
Sardanapalus, already begun ; Cain, a metaphysical 
subject, something in the style of Manfred, but in 
five acts, perhaps, with the chorus ; Francesca of 
Rimini, in five acts ; and I am not sure that I would 
not try Tiberius. I think that I could extract a 
something, of my tragic, at least, out of the gloomy 
sequestration and old age of the tyrant — and even 
out of his sojourn at Caprea — by softening the de- 
tails, and exhibiting the despair which must have 
led to those very vicious pleasures. For none but 
a powerful and gloomy mind overthrown would 
have had recourse to such solitary horrors, — being 
also, at the same time, old, and the master of the 
world. 

" Memoranda. 

" What is poetry ? — The feeling of a Former 
world and Future. 

" Thought Second. 

" Why, at the very height of desire and human 
pleasure, — worldly, social, amorous, ambitious, or 
even avaricious, — does there mingle a certain sense 
of doubt and sorrow — a fear of what is to come — a 
doubt of what is — a retrospect to the past, leading 
to a prognostication of the future ? (The best of' 
Prophets of the Future is the Past.) Why is this ? 
or these ? — I know not, except that on a pinnacle 
we are most susceptible of giddiness, and that we 
never fear falling except from a precipice — the high- 
er, the more awful, and the more sublime ; and, 
therefore, I am not sure that fear is not a pleasura 1 
blesensation ; at least Hope is ; and what Hope is 
there without a deep leaven of Fear ? and what sen- 
sation is so delightful as Hope ? and, if it were not 
for Hope wfcat would the Future be ? — in hell. It is 
useless to say where the Present is, for most of us 
know; and as for the Past, what predominates in 
memory ? — Hope baffled. Ergo, in all human affairs, 
it is Hope — Hope — Hope. I allow sixteen minutes, 
though I never counted them, to any given or sup- 
posed, possession. From whatever place we com- 
mence, we know where it all must end. And yet, 
what good is there in knowing it ? It does not 
make men better or wiser. During the greatest- 
horrors of the greatest plagues, (Athens and Flor- 
ence, for example — see Thucydides and Machia- 
velli,) men were more cruel and profligate thanever. 
It is all a mystery. I feel most things, but I know 
nothing, except — — — 



* Thus marked, with impatient strokes of the pen, by himself in th, 
original. 



1006 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Thought for a speech of Lucifer, in the tragedy of 
Cam : — 

" Were, Death an evil, would / let thee tin* ? 
Fool 1 live as I live — as thy father lives, 
And thy son's sjiis shall live for ever more. 

" Past Midnight. One o' the clock. 

" I have been reading W. F. Schlegel (brother to 
the other of the name) till now, and I can make out 
nothing. He evidently shows a great power of 
words, but there is nothing to be taken hold of. He 
is like Hazlitt, in English, who talks pimples — a red 
and white corruption rising up, (in little imitation 
of mountains upon maps,) but containing nothing, 
and discharging nothing, except their own humors. 

" I dislike him the worse, (that is, Schlegel,) be- 
cause he always seems upon the verge of meaning ; 
and, lo, he goes down like sunset, or melts like a 
rainbow, leaving a rather rich confusion, — to which, 
however, the above comparisons do too much honor. 

" Continuing to read Mr. F. Schlegel. He is not 
such a fool as I took him for, that is to say, when 
he speaks of the North. But still he speaks of 
things all over the world with a kind of authority 
that a philosopher would disdain, and a man of 
common sense, feeling, and knowledge of his own 
ignorance, would be ashamed of. The man is evi- 
dently wanting to make an impression, like his 
brother, — or like George in the Vicar of Wakefield, 
who found out that all the good things had been 
said already on the right side, and therefore ' dressed 
up some paradoxes ' upon the wrong side — inge- 
nious, but false, as he himself says — to which ' the 
learned world said nothing, nothing at all, sir.' The 
'learned world,' however, has said something to the 
brothers Schlegel. 

" It is high time to think of something else. 
What they say of the antiquities of the North is 
best. 

"January 29th, 1821. 

"Yesterday the woman of ninety-five years of 
age was with me. She said her eldest son (if now 
alive) would have been seventy. She is thin — short, 
but active — hears, and sees, and talks incessantly. 
Several teeth left — all in the lower jaw, and single 
front teeth. She is very deeply wrinkled, and has a 
sort of scattered gray beard over her chin, at least 
as long as my mustachios. Her head, in fact, 
resembles the drawing jn crayons of Pope the poet's 
mother, which is in some editions of his works. 

" I forgot to ask her if she remembered Alberoni, 
(legate here,) but will ask her next time. Gave her 
a louis — ordered her a new suit of clothes, and put 
her upon a weekly pension. Till now, she had worked 
at gathering wood and pine-nuts in the forest, — 
pretty work at ninety-five years old ! She had a 
dozen children, of whom some are alive. Her name 
is Maria Montanari. 

" Met a company of the sect (a kind of Liberal 
club) called the ' American! Mn the forest, all armed, 
and singing, with all their might, in Romagnuole — 
' Se>» tutti soldat' per la liberta,' (' we are all soldiers 
for liberty.') They cheered me as I passed — I re- 
turned their salute, and rode on. This may show 
the spirit of Italy at present. 

" My to-day's journal consists of what I omitted 
yesterday. To-day was much as usual. Have rather 
a better opinion of the writings of the Schlegels 
than I had four-and-twenty hours ago; and will 
amend it still farther, if possible. 

"They say, that the Piedmontese have at length 
risen — ca ira. 

" Read Schlegel. Of Dante he says that ' at no 
time has the greatest and most national of all Ital- 
ian poets ever been much the favorite of his coun- 
trymen.' 'Tis false ! There have been more edit- 
ors and commentators (and imitators, ultimately) of 
Dante than of all their poets put together. Not a 
favorite ! Why, they talk Dante — write Dante — and 
think and dream Dante at this moment (1821) to an 
excess, which would be ridiculous, but that he de- 
fences it. 



" In the same style this German talks of gondo- 
las on the Arno — a precious fellow to dare to speak 
of Italy ! 

" He says also that Dante's chief defect is a want, 
in a word, of gentle feelings. Of gentle feelings ! — 
and Francesca of Rimini — and the father's feelings 
in Ugolino — and Beatrice — and ' La Pia ! ' Why, 
there is a gentleness in Dante beyond all gentle- 
ness, when he is tender. It is true that, treating of 
the Christian Hades, or Hell, there is not much 
scope or site for gentleness — but who but Dante 
could have introduced any 'gentleness' at all into 
Hell? Is there any in Milton's ? No — and Dante's 
Heaven is all love, and glory, and majesty. 



"I have found out, however, where the German 
is right— it is about the Vicar of Wakefield. ' Of 
all romances in miniature, (and perhaps, this is the 
best shape in which romance can appear,) the Vicar 
of Wakefield is, I think, the most exquisite.' He 
thinks ! — he might be sure. But it is very well for 
a Schlegel. I feel sleepy, and may as well get me 
to bed. To-morrow there will be fine weather. 

1 Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.* 

"January 13, 1821. 

" The Count P. G. this evening (by commission 
from the C') transmitted to me the new words for 
the next six months. * * * and * * *. The new 
sacred word is * * * — the reply * * * — the rejoinder 
* * *. The former word (now changed) was * * * — 
there is also * * * — * * *.\ Things seem fast coin- 
ing to a crisis — effl ira ! 

" We talked over various matters of moment and 
movement. These I omit ; — if they come to any 
thing, they will speak for themselves. After these, 
we spoke of Kosciusko. Count R. G. told me that 
he has seen the Polish officers in the Italian war 
burst into tears on hearing his name. 

" Something must be up in Piedmont — all the let- 
ters and papers are stopped. Nobody knows any 
thing, and the Germans are concentrating neai 
Mantua. Of the decision of Laybach, nothing is 
known. This state of things cannot last long. The 
ferment in men's minds at present cannot be con- 
ceived without seeing it. 

"Jan. 31,1821. 

"For several days I have not written any thing 
except a few answers to letters. In momentary ex- 
pectation of an explosion of some kind, it is not 
easy to settle down to the desk for the higher kinds 
of composition. I could do it, to be sure ; for, last 
summer, I wrote my drama in the very bustle of 
Madame la Contesse G.'s divorce and all its process 
of accompaniments. At the same time, I also had 
the news of the loss of an important lawsuit in Eng- 
land. But these were only private and personal 
business ; the present is of a different nature. 

" I suppose it is this, but have some suspicion 
that it may be laziness, which prevents me from 
writing ; especially as Rochefoucault says that 'lazi- 
ness often masters them all' — speaking of the pas- 
sions. If this were true, it could hardly be said that 
idleness is the root of all evil,' since this is sup- 
posed to spring from the passions only ; ergo, that 
which masters all the passions (laziness, to wit) 
would in so much be a good. Who knows ? 

" Midnight. 

' I have been reading Grimm's Correspondence. 
He repeats frequently, in speaking of a poet, or of 
a man of genius in any department, even in music, 
(Gretry, for instance,) that he must have 'une ame 
qui se tourmente un esprit violent.' How far this 
may be true, I know not ; but if it were, I should be 
a poet ' per eccellenza ; ' for I have always 1 ad ' une 



t In the original MS. these watchwords are blotted over, so as to be illegrole, 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 'IN ITALY. 



3007 



>tme,' which not only tormented itself but every 
body else in contact with it ; and an ' esprit violent,' 
which has almost left me without any ' esprit ' at 
all. As to defining what a poet should be, it is not 
worth while, for what are they worth ? what have 
they done ? 

" Grimm, however, is an excellent critic and lit- 
erary historian. His Correspondents form the an- 
nals of the literary part of that age of France, with 
much of her politics, and still more of her ' way of 
life.' He is as valuable, and far more entertaining 
than Muratori or Tiraboschi — I had almost said, 
than Guingenf — but there we should pause. How- 
ever, 'tis a great man in its line. 

" Monsieur St. Lambert has 



; Et [orsqu'l 
II n'a plus 



j regards la lumiere esl ravie, 
i mourant, a pertlre que la vie.' 



This is, word for word, Thomson's 

■ And living, all we can resign is breath,* 

without the smallest acknowledgement from the 
Lorraine of a poet. M. St. Lambert is dead as a 
man, and (for any thing I know to the contrary) 
damned as a poet, by this time. However, his Sea- 
sons have good things, and, it may be, some of his 
own. 

" February 2, 1821. 

" I have been considering what can be the reason 
why I always wake at a certain hour in the morn 
ing, and always in very bad spirits — I may say, ii 
actual despair and despondency, in all respects- 
even of that which pleased me over night. In about 
an hour or two, this goes off, and I compose either 
to sleep again, or at least, to quiet. In England, 
five years ago, I had the same kind of hypochondria, 
but accompanied with so violent a thirst that I have 
drank as many as fifteen bottles of soda-water in 
one night, after going to bed, and been still thirsty 
— calculating, however, some lost from the bursting 
out and effervescence and overflowing of the soda- 
water, in drawing the corks, or striking off the 
necks of the bottles from mere thirsty impatience. 
At present, I have not the thirst ; but the depres- 
sion of spirits is no less violent. 

"I read in Edgeworth's Memoirs of something 
similar (except that his thirst expanded itself on 
small beer) in the case of Sir F. B. Delaval ; — but 
then he was, at least, twenty years older. What is 
it ? — liver ? In England, Le Man (the apothecary) 
cured me of the thirst in three days, and it had 
lasted as many years. I suppose that it is all hypo- 
chondria. 

" What I feel most growing upon me are laziness 
and a disrelish more powerful than indifference. If 
I rouse, it is into fury. I presume that I shall end 
(if not earlier by accident, or some such termina- 
tion) like Swift — ' dying a top.' I confess I do not 
contemplate this with so much horror as he appa- 
rently did for some years before it happened. But 
Swift had hardly begun life at the very period (thirty 
three*) when I feel quite an old sort of feel. 

" Oh ! there is aa organ playing in the street — a 
waltz, too ! I must leave off to listen. They are 
playing a waltz, which I have heard ten thousand 
times at the balls in London, betwen 1812 and 1815. 
Music is a strange thing. 

" February 5, 1821. 

" At last, ' the kiln's in a low.' The Germans 
are ordered to march, and Italy is, for the ten thou- 
sandth time, to become a field of battle. Last night 
the news came. 

" This afternoon, Count P. G. came to me to con- 
sult upon divers matters. We rode out together. 
They have sent off to the C. for orders. To-morrow 
the decision ought to arrive, and then something 
will be done. Returned — dined — read — went out — 
talked over matters. Made a purchase of some 
arms for the new enrolled Americani, who are all on 



See Journal, January 6, 1821. 



tiptoe to march. Gave orders for some harness and 
portmanteaus for the horses. 

" Read some of Bowles's dispute about Pope, 
with all the replies and rejoinders. Perceive that 
my name has been lugged into the controversy, but 
have not time to state what I know of the subject. 
On some ' piping day of peace ' it is probable that I 
may resume it. 

" February 9, 1821. 

" Before dinner wrote a little ; also, before I rode 
out, Count P. G. called upon me, to let me know 
the result of the meeting of the C>- at F. and at B. 
* * returned last night. Every thing was combined 
under the idea that the Barbarians would pass the 
Po on the 15th inst. Instead of this, from some 
previous information or otherwise* they have hasten- 
ed their march and actually passed two days ago ; 
so that all that can be done at present in Romagna 
is, to stand on the alert and wait for the advance of 
the Neapolitans. Every thing was ready, and the 
Neapolitans had sent on their own instructions and 
intentions, and calculated for the tenth and eleventh, 
on which days a general rising was to take place, 
under the supposition that the Barbarians could 
not advance before the 15th. 

" As it is, they have but fifty or sixty thousand 
troops, a number with which they might as well 
attempt to conquer the world as secure "italv in its 
present state. The artillery marches last, and ulone, 
and there is an idea of an attempt to cut part of 
them off. All this will much depend upon the first 
steps of the Neapolitans. Here, the public spirit is 
excellent, provided it be kept up. This will be seen 
by the event. 

" It is probable that Italy will be delivered from 
the Barbarians, if the Neapolitans will but stand 
firm, and are united among themselves. Hem they 
appear so. 

"February 10, 1821. 

"Day passed as usual — nothing new. Barbari- 
ans still in march — not well equipped, and, of 
course, not well received on their route. There is 
some talk of a commotion at Paris. 

" Rode out between four and six — finished my 
letter to Murray on Bowles's pamphlets — added 
postscript. Passed the evening as usual — out till 
eleven — and subsequently at home. 

"February 11, 1321. 

"Wrote — had a copy taken of an extract from 
Petrarch's Letters, with reference to the conspiracy 
of the Doge, M. Faliero, containing the poet's 
opinion of the matter. Heard a heavy firing of 
cannon towards Comacchio — the Barbarians rejoic- 
ing for their principal pig's birthday, which is to- 
morrow—or Saint day — I forget which. Received 
a ticket for the first ball to-morrow. Shall not go 
to the first, but intend going to the second, as also 
to the Veglioni. 

"February 13, 1821. 

" To-day read a little in Louis B.'s Holland^?, biu 
have written nothing since the completion of the 
letter on the Pope controversy. Politics are quite 
misty for the present. The Barbarians still upon 
their march. It is not easy to divine what the Ital- 
ians will now do. 

" Was elected yesterday ' Socio ' of the Carnival 
ball society. This is the fifth Carnival that I have 
passed. In the four former, I racketed a dood deal. 
In the present, I have been as sober as Lady Grace 
herself. 

"February 11, 1821. 

" Much as usual. Wrote, before riding out, part 
of a scence of ' Sardanapalus.' The first act nearly 
finished. The rest of the day and evening as before 
— partly without, in conversazione — partly at home. 

" Heard the particulars of the late fray at Russi, 
a town not far from this. It is exactly the fact of 
Romeo and Giulietta — not Romeo, as the Barbarian 
writes it. Two families of Contadini (peasants) are 
at a feud. At a ball, the younger part of the fami- 



1008 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



lies forget their quarrels, and dance together. An 
old man of one of them enters, and reproves the 
young men for dancing with the females of the op- 
posite family. The male relatives of the latter 
resent this. Both parties rush home, and arm 
themselves. They meet directly, by moonlight, in 
the public way, and fight it out. Three are killed 
on the spot, and six wounded, most of them danger- 
ously, — pretty well for two families, methinks — and 
all fact, of the last week. Another assassination 
has taken place at Cesenna, — in all about forty in 
Romagna within these last three months. These 
people retain much of the middle ages. 

" February 15, 1821. 

" Last night finished the first act of Sardanapa- 
lus. To-night, or to-morrow, I ought to answer 
letters. 

" February 1G, 1821. 

"Last night II Conte P. G. sent a man, with a 
bag full of bayonets, some muskets, and some hun- 
dreds of cartridges to my house, without apprizing 
me, though I had seen him not half an hour before. 
About ten days ago, when there was to be a rising 
here, the Liberals and my brethren C'. asked me to 
purchase some arms for a certain few of our raga- 
muffins. I did so immediately, and ordered ammuni- 
tion, &c, and they were armed accordingly. Well 
— the rising is prevented by the Barbarians march- 
ing a week sooner than appointed ; and an order is 
issued, and in force, by the Government, that all 
persons having arms concealed, &c, &c, shall be 
liable to,' &c, &c— and what do my friends, the 
patriots, do two days afterward ? Why, they throw 
back upon my hands, and into my house, these very 
arms (without a word of warning previously) with 
which I had furnished them at their own request, 
and at my own peril and expense. 

" It was lucky that Lega was at home to receive 
them. If any of the servants had (except Tita and 
F. and Lega) they would have betrayed it immedi- 
ately. In the mean time, if they are denounced, or 
discovered, I shall be in a scrape. 

" At nine went out — at eleven returned. Beat 
the crow for stealing the falcon's victuals. Read 
' Tales of my Landlord ' — wrote a letter — and mixed 
a moderate beaker of water with other ingredients. 

" February 18, 1821. 

" The news are that the Neapolitans have broken 
a bridge, and slain four pontifical carabiniers, whilk 
carabiniers, wish to oppose. Besides the disrespect 
to neutrality, it is a pity that the first blood shed in 
this German quarrel should be Italian. However, 
the war seems begun in good earnest; for, if the 
Neapolitans kill the Pope's carabiniers, they will 
not be more delicate towards the Barbarians. If it 
be even so, in a short time, ' there will be news o' 
thae craws,' as Mrs. Alison Wilson says of Jenny 
Blane's ' unco cockemony ' in the Tales of my 
Landlord. 

■ l, In turning over Grimm's Correspondence to- 
day, I found a thought of Tom Moore's in a song 
of Maupcrtuis to a female Laplander. 



1 Kt tous les lienx, 
Oil sont ses yeux, 
Font la Zuiil- brulante.' 



This is Moore's — 



ake my climate, wherever 1 roam.' 



But I am sure that Moore never saw it ; for this 
song was published in Grimm's Correspondence in 
1813, and I knew Moore's by heart in 1812. There 
is also another but an antithetical coincidence. 

' Le soleim luit, 
Des jours sans nuit 
Eientot il nous destine ; 
Mais ces longs jours 
Seront trop courts, 
Passees pres des ChrUUne.' 



" This is the thought, reversed, of the last stanza 
of the ballad on Charlotte Lynes, given in Miss 
Seward's Memoirs of Darwin, which is pretty — I 
quote from memory of these last fifteen years. 

• For my first night I'll go 

To those regions of snow, 
Where the sun for six months never shines ; 

And think, even then, 

He too soon came again, 
To disturb me with fair Charlotte Lynes.' 

" To-day I have had no communication with my 
Carbonari cronies ; but, in the mean time, my lower 
apartments are full of their bayonets, fusils, car- 
tridges, and what not. I suppose that they con- 
sider me as a depot, to be sacrificed, in case of 
accidents. It is no great matter, supposing that 
Italy could be liberated, who or what is sacrificed. 
It is a grand object — the very poetry of politics. 
Only think — a free Italy ! ! ! Why, there has been 
nothing like it since the days of Augustus. I 
reckon the times of Caesar (Julius) free ; because 
the commotions left every body a side to take, and 
the parties were pretty equal at the set out. But, 
afterward, it was all Pretorian and legionary busi- 
ness — we shall see, or at least, some will see, what 
card will turn up. It is best to hope, even of the 
hopeless. The Dutch did more than these fellows 
have to do, in the Seventy Years' War. 

" February 19, 1821. 

" Came home solus — very high wind — lightning — 
moonshine — solitary stragglers muffled in cloaks — 
women in masks — white houses — clouds hurrying 
over the sky, like split milk blown out of the pail — 
altogether very poetical. It is still blowing hard— 
the tiles flying, and the house rocking — rain splash- 
ing — lightning flashing — quite a fine Swiss Alpine 
evening, and the sea roaring in the distance. 

" Visited conversazione. All the women fright- 
ened by the squall: they won't go to the masquerade 
because it lightens — the pious reason ! 

" Still blowing away. A. has sent me some news 
to-day. The war approaches nearer and nearer. Oh 
those scoundrel sovereigns ! Let us but see them 
beaten — let the Neapolitans but have the pluck of 
the Dutch of old, or of the Spaniards of now, or of 
the German Protestants, the Scotch Presbyterians, 
the Swiss under Tell, or the Greeks under Themis- 
tocles — all small and solitary nations, (except the 
Spaniards and German Lutherans,) and there is yet 
a resurrection for Italy, and a hope for the world. 

" February 20, 1821. 

"The news of the clay are, that the Neapolitans 
are full of energy. The public spirit here is cer- 
tainly well kept up. The ' Americani ' (a patriotic 
society here, an underbranch of the 'Carbonari') 
give a dinner, in the Forest in a few days, and have 
invited me, as one of the C'. It is to be in the 
Forest of Boccaccio's and Dryden's ' Huntsman's 
Ghost ; ' and, even if I had not the same political 
feelings, (to say nothing of my old convivial turn, 
which every now and then revives,) I would go as a 
poet, or, at least, as a lover of poetry. I shall ex- 
pect to see the spectre of ' Ostasio* degli Onesti ' 
(Dryden has turned him into Guido Cavalcanti — an 
essentially different person, as may be found in 
Dante) come 'thundering for his prey 't in the 
midst of the festival. At any rate, whether he 
does or no, I will get as tipsy and patriotic as pos- 
sible. 

"Within these few days I have read, but not 
written. 

" February 21, 1821. 

"As usual, rode — visited, &c. Business begins 



• In Boccaccio, the name is, I think, Nestag 
t See Don Juan, Canto III., cv. and cvi. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN ITALY. 



1009 



to thicken. The Pope has printed a declaration 
against the patriots, who, he says, meditate a rising 
The consequence of all this will be, that, in a fort 
night, the whole country will be up. The procla 
mation is not yet published, but printed, ready for 
distribution. * * sent me a copy privately — a sign 
that he does not know what to think. When he 
wants to be well with the patriots, he sends to me 
seme civil message or other. 

" For my own part, it seems to me, that nothing 
but the most decided success of the Barbarians can 
prevent a general and immediate rise of the whole 
nation. 

" February 23, 1821. 

" Almost ditto with yesterday — rode, &c. — visited 
— wrote nothing — read Roman History. 

" Had a curious letter from a fellow, who informs 
me that the Barbarians are ill-disposed towards me. 
He is probably a spy, or an impostor. But be it so, 
even as he says. Their cannot bestow their hostili- 
ty on one who loathes and execrates them more than 
I do, or who will oppose their views with more zeal, 
when the opportunity offers. 

" February 24, 1821. 

"Rode, &c, as usual. The secret intelligence 
arrived this morning from the frontier to the C'. is 
as bad as possible. The^fatt has missed — the chiefs 
are betrayed, military as well as civil — and the Nea- 
politans not only have not moved, but have declared 
to the P. government, and to the Barbarians, that 
they know nothing of the matter ! ! ! 

" Thus the world goes ; and thus the Italians are 
always lost for lack of union among themselves. 
What is to be done here, between the two fires, and 
cut off from the N n . frontier, is not decided. My 
opinion was, better to rise than be taken in detail ; 
but how it will be settled now, I cannot tell. Mes- 
sengers are despatched to the delegates of the other 
cities to learn their resolutions. 

" I always had an idea that it would be bungled; 
but was willing to hope, and am so still. Whatever 
I can do by money, means, or person, I will venture 
freely for their freedom ; and have so repeated to 
them (some of the chiefs here) half an hour ago. I 
have two thousand five hundred scudi, better than 
five hundred pounds, in the house, which I offered 
to begin with. 

" February 25, 1821. 

"Came home — my head aches — plenty of news, 
but too tiresome to set down. I have neither read, 
nor written, nor thought, but led a purely animal 
life all day. I mean to try to write a page or two 
before I go to bed. But, as Squire Sullen says, 
' My head aches consumedly : Scrub, bring me a 
dram ! ' Drank some Imola wine, and some punch. 



Log-book continued.* 

" February 27, 1821. 

" I have been a day without continuing the log, 
because I could not find a blank book. At length 
I recollected this. 

"Rode, &c, — dined — wrote down an occasional 
stanza for the 5th canto of D. J., which I had com- 
posed in bed this morning. Visited V Arnica. We 
are invited on the night of the Veglione, (next 
Domenica) with the Marchesa Clelia Cavelli and 



* In another paper-book. 

127 



the Countess Spinelli Rusponi. I promised to go. 
Last night there was a row at the ball, of which I 
am a ' socio.' The vice-legate had the impudent 
insolence to introduce three of his servants in mask 
— without tickets, too ! and in spite of remonstrances. 
The consequence was, that the young men of the 
ball took it up, and were near throwing the vice- 
legate out of the window. His servants, seeing the 
scene, withdrew, and he after them. His reverence 
Monsignore ought to know, that these are not times 
for the predominance of priests over decorum. Two 
minutes more, two steps farther, and the whole city 
would have been in arms, and the government driven 
out of it. 

" Such is the spirit of day, and these fellows ap- 
pear not to perceive it. As far as the simple fact 
went, the young men were right, servants being pro- 
hibited always at these festivals. 

"Yesterday wrote two notes on the 'Bowles and 
Pope controversy,' and sent them off to Murray by 
the post. The old woman whom I relieved in the 
forest (she is ninety-four years of age*) brought me 
two bunches of violets. ' Nan vita gaudet mortua 
floribus.' I was much pleased with the present. 
An Englishwoman would have presented a pair of 
worsted stockings, at least, in the month of Febru- 
ary. Both excellent things ; but the former are 
more elegant. The present, at this season, reminds 
one of Gray's stanza, omitted from his elegy. 

1 Here scatter'd oft, (be earliest of the year, 

By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; 
The redbreast loves to build und warble here, 
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.' 

As fine a stanza as any in his elegy. I wonder that 
he could have the heart to omit it. 

" Last night I suffered horribly — from an indiges- 
tion, I believe. I never sup — that is, never at 
home. But, last night, I was prevailed upon by 
the Countess Gamba's persuasion, and the strenu- 
ous example of her brother, to swallow, at supper, 
a quantity of boiled cockles, and to dilute them, not 
reluctantly, with some Imola wine. When I came 
home, apprehensive of the consequences, I swal- 
lowed three or four glasses of spirits, which men 
(the venders) call brandy, rum, or Hollands, but 
which gods would entitle spirits of wine, colored or 
s'ugared. All was pretty well till I got to bed, when 
I became somewhat swollen, and considerably ver- 
tiginous. I got out, and mixing some soda-powders, 
drank them off. This brought on temporary relief. 
I returned to bed ; but grew sick and sorry once 
and again. Took more soda-water. At last I fell 
into a dreary sleep. Woke, and was ill all day, till 
I had galloped a few miles. Query — was it the 
cockles, or what I took to correct them, that caused 
the commotion ? I think both. I remarked in my 
illness the complete inertion, inaction, and destruc- 
tion of my chief mental faculties. I tried to rouse 
them, and yet could not — and this is the Soul! ! ! I 
should believe that it was married to the body, if 
they did not sympathize so much with each other. 
If the one rose, when the other fell, it would be a 
sign that they longed for the natural state of divorce. 
But, as it is, they seem to draw together like post- 
horses. 

' Let us hope the best — it is the grand posses- 
sion." 



See Journal, Jan. 26. 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 

[EXTRACTED FROM VARIOUS JOURNALS, MEMORANDUMS, &c. &,c] 



" On the first leaf of his " Scriptores Groeci " is, 
in his schoolboy hand, the following memorial : — 
" George Gordon Byron, Wednesday, June 26th, 
A. D. 1805, three quarters of an hour past three 
o'clock in the afternoon third school, — Calvert, 
monitor, Tom Wildman on my left hand, and Long 
on my right. Harrow on the Hill." On the same 
leaf, written five years after, appears this comment : 

" Ehue fugaces, Posthume I Poalhume ! 
Labuntur atmi. 

"B. January 9th, 1809. — Of the four persons 
whose names are here mentioned, one is dead, 
another in a distant climate, all separated, and not 
five years have elapsed since they sat together in 
school, and none are yet twenty-one years of age." 

In some of his other school-books are recorded 
the date of his entrance at Harrow, the names of 
the boys who were at that time monitors, and the 
list of his fellow-pupils, under Doctor Drury, as 
follows : 

" Byron, Harrow on the Hill, Middlesex, Alum- 
nus Schola3 Lyonensis primus in anno Domini 1801, 
Ellison Duce." 

" Monitors, 18A1.— Ellison, Itoyston, Hunxman, 
Rashleigh, Rokeby, Leigh." 

" Drury's Pupils, 1804. — Byron, Drury, Sinclair, 
Hoare, Bolder, Annesley, Calvert, Strong, Acland, 
Gordon, Drummond." 

****** 

" For several years of my earliest childhood, I 
was in Aberdeen, but have never revisited it since I 
was ten years old. I was sent,. at five years old or 
earlier, to a school kept by a Mr. Bowers, who was 
called ' Bodsy Bowers,' by reason of his dapperness. 
It was a school for both sexes. I learned little there 
except to repeat by rote the first lesson of Monosyl- 
lables (' God made man ' — 'Let us love him ') by 
hearing it often repeated, without acquiring a letter. 
Whenever proof was made of my progress at home, 
I repeated these words with the most rapid fluency ; 
but on turning over a new leaf, I continued "to 
repeat them, so that the narrow boundaries of my 
first year's accomplishments were detected, my ears 
boxed, (which they did not deserve, seeing it was by 
ear only that I had acquired my letters,) and my 
intellects consigned to a new preceptor. He was a 
very devout, clever little clergyman, named Koss, 
afterward minister of one of the kirks, (East, I 
think.) Under him I made astonishing progress 
and I recollect to this day his mild manners and 
good-natured pains-taking. The moment I could 
read, my grand passion was history, and, why I 
know not, but I was particularly taken with the 
battle near the Lake Regillus in the Roman His- 
tory, put into my hands first. Four years ago, 
when standing on the heights of Tusculum, and 



looking down upon the little round lake that was 
once Regillus, and which dots the immense expanse 
below, I remembered my young enthusiasm and my 
old instructor. Afterward I had a very serious, 
saturnine, but kind young man, named Paterson, 
for a tutor. He was the son of my shoemaker, but 
a good scholar, as is common with the Scotch. He 
was a rigid Presbyterian also. With him I began 
Latin in Ruddiman's grammar, and continued till I 
went to the ' Grammar school ' (Scotic-, ' Schule ; ' 
Aberdonice, ' Squeel,') where I threaded all the 
classes to the fotirth, when I was recalled to 
England (where 1 had been hatched) by the demise 
of my uncle. I acquired this handwriting, which I 
can hardly read myself, under the fair copies of Mr. 
Duncan of the same city : I don't think he would 
plume himself much upon my progress. However, 
I wrote much better then than I have ever done 
since. Haste and agitation of one kind or another 
have quite spoiled as pretty a scrawl as ever scratched 
over a frank. The grammar school might consist of 
a hundred and fifty of all ages under age. It was 
divided into five classes taught by four masters, the 
chief teaching the fourth and fifth himself. As in 
England, the fifth, sixth forms, and monitors, are 
heard by the head masters." 

****** 

" I doubt sometimes whether, after all, a quiet 
and unagitated life would have suited me ; yet I 
sometimes long for it. My earliest dreams (as most 
boys' dreams are) were martial ; but a little later 
they were all for love and retirement, till the hope- 
less attachment to M * * * C * * * began and con- 
tinued (though sedulously concealed) very early in 
my teens ; and so upwards for a time. This threw 
me out again ' alone on a wide, wide sea.' In the 
year 1804, I recollect meeting my sister at General 
Harcourt's in Portland Place. I was then one thing, 
and as she had always till then found me. When 
we met again in 180.5, (she told me since,) my tem- 
per and disposition were so completely altered that 
I was hardly to be recognized. I was not then 
sensible of the change ; but I can believe it, and 
account for it." 

****** 

"In all other respects," (he says, after mention- 
ing his infant passion for Mary Duff,) "I differed 
not at all from other children, being neither tall nor 
short, dull nor witty, of my age, but rather lively — 
except in my sullen moods, and then I was always a 
devil. They once (in one of my silent rages) 
wrenched a knife from me, which I had snatched 
from table at Mrs. B.'s dinner, (I always dined 
earlier,) and applied to my breast ; — but this was 
three or four years after, just before the late Lord 
B.'s decease. 

" My oste7isible temper has certainly improved in 
later years ; but I shudder, and must to my latest 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



1011 



hour, regret the consequence of it and my passions 
combined. One event — but no matter — there are 
others not much better to think of also — and to 

them I give the preference 

" But I hate dwelling upon incidents. My temper 
is now under management — rarely loud, and, when 
loud, never deadly. It is when silent, and I feel my 
forehead and my cheek paling, that I cannot control 

it; and then but unless there is a woman (and 

not any or every woman) in the way, I have sunk 
into tolerable apathy." 

****** 

"My passions were developed very early — so 
early that few would believe me if I were to state 
the period and the facts which accompanied it. 
Perhaps this was one of the reasons which caused 
the anticipated melancholy of my thoughts, — 
having anticipated life. My earlier poems are the 
thoughts of one at least ten years older than the 
age at which they were written, — I don't mean for 
their solidity, but their experience. The first two 
cantos of Childe Harold were completed at twenty- 
two ; and they are written as if by a man older than 
I shall probably ever be." 

****** 

" My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. 
It was the ebulliton of a passion for my first cousin, 
Margaret Parker, (daughter and granddaughter of 
the two Admirals Parker,) one of the most beauti- 
ful of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten 
the verses, but it. would be difficult for me to forget 
her — her dark eyes — her long eyelashes — her com- 
pletely Greek cast of face and figure ! I was then 
about twelve — she rather older, perhaps a year. She 
died about a year or two afterward, in consequence 
of a fall, which injured her spiue, and induced con- 
sumption. Her sister Augusta (by some thought 
still more beautiful) died of the same malady ; and 
it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret met 
with the accident which occasioned her own death. 
My sister told me, that when she went to see her, 
shortly before her death, upon accidentally mention- 
ing my name, Margaret colored through the pale- 
ness of mortality to the eyes, to the great astonish- 
ment of my sister, who (residing with her grand- 
mother, Lady Holderness, and seeing but little of 
me, for family reasons) knew nothing of our attach- 
ment, nor could conceive why my name should 
affect her at such a time. I knew nothing of her 
illness, being at Harrow and in the country, till she 
was gone. Some years after, I made an attempt at 
an elegy — a very dull one.* 

"I do not recollect scarcely any thing equal to 
the transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the 
sweetness of her temper, during the short period of 
our intimacy. She looked as if she had been made 
out of a rainbow — all beauty and peace. 

My passion had its usual effects upon me — I 
could not sleep — I could not eat — I could not rest ; 
and although I had reason to know that she loved 
me, it was the texture of my life to think of the 
time which must elapse before we could meet again 
—being usually about twelve hours of separation ! 
But I was a fool then, and am not much wiser now." 
****** 

" When I was fifteen years of age, it happened 
that, in a cavern in Derbyshire, I had to cross in a 
boat, (in which two people only could lie down,) a 
stream which flows under a rock, with the rock so 
close upon the water as to admit the boat only to be 
pushed on by a ferryman (a sort of Charon) who 
wades at the stern, stooping all the time. The 
companion of my transit was Mary Anne Chaworth, 
with whom I had been long in love and never told 
it, though she had discovered it without. I recol- 
lect my sensations, but cannot describe them, and 
it is as well. We were a party, a Mr. W., two Miss 
W.'s, Mr. and Mrs. CI — ke, Miss R. and my M. A. 
C. Alas ! why do I say my ? Our union would 

* See preceding Memoranda, on page 979. 



have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by 
our fathers, it would have joined lands broad ai.d 
rich, it would have joined at least one heart, and 
two persons not ill matched in years, (she is two 
years my elder,) and — and — and — what has been 
the result ? " 

****** 

"When I was a youth, I was reckoned a good 
actor. Besides ' Harrow Speeches,' (in which I 
shone,) I enacted Penruddock, in the 'Wheel of 
Fortune,' and Tristram Fickle in Allingham's farce 
of the 'Weathercock,' for three nights, (the dura- 
tion of our compact,) in some private theatricals at 
Southwell, in 1806, with great applause. The occa- 
sional prologue for our volunteer play was also of 
my composition. The other performers were young 
ladies and gentlemen of the neighborhood, and the 
whole went off with great effect upon our good- 
natured audience." 

****** 

"When I first went up to college, it was a new 
and a heavy-hearted scene for me : firstly, I so much 
disliked leaving Harrow, that though it was time, 
(I being seventeen,) it broke my very rest for the 
last quarter with counting the days that remained. 
I always hated Harrow till the last year and a half, 
but then^l liked it. Secondly, I wished to go to* 
Oxford and not to Cambridge. Thirdly, I was so 
completely alone in this new world, that it half 
broke my spirits. My companions were not unso- 
cial, but the contrary — lively, hospitable, of rank 
and fortune, and gay far beyond my gayety. I 
mingled with, and dined and supped, &c, with 
them ; but, I know not how, it was one of the 
deadliest and heaviest feelings of my life to feel 
that I was no longer a boy." 

"From that moment" (he adds) "I began to 
grow old in my own esteem, and in my esteem age 
is not estimable. I took my gradations in the vices 
with great promptitude, but they were not to my 
taste ; for my early passions, though violent in the 
extreme, were concentrated, and hated division or 
spreading abroad. I could have left or lost the 
whole world with, or for, that which I loved ; but, 
though my temperament was naturally burning, I 
could not share in the common-place libertinism of 
the place and time without disgust. And yet this 
very disgust, and my heart thrown back upon itself, 
threw me into excesses perhaps more fatal than 
those from which I shrunk, as fixing upon one (at 
a time) the passions which spread among many 
would have hurt only myself." 

****** 

" Till I was eighteen years old (odd as it may 
seem) I had never read a Review. But while at 
Harrow, my general information was so great on 
modern topics as to induce a suspicion that I could 
only collect so much information from Reviews, 
because I was never seen reading, but always idle, 
and in mischief, or at play. The truth is, that I 
read eating, read in bed, read when no one else 
read, and had read all sorts of reading since I was 
five years old, and yet never met with a Review, 
which is the only reason I know of why I should 
not have read them. But it is true ; for I remem- 
ber when Hunter and Curzon, in 1804, told me this 
opinion at Harrow, I made them laugh by my ludi- 
crous astonishment in asking them, ' What is a 
Review ? ' To be sure, they were then less com- 
mon. In three years more, I was better acquainted 
with that same; but the first I ever read was in 
1S06-7. 

"At school I was (as I have said) remarked for 
the extent and readiness of my general information ; 
but in all other respects idle, capable of great sua- 
den exertions, (such as thirty or forty Greek hex- 
ameters, of course with such prosody as it pleased 
God,) but of few continuous drudgeries. My quali- 
ties were much more oratorical and martial than 
poetical, and Dr. Drury, my grand patron, (our head 
master,) had a great notion that I should turn ou 



1012 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



an orator, from my fluency, my turbulence, my 
voice, my copiousness of declamation, and my ac- 
tion. I remember that my first declamation aston- 
ished him into some unwonted (for he was economi- 
cal of such) and sudden compliments, before the 
declaimers at our first rehearsal. My first Harrow 
verses, (that is, English, as exercises,) a translation 
of a chorus from the Prometheus of JEschylus, were 
received by him but coolly. No one had the least 
notion that I should subside into poesy. 

" Peel, the orator and statesman, (' that was, or 
is, or is to be,') was my form-fellow, and we were 
both at the top of our remove, (a public-school 
phrase.) We were on good terms, but his brother 
was my intimate friend. There were always great 
hopes of Peel, among us all, masters and scholars — 
and he has not disappointed them. As a scholar he 
was greatly my superior ; as a declaimer and actor, 
I was reckoned at least his equal ; as a schoolboy 
out of school, I was always in scrapes, and he never; 
and in school, he always knew his lesson and I 
rarely — but when I knew it, I knew it nearly as 
well. In general information, history, &c, &c, I 
think I was his superior, as well as of most boys of 
my standing. 

" The prodigy of our school-days was George Sin- 
clair, (son of Sir John ;) he made exercise* for half 
the school, (literally,) verses at will, and themes 
without it. * * * He was a friend of mine, and in 
the same remove, and used at times to beg me to 
let him do my exercise, — a request always most 
readily accorded upon a pinch, or when I wanted to 
do something else, which was usually once an hour. 
On the other hand, he was pacific and* I savage; so 
I fought for him, or thrashed others for him, or 
thrashed himself to make him thrash others, when 
it was necessary, as a point of honor and stature, 
that he should so chastise ; or we talked politics, for 
he was a great politician, and were very good friends. 
I have some of his letters, written to me from school, 
still.* 

"Clayton was another school-monster of learn- 
ing, and talent, and hope; but what has become of 
him I do not know. He was certainly a genius. 

" My school friendships were with me passions, 
(for I was always violent,) but I do not know that 
there is one which has endured (to be sure some 
have been cut short by death) till now. That with 
Lord Clare began one of the earliest and lasted 
longest — being only interrupted by distance — that I 
know of. I never hear the word ' Clare' without a 
beating of the heart even note, and I write it with 
the feelings of 1803-4-5 ad infinitum. 

" At Harrow I fought my way fairly. I think I 
lost but one battle out of seven ) and that was to 

H ; and the rascal did not win it, but by the 

unfair treatment of his own boarding-house, where 
we boxed — I had not even a second. I never for- 
gave him, and I should be sorry to meet him now, as I 
am sure we should quarrel. My most memorable 
combats were with Morgan, Rice, Rainsford, and Lord 
Jocelyn, — but we were always friendly afterward. I 
was a most unpopular boy, but led latterly, and have 
retained many of my school friendships, and all my 
dislikes — except to Doctor Butler, whom I treated 
rebelliously, and have been sorry ever since. Doc- 
tor Drury, whom I plagued sufficiently too, was the 
was the best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend 
I ever had — and I look upon him still as a father. 

"P. Hunter, Curzon, Long, and Tatersall, were 
my principal friends. Clare, Dorset, C s - Gordon, 
De Bath, Claridge, and J"°- Win^field, were my 
juniors and favorites, whom I spoiled by indulgence. 
Of all human beings, I was, perhaps, at one time, 
the most attached to poor Wingfield, who died at 
Coimbra, 1811, before I returned to England." 
****** 

" I have been thinking over, the other day, on the 
various comparisons, good or evil, which I have seen 



See Childe Harold, Canto I., note 19. 



published of myself in different journals, Eaglish 
and foreign. This was suggested to me bj acci- 
dently turning over a foreign one lately, — for I have 
made it a rule latterly never to search for any thing 
of the kind, but not to avoid the perusal if pre- 
sented by chance. 

"To begin, then: I have seen myself compared 
personally or poetically, in English, French, Ger- 
man, (as interpreted to ene,) Italian, and Portu- 
guese, within these nine years, to Rousseau, Goethe, 
Young, Aretine, Timon of Athens, Dante, Petrarch, 
'an alabaster vase, lighted up within,' Satan, Shak- 
speare, Bonaparte, Tiberius, iEschylus, Sophocles, 
Euripides, Harlequin, the Clown, Sternhold and 
Hopkins, to the phantasmagoria, to Henry the 
Eighth, to Chenier, to Mirabeau, to young R. Dal- 
las, (the schoolboy,) to Michael Angelo, to Raphael, 
to a petit-maitre, to Diogenes, to Childe Harold, to 
Lara, to the Count in Beppo, to Milton, to Pope, to 
Dryden, to Burns, to Savage, to Chatterton, to 'oft 
have I heard of thee, my Lord Biron,' in Shak- 
speare, to Churchill, the poet, to Kean, the actor, to 
Alfiori, &o.,&c, &c. 

"The likeness to Alficri was asserted very seri- 
ously by an Italian who had known him in his 
younger days. It of course related merely to our 
apparent personal dispositions. He did not assert 
it to me, (for we were not then good friends,) but in 
society. 

" The object of so many contradictory compari- 
sons must probably be like something different from 
them all ; but what that is, is more than i" know, or 
any body else." 

****** 

"My mother, before I was twenty, would have it 
that I was like Rousseau, and Madame de Stael 
used to. say so, too, in 1813, and the Edinburgh Re- 
view has something of the sort in its critique on the 
fourth canto of Childe Harold. I can't see any 
point of resemblance : — he wrote prose ; I verse : he 
was of the people ; I of the aristocracy :* he was a 
philosopher ; I am none : he published his first work 
at forty ; I mine at eighteen : his first essay brought 
him universal applause; mine the contrary: he 
married his housekeeper ; I could not keep house 
with my wife : he thought all the world in a plot 
against him ; my little world seems to think me in 
a plot against it, if I may judge by their abuse in 
print and coterie : he liked botany ; I like flowers, 
herbs, and trees, but know nothing of their pedi- 
grees : he wrote music ; I limit my knowledge of it 
to what I catch by ear — I never could learn any 
thing by study, not even a language — it was all by 
rote, and ear, and memory : he had a bad memory ; 
I had, at least, an excellent one, (ask Hodgson, the 
poet — a good judge, for he has an astonishing one :) 
he wrote with hesitation and care; I with rapidity, 
and rarely with pains : he could never ride, nor 
swim, nor ' was cunning of fence ; ' I am an excel- 
lent swimmer, a decent, though not at all a dashing, 
rider, (having staved in a rib at eighteen in the 
course of scampering,) and was sufficient of fence, 
particularly of the Highland broadsword, — not a 
bad boxer, when I could keep my temper, which 
was difficult, but which I strove to do ever since I 
knocked down Mr. Purling, and put his kneepan 
out, (with the gloves on, ) ft Angelo's and Jackson's 
rooms, in 1816, during the sparring, — and I was be- 
sides a very fair cricketer — one of the Harrow eleven, 
when we played against Eaton in 1805. Besides, 
Rousseau's way of life, his country, his manners, 
his whole character, were so very different, that 1 
am at a loss to conceive how such a comparison 
could have arisen, as it has done three several times, 
and all in rather a remarkable manner. I forgot to 
say that he was also shortsighted, and that hitherto 
my eyes have been the contrary, to such a degree, 
that in the largest theatre of Bologna I distin- 
guished and read some busts and inscriptions painted 



S.e I.i-tter xxxiii. 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



1013 



aear the stage from a box so distant and so dark!;/ 
lighted, that none of the company (composed of 
young and very bright-eyed people, some of them 
in the same box) could make out a letter, and 
thought it was a trick, though I had never been in 
that theatre before. 

" Altogether, I think myself justified in thinking 
the comparison not well founded. I don't say this 
out of pique, for Rousseau was a great man, and the 
thing, if true, were flattering enough ; — but I have 
no idea of being pleased with a chimera." 

****** 

',' I have been thinking of an odd circumstance. 
My daughter, (1) my wife, (2) my half-sister, (3) my 
mother, (4) my sister's mother, (5) my natural 
daughter, (6) and myself, (7) are, or were, all only 
children. My sister's -mother (Lady Conyers) had 
only my half-sister by that second marriage, (her- 
self, too, an only child,) and my father had only 
me, an only child, by his second marriage with my 
mother, an only child too. Such a complication of 
only children, all tending to one family, is singular 
enough, and looks like fatality almost. But the 
fiercest animals have the fewest numbers in their 
litters, a-s lions, tigers, and even elephants, which 
are mild in comparison."* 

****** 

"I have a notion (he says) that gamblers are 
as happy as many people, being always excited. 
Women, wine, fame, the table, — even ambition, 
sate now and then ; but every turn of the card and 
cast of the dice keeps the gamester alive ; besides, 
one can game ten times longer than one can do any 
thing else. I was very fond of it when young, that 
is to say, of hazard, for I hate all card games, — even 
faro. When macco (or whatever they spell it) wa 
introduced, I gave up the whole thing, for I loved and 
missed the rattle and dash of the box and dice, and 
the glorious uncertainty, not only of good luck or 
bad luck, but of any luck at all, as one had some- 
times to throw often to decide at all. I have thrown 
as many as fourteen mains running, and carried off 
all the cash upon the table occasionally ; but I had 
no coolness, or judgment, or calculation. It was the 
delight of the thing that pleased me. Upon the 
whole, I left off in time, without being much a 
winner or loser. Since one-and-twenty years of 
age, I have played but little, and then never above 
a hundred, or two, or three." 

" LIST OF HISTORICAL WRITERS WHOSE WORKS I 
•AVE PERUSED IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES. 

"History of England. — Hume, Rapin, Henry, 
Smollet, Tindal, Belsham, Bisset, Adol'phus, Hol- 
ingshed, Froissart's Chronicle's, (belonging properly 
to France.) 

" Scotland. — Buchanan, Hector Boethius, both in 
the Latin. 

" Ireland. — Gordon. . 

"Rome. — Hooke, Decline and Fall by Gibbon, 
Ancient History by Rollin, (including an account 
of the Carthaginians, &c.,) besides Livy, Tacitus, 
Eutropius, Cornelius Nepos, Julius Coesar, Arrian, 
Sallust. 

" Greece. — Mitford's Greece, Leland's Philip, 
Plutarch, Potter's Antiquities, Xenophon, Thucy- 
dides, Herodotus. 

" France. — Mezeray, Voltaire. 

" Spain. — I chiefly derived my knowledge of old 
Spanish History from a book called the Atlas, now 
obsolete. The modern history, from the intrigues 
of Alberoni down to the Prince of Peace, I learned 
from its connexion with European politics. 

" Portugal. — From Vertot ; as also his account of 
the Siege of Rhodes,— though the last is his own 
invention, the real facts being totally different. — So 
much for his Knights of Malta. 

" Turkey. — I have read Knolles, Sir Paul Rycaut, 



See Letter dxxxvi. 



and Prince Cantemir, besiges a more modern his- 
tory, anonymous. Of the Ottoman History I know 
every event, from Tangralopi, and afterward Oth- 
man I., to the peace of Passarowitz, in 1718, — the 
battle of Cutzka, in 1739, and the treaty between 
Russia and Turkey, in 1790. 

"Russia. — Tooke's Life of Catherine II., Vol- 
taire's Czar Peter. 

"Sweden. — Voltaire's Charles XII., also Nor- 
berg's Charles XII., — in my opinion the best of the 
two. — A translation of Schiller's Thirty Years' 
War, which contains the exploits of Gustavus Adol- 
phus, besides Harte's Life of the same prince. I 
have somewhere, too, read an account of Gustavun 
Vasa, the deliverer of Sweden, butdo'not remember 
the author's name. 

"Prussia. — I have seen, at least, twenty Lives of 
Frederick II., the only prince worthy recording in 
Prussian annals. Gillies, His own Works, and 
Thiebalt,— none very amusing. The last is paltry, 
but circumstantial. 

" Denmark I know little of. Of Norway I under- 
stand the natural history, but not the chronological. 

" Germany. — I have read long histories of the 
house of Suabia, Wenceslaus, and, at length, Ro- 
dolph of Hapsburgh and his thick-lipped Austrian 
descendants. 

" Switzerland. — Ah ! William Tell, and the battle 
of Morgarten, where Burgundy was slain. 

" Italy. — Davila, Guicciardini, the Guelphs and 
Ghibellines, the battle of Pavia, Massaniello, the 
revolutions of Naples, &c, &c. 

" Hindostan. — Orme and Cambridge. 

"America. — Robertson, Andrews' American War. 

"Africa. — Merely from travels, as Mungo Park, 
Bruce. 

"BIOGRAPHY. 

" Robertson's Charles V., — Caesar, Sallust, (Cati- 
line and Jugurtha,) Lives of Marlborough and 
Eugene, Tekeli, Bonnard, Bonaparte, all the Brit- 
ish Poets, both by Johnson and Anderson, Ros- 
seau's Confessions, Life of Cromwell, British Plu- 
tarch, British Nepos, Campbell's Lives of the Ad- 
mirals, Charles XII., Czar Peter, Catherine II., 
Henry Lord Kaimes, Marmontel, Teignmouth's Sir 
William Jones, Life of Newton, Belisaire, with 
thousands not to be detailed. 

" LAW. 

" Blackstone, Montesquieu. 

"philosophy. 

" Paley, Locke, Bacon, Hume, Berkeley, Drum 

mond, Beattie, and Bolingbroke. Hobbes I detest. 

" GEOGRAPHY. 

" Strabo, Cellarius, Adams, Pinkerton, and 
Guthrie. 



" All the British Classics, as before detailed, with 
most of the living poets, Scott, Southey, &c— Some 
French, in the original, of which the Cid is my favo- 
rite. — Little Italian. — Greek and Latin without 
number : — these last I shall give up in future. — I 
have translated a good deal from both languages, 
verse as well as prose. 

" ELOaUENCE. 

" Demosthenes, Cicero, Quintilian, Sheridan, 
Austin's Chironomia, and Parliamentary Debates, 
from the Revolution to the year 1742. 

" divinity. 
"Blair, Porteus, Tillotson, Hooker, — all very 
tiresome. I abhor books of religion, though I rev- 
erence and love my God, without the blasphemous 
notions of sectaries, or belief in their absurd and 
damnable heresies, mysteries, and Thirty-nine Arti 
cles. 



1014 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" MISCELLANIES. 



" Spectator, Rambler, World, &c, &c. — Novels 
by the thousand. 

" All the books here enumerated I have taken 
down from memory. I recollect reading them, and 
can quote passages from any mentioned. I have, of 
course, omitted several in my catalogue ; but the 
greater part of the above I perused before the age 
of fifteen. Since I left Harrow, I have become idle 
and conceited, from scribbling rhyme and making 
love to women. " B.— Nov. 30, 1807. 

"I have also read (to my regret at present) above 
four thousand novels, including the works of Cer- 
vantes, Fielding, Smollet, Richardson, Mackenzie, 
Sterne, Rabelais, and Rousseau, Sec, &c. The book, 
in my opinion, most useful to'a man who wishes to 
acquire the reputation of being well read, with the 
least trouble, is, ' Burton's Anatomy of Melan- 
choly,' the most amusing and instructive medley of 
quotations and classical anecdotes I ever perused. 
But a superficial reader must take care, or his intri- 
cacies will bewilder him. If, however, he has pa- 
tience to go through his volumes, he will be more 
improved for literary conversation than by the peru- 
sal of any twenty other works with which I am ac- 
quainted — at least, in the English language." 

In the same book that contains the above record 
of his studies, he has written out, also from memo- 
ry, a " List of the different poets, dramatic or oth- 
erwise, who have distinguished their respective lan- 
guages by their productions." After enumerating 
the various poets, both ancient and modern, of Eu- 
rope, he thus proceeds with his catalogue through 
other quarters of the world : — 

"Arabia. — Mahomet, whose Koran contains most 
sublime poetical passages, far surpassing European 
poetry. 

"Persia. — Ferdousi, author of the Shah Nameh, 
the Persian Iliad, — Sadi, and Hafiz, the immortal 
Hafiz, the oriental Anacreon. The last is reverenced 
beyond any bard of ancient or modern times by the 
Persians, who resort to his tomb, near Shiraz to cel- 
ebrate his memory. A splendid copy of his works 
is chained to his monument. 

" America. — An epic poet has already appeared in 
that hemisphere, Barlow, author of the Columbiad, 
— not to be compared with the works of more pol- 
ished nations. 

" Iceland, Denmark, Norway, were famous for 
their Skalds. Among these Lodburg was one of the 
most distinguished. His Death-Song breathes fe- 
rocious sentiments, but a glorious and impassioned 
strain of poetry. 

" Hindostan is undistinguished by any great bard, 
— at least, the Sanscrit is so imperfectly known to 
Europeans, we know not what poetical relicts may 
exist. 

" The Birman Empire. — Here the natives are 
passionately fond of poetry, but their bards are un- 
known. 

" China. — I never heard of any Chinese poet but 
the Emperor Kien Long, and his ode to Tea. What 
;■. pity their philosopher Confucius did not write po- 
etry, with his precepts of morality ! 

"Africa. — In Africa some of the native melodies 
are plaintive, and the words simple and affecting ; 
but whether their rude strains of nature can be 
classed with poetry, as the songs of the bards, the 
Skalds of Europe, &c., &c., I know not. 

"This brief list of poets I have written down 
from memory, without any book of reference ; con- 
sequently some errors may occur, but I think, if 
any, very trivial. The works of the European, and 
some of the Asiatic, I have perused, either in the 
original or translations. In my list of English, I 
have merely mentioned the greatest ; — to enumerate 
the minor poets would be useless, as well as tedious. 
Perhaps Gray, Goldsmith, and Collins, might have 
been added, as worthy of mention, in a cosmopolite 



account. But as for the others, from Chaucer down 
to Churchill, they are ' voces et practerea nihil ; ' — 
sometimes spoken of, rarely read, and never with 
advantage. Chaucer, notwithstanding the praise? 
bestowed on him, I think obscene and contempti- 
ble : — he owes his celebrity merely to his antiquiby, 
which he does not deserve so well as Pierce, Plow- 
man, or Thomas of Ercildoune. English living 
poets I have avoided mentioning ; — we have none 
who will not survive their productions. Taste is 
over with us ; and another century will sweep our 
empire, our literature, and our name, from all but 
a place in the annals of mankind. " Byron." 

" November 30, 1807. 

****** 

"Knolles, Cantemir, De Tott, Lady M. W. Mon- 
tague, Hawkins's Translation from Mignot's His- 
tory of the Turks, the Arabian Nights, all travels, 
or histories, or books upon the East I could meet 
with, I had read, as well as Rycaut, before I was 
ten years old. I think the Arabian Nights first. 
After these, I preferred the history of naval actions, 
Don Quixote, and Smollet's novels, particularly 
Roderick Random, and I was passsionate for the 
Roman History. When a boy, I could never bear to 
read any poetry whatever without disgust and re- 
luctance. 

****** 

" When I belonged to the Drury-Lane Commit- 
tee, and was one of the sub-committee of manage- 
ment, the number of plays upon the shelves were 
about^i'e hundred. Conceiving that among these 
there must be some of merit, in person and by proxy 
I caused an investigation. I do not think that of 
those which I saw, there was one which could be 
conscientiously tolerated. There never were such 
things as most of them ! Maturin was very kindly 
recommended to me by Walter Seott, to whom I had 
recourse, firstly, in the hope that he would do some- 
thing for us himself, and secondly, in my despair, 
that he would point out to us any young (or old) 
writer of promise. Maturin sent his Bertram and 
a letter without his address, so that at first I could 
give him no answer. When I at last hit upon his 
residence, I sent him a favorable answer, and some- 
thing more substantial. His play succeeded ; but I 
was at that time absent from England. 

" I tried Coleridge too ; but he had nothing fea- 
sible in hand at the time. Mr. Sotheby obligingly 
offered all his tragedies, and I pledged myself, and 
notwithstanding many squabbles with my commit- 
teed brethren, did get ' Ivan ' accepted, read, andAe 
parts distributed. But, lo ! in the very heart of the 
matter, upon some tepidness on the part of Kean, or 
warmth on that of the author, Sotheby withdrew his 
play. Sir J. B. Burgess did also present four trage- 
dies and a farce, and I moved green-room and sub- 
committee, but they would not. 

" Then the scenes I had to go through ! — the 
authors, and the authoresses, and the milliners, and 
the wild Irishmen, — the people from Brighton, from 
Blackwall, from Chatham, from Cheltenham, from 
Dublin, from Dundee, — who came in upon me ! to 
all of whom it was proper to give a civil answer, 
and a hearing, and a reading. Mrs. Glover's father, 
an Irish dancing-master of sixty years, called upon 
me to request to play Archer, dressed in silk stock- 
ings, on a frosty morning, to show his legs, (which 
were certainly good and Irish for his age, and had been 
still better,) — Miss Emma Somebody with a play en- 
titled ' The Bandit of Bohemia,' or some such title or 
production, — Mr. O'Higgins, then resident at Rich- 
mond, with an Irish tragedy, in which the unities 
could not fail to be observed, for the protagonist 
was chained by the leg to a pillar during the chief 
part of the performance. He was a wild man of a 
salvage appearance, and the difficulty of not laugh- 
ing at him was only to be got over by reflecting upon 
the probable consequences of such cachinnation. 

" As I am really a civil and polite person, and do 
hate giving pain when it can be avoided, I sent their 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



1015 



up to Douglas Kinnaird, — who is a man of busi- 
ness, and sufficiently ready with a negative, — and 
left them to settle with him ; and, as the beginning 
of next year I went abroad, I have since been little 
aware of the progress of the theatres. 

****** 

" Players are said to be an impracticable people. 
They are so : but I managed to steer clear of any 
disputes with them, and excepting one debate with 
the elder Byrne about Miss Smith's pas de — (some- 
thing — I forget the technicals,) — I do not remem- 
ber any litigation of my own. I used to protect 
Miss Smith, because she was like Lady Jane Harley 
in the face, and likenesses go a great way with me. 
Indeed, in general, I left such things to my more 
bustling colleagues, who used to reprove me seri- 
ously for not being able to take such things in 
hand without buffooning with the histrions, or 
throwing things into confusion by treating light 
matters with levity. 

****** 

" Then the committee ! — then the sub-commit- 
tee ! — we were but few, but never agreed. There 
was Peter Moore who contradicted Kinnaird, and 
Kinnaird who contradicted every body : then our 
two managers, Rae and Dibdin ; and our secretary, 
Ward ! and yet we were all very zealous and in earn- 
est to do good and so forth. * * * * furnished us 
with prologues to our revived old English plays ; 
but was not pleased with me for complimenting 
him as ' the Upton ' of our theatre, (Mr. Upton 
is or was the poet who writes the songs for Ast- 
ley's,) and almost gave up prologuing in conse- 
quence. 

****** 

" In the pantomine of 1815-16, there was a re- 
presentation of the masquerade of 1814 given by ' us 
youth ' of Watier's Club to Wellington and Co. 
Douglas Kinnaird, and one or two others, with my- 
self, put on masques, and went on the stage with 
the <5i ttoXXoi, to see the effect of a theatre from the 
stage : — it is very grand. Douglas danced among 
the figuranti too, and they were puzzled to find out 
who we were, as being more than their number. It 
w\as odd enough that Douglas Kinnaird and I should 
have been both at the real masquerade, and after- 
ward in the mimic one of the same, on the stage of 
the Drury-Lane Theatre. 

****** 

" In 1812," he says, " at Middleton, (Lord Jer- 
sey's,) among a goodly company of lords, ladies, 
and wits, &c, there was * * * 

" Erskine, too! Erskine was there; good, but 
intolerable. He jested, he talked, he did every 
thing admirably, but then he would be applauded 
for the same thing twice over. He would read his 
own verses, his own paragraph, and tell his own 
story, again and again ; and then ' the trial by 
jury ! ! ! ' I almost wished it abolished, for I sat 
next him at dinner. As I had read his published 
speeches, there was no occasion to repeat them to 
me. 

" C * *, (the fox-hunter,) nicknamed ' Cheek 
C * *,' and I, sweated the claret, being the only 
two who did so. C * *, who loves his bottle, and had 
no notion of meeting with a ' bon-vivant ' in a 
scribbler, in making my eulogy to somebody one 
evening, summed it up in — ' By G — d, he drinks like 
a man ! ' 

" Nobody drank, however, but C * * and I. To 
be sure, there was little occasion, for we swept off 
what was on the table (a most splendid board, as 
may be supposed at Jersey's) very sufficiently. How- 
ever, we carried our liquor discreetly, like the Baron 
of Bradwardine. 

****** 

" At the opposition meeting of the Peers, in 1812, 
at Lord Grenvile's, when Lord Grey and he read 
to us the correspondence upon Moira's negotiation, 
I sat next to the present Duke of Grafton, and said, 
' What is to be done next ? ' — ' Wake the Duke of 



Norfolk,' (who was snoring away near us,) replied 
he : ' I don't think the negotiators have left any 
thing else for us to do this turn.' 

" In the debate, or rather discussion, afterward in 
the House of Lords upon that very question, I sat 
immediately behind Lord Moira, who was extremely 
annoyed at Grey's speech upon the subject ; and, 
while Grey was speaking, turned round to me re- 
peatedly, and asked me whether I agreed with him. 
It was an awkward question to me, who had not 
heard both sides. Moira kept repeating to me, 
' It was not so, it was so and so,' &c. I did not 
know very well what to think, but I sympathized 
with the acuteness of his feelings upon the sub- 
ject. 

" The subject of the Catholic claims was, it is 
well known, brought forward a second time this 
session by Lord Wellesley, whose motion for a 
futute consideration of the question was carried by 
a majority of one. In reference to this division, 
another rather amusing anecdote is thus related : — 

"Lor#* * affects an imitation of two very dif- 
ferent Chancellors, Thurlow and Loughborough, 
and can indulge in an oath now and then. On one 
of the debates on the Catholic question, when we 
were either equal or within one, (I forget which,) 
I had been sent for in great haste to a ball, which 
I quitted, I confess, somewhat reluctantly, to eman- 
cipate five millions of people. I came in late, and 
did not go immediately into the body of the House, 
but stood just behind the woolsack. * * turned 
round, and, catching my eye, immediately said to a 
peer, (who had come to him for a few minutes on 
the woolsack, as is the custom of his friends,) 
' Damn them ! they'll have it now, — by G — d ! the 
vote that is just come in will give it them.' 

****** 

' When I came of age, some delays, on account 
of some birth and marriage certificates from Corn- 
wall, occasioned me not to take my seat for several 
weeks. When these were over and I had taken the 
oaths, the Chancellor apologized to me for the de- 
lay, observing, ' that these forms were a part of his 
duty.' I begged him to make no apology, and 
added, (as he certainly had shown no violent hurry,) 
' Your Lordship was exactly like Tom Thumb ' 
(which was then being acted) — ' You did your duty, 
and you did no more.' 

****** 

" I have never heard any one who fulfilled my 
ideal of an orator. Grattan would have been near 
it, but for his harlequin delivery. Pitt I never heard. 
Fox but once, and then he struck me as a debater, 
which to me seems as different from an orator as an 
improvisatore, or a versifier, from a poet. Grey is 
great, but it is not oratory. Canning is sometimes 
very like one. Windham I did not admire, though 
all the world did ; it seemed sad sophistry. Whit- 
bread was the Demosthenes of bad taste and vulgar 
vehemence, but strong, and English. Holland is 
impressive from sense and sincerity. Lord Lans- 
downe good, but still a debater only. Grenville I 
like vastly, if he would prune his speeches down to 
an hour's delivery. Burdett is sweet and silvery as 
Belial himself, and I think the greatest favorite in 
pandemonium ; at least I always heard the country 
gentlemen and the ministerial devilry praise his 
speeches up stairs, and run down from Bellamy's 
when he was upon his legs. I heard Bob Milne's 
make his second speech ; it made no impression. I 
like Ward — studied, but keen, and sometimes elo- 
quent. Peel, my school and form-fellow, (we sate 
within two of each other,) strange to say, I have 
never heard, though I often wished to do so ; but 
from what I remember of him at Harrow, he is, 
or should be, among the best of them. Now, I 
do not admire Mr. Wilberforce's speaking ; it is 
nothing but a flow of words — ' words, words alone.' 

" I doubt greatly if the English have any elo- 
quence, properly so called ; and am inclined tc 
think that the Irish had a great deal, and that the 



1016 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



French will have, and have had, in Mirabeau. Lord 
Chatham and Burke are the nearest approaches to 
orators in England. I don't know what Erskine 
may have been at the bar ; but in the House, I wish 
him at the bar once more. Lauderdale is shrill, and 
Scotch, and acute. 

" But among all these, good, bad, and indifferent, 
I never heard the speech which was not too long for 
the auditors, and not very intelligible, except here 
and there. The whole thing is a grand deception, 
and as tedious and tiresome as may be to those who 
must be often present. I heard Sheridan only once, 
and that briefly, but I liked his voice, his manner, 
and his wit ; and he is the only one of them I ever 
wished to hear at greater length. 

" The impression of Parliament upon me was, 
that its members are not formidable as speakers, but 
very much so as an audience ; because in so numer- 
ous a body there may be little eloquence, (after all, 
there were but two thorough orators in all antiqui- 
ty, and I suspect still fewer in modern tinres,) but 
there must be a leaven of thought and good sense 
sufficient to make them know what is right, though 
they can't express it nobly. 

" Home Tooke and Roscoe both are said to have 
declared that they left Parliament with a higher 
opinion of its aggregate integrity and abilities than 
that with which they entered it. The general 
amount of both in most Parliaments is probably 
about the same, as also the number of speakers and 
their talent. I except orators, of course, because 
they are things of ages, and not of septennial or 
triennial reunions. Neither House ever struck me 
with more awe or respect than the same number of 
Turks in a divan, .or of Methodists in a barn, would 
have done. Whatever diffidence or nervousness I 
felt (and I felt both in a great degree) arose from 
the number rather than the quality of the assem- 
blage, and the thought rather of the public without 
than the persons within, — knowing (as all' know) 
that Cicero himself, and probably the Messiah, could 
never have altered the vote of a single lord of the 
bedchamber or bishop. I thought our House dull, 
but the other animating enough upon great days. 
* •* * * * * 

"In society I have met Sheridan frequently: he 
was superb ! He had a sort of liking for me, and 
never attacked me, at least to my face, and he did 
every body else — high names, and wits, and orators, 
some of them poets also. I have seen him cut up 
Whitbread, quiz Madame de StaeL annihilate Col- 
man, and do little less by some others (whose names, 
as friends, I set not down) of good fame and ability. 

"The last time I met him was, I think, at Sir 
Gilbert Elliot's where he was as quick as ever — no, 
it was not the last time ; the last time was at Doug- 
las Kinnaird's. 

" I have met him in all places and parties — at 
Whitehall with the Melbourne's, at the Marquis of 
Tavistock's, at Robins's the auctioneer's, at Sir 
Humphrey Davy's, at Sam Rogers's, — in short, in 
most kinds of company, and always found him very 
convivial and delightful. 

" I have seen Sheridan weep two or three times. 
Tt may be that he was maudlin ; but this only ren- 
ders it more impressive, for who would see 

' From Marlborough's eyes Ihe tears of dotage flow, 
And Swift expire a driveller and a show ? ' 

Once I saw him cry at Robins's the auctioneers, 
after a splendid dinner, full of great names and high 
spirits. I had the honor of sitting next to Sheridan. 
The occasion of his tears was some observation or 
other upon the subject of the sturdiness of the 
Whigs in resisting office, and keeping to their prin- 
ciples : Sheridan turned round : ' Sir, it is easy for 
my Lord G., or Earl G., or Marquis B., or Lord H., 
with thousands upon thousands a year, some of it 
either presently derived, or inherited in sinecure or 
acquisitions from the public money, to boast of their 



patriotism and keep aloof from temptation ; but 
they do-not know from what temptation those have 
kept aloof who had equal pride, at least equal talents 
and not unequal passions, and nevertheless knew 
not in the course of their lives what it was to have a 
shilling of their own.' And in saying this, he wept. 

" I have more than once heard him say, ' that he 
never had a shilling of his own.' To be sure, he 
contrived to extract a good many of other people's. 

" In 1815, I had occasion to visit my lawyer in 
Chancery Lane : he was with Sheridan. After mu- 
tual greetings, &c, Sheridan retired first. Before 
recurring to my own business, I could not help 
inquiring that of Sheridan. ' Oh,' replied the attor- 
ney, ' the usual thing ! to stave off an action from 
his wine-merchant, my client.' — ' Well,' said I, ' and 
what do you mean to do ? ' — ' Nothing at all, for 
the present,' said he: 'would you have us proceed 
against old Sherry ? what would be the use of it ? ' 
and here he began laughing, and going over Sheri- 
dan's good gifts of conversation. 

"Now, from personal experience, I can vouch 
that my attorney is by no means the tenderest of 
men, or particularly accessible to any kind of im- 
pression out of the statute or record ; and yet Sheri- 
dan, in half an hour, had found the way to soften 
and seduce him in such a manner, that I almost 
think he would have thrown his client (an honest 
man, with all the laws, and some justice, on his 
side) out of the window, had he come in at the 
moment. 

" Such was Sheridan ! he could soften an attor- 
ney ! There has been nothing like it since the days 
of Orpheu*. 

" One day I saw him take up his own ' Monody 
on Garrick.' He lighted upon the Dedication to 
the Dowager Lady * *. ©n seeing it, he flew into a 
rage, and exclaimed, ' that it must be a forgery, 
that he had never dedicated any thing of his to such 
a d — d canting,' &c, &c, &c, — and so went on for 
half an hour, abusing his own dedication, or at least 
the object of it. If all writers were equally sincere, 
it would be ludicrous. 

' He told me that, on the night of the grand suc- 
cess of his School for Scandal, he was knocked down 
and put into the watchhouse for making a row 
in the street, and being found intoxicated by the 
watchmen. 

" When dying, he was requested to undergo ' an 
operation.' He replied, that he had already sub- 
mitted to two, which were enough for one man's 
lifetime. Being asked what they were, he answered, 
' having his hair cut, and sitting for his picture.' 

"I have met George Colman occasionally, and 
thought him extremely pleasant and convivial. 
Sheridan's humor, or rather wit, was always satur- 
nine, and sometimes savage ; he never laughed, (at 
least that / saw, and I watched him,) but Colman 
did. If I had to choose, and could not have both at 
a time, I should say, ' Let me begin the evening 
with Sheridan, and finish it with Colman.' Sheri- 
dan for dinner, Colman for supper ; Sheridan for 
claret or port, but Colman for every thing, from the 
Madeira and champagne at dinner, the claret with 
a layer of port between the glasses, up to the punch 
of the night, and down to the grog, or gin and 
water, of daybreak ; — all these I have threaded with 
both the same. Sheridan was a grenadier company 
of life-guards, but Colman a whole regiment — of 
light infantry, to be sure, but still a regiment. 
****** 

' Sheridan's liking for me (whether he was not 
mystifying me, I do not know, but Lady Caroline 
Lamb and others told me that he said the same 
both before and after he knew me) was founded upon 
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.' He told 
me that he did .not care about poetry, (or about 
mine — at least, any but that poem of mine,) but he 
was sure from that and other symptoms, I should 
make an orator, if I would but take to speaking, 
and grow a parliament man. He never ceased harp 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



1017 



ing upon this to me to the last; and I remember 
my old tutor, Dr. Drury, had the same notion when 
I was a boy ; but it never was my turn of inclination 
to try. I spoke once or twice, as all young peers 
do, as a kind of introduction into public life ; but 
dissipation, shyness, haughty and reserved opinions, 
together with the short time I lived in England 
after my majority, (only about five years in all,) 
prevented me from resuming the experiment. As 
far as it went, it was not discouraging, particularly 
my first speech, (I spoke three or four times in all,) 
but just after it, my poem of Childe Harold was 
published, and nobody ever thought about my prose 
afterward, nor indeed did I ; it became to me a 
secondary and neglected object, though I sometimes 
wonder to myself if I should have succeeded." 



" When the bailiff (Tor I have seen most kinds of 
life) came upon me in 1815 to seize my chattels, 
(being a peer of parliament, my person was beyond 
him,) being curious, (as is my habit,) I first asked 
him, ' What extents elsewhere he had for govern- 
ment ? ' upon which he showed me one upon one 
house only for seventy thousand pounds ! Next I 
asked him, if he had nothing for Sheridan ? ' ' Oh 
— Sheridan!' said he; 'ay, I have this,' (pulling 
out a pocket-book, &c. ;) 'but, my lord, I have been 
in Sheridan's house a twelvemonth at a time — a civil 
gentleman — knows how to deal with us,' &c, &c, 
&c. Our own business was then discussed, which 
was none of the easiest for me at that time. But 
the man was civil, and (what I valued more) com- 
municative. I had met many of his brethren, years 
before, in affairs of my friends, (commoners, that 
is,) but this was" the first (or second) on my own 
account. A civil man; feed accordingly : probably 
he anticipated as much." 



"I have heard that when Grattan made his first 
speech in the English Commons, it was for some 
minutes doubtful whether to laugh at or cheer him. 
The debftt of his predecessor Flood had been a com- 
plete failure under nearly similar circumstances. 
But when the ministerial part of our senators had 
watched Pitt (their thermometer) for the cue, and 
saw him nod repeatedly his stately nod of approba- 
tion, they took the hint from their huntsman, and 
broke out into the most rapturous cheers. Grat- 
tan's speech, indeed, deserved them ; it was a chef- 
d'ecuvre. I did not hear that speech of his, (being 
then at Harrow,) but heard most of his others on 
the same question — also that on the war of 1815. I 
differed from his opinions on the latter question, 
but coincided in the general admiration of his elo- 
quence. 

" When I met old Courtenay, the orator, at Rog- 
ers the poet's, in 1811-12, I was much taken with 
the portly remains of his fine figure, and the still 
acute quickness of his conversation. It was he who 
silenced Flood in the English House by a crushing 
reply to a hasty d*biit of the rival of Grattan in 
Ireland. I asked Courtenay (for I like to trace mo- 
tives) if he had not some personal provocation ; for 
the acrimony of his answer seemed to me, as I had 
read it, to involve it. Courtenay said ' he had ; that, 
when in Ireland, (being an Irishman,) at the bar of 
the Irish House of Commons, Flood had made a 
personal and unfair attack upon himself, who, not 
being a member of that House, could not defend 
himself, and that some years afterward, the oppor- 
tunity of retort offering in the English Parliament, 
he could not resist it.' He certainly repaid Flood 
with interest, for Flood never made any figure, and 
only a speech or two afterward, in the English 
House of Commons. I must except, however, his 
speech on Reform, in 1790, which Fox called ' the 
best he ever heard upon that subject. 
128 



" I was much struck with the simplicity of Grat- 
tan's manners in private life : they were odd, but 
they were natural. Curran used to take him off, 
bowing to the very ground, and ' thanking God that 
he had no peculiarities of gesture or appearance,' in 
a way irresistibly ludicrous and * * used to call him 
a 'sentimental harlequin.' " 



" Curran ! Curran's the man who struck me most. 
Such imagination ! there never was any thing like 
it that ever I saw or heard of. His published life— 
his published speeches, give you no idea of the 
man — none at all. He was a machine of imagina- 
tion, as *)me one said that Piron was an epigram- 
matic machine. 

"I did not see a great deal of Curran — only in 
1813 ; but I met him at home, (for he used to call 
on me,) and in society,'at Mackintosh's, Holland 
House, &c, &c, and he was wonderful, even to me, 
who had seen many remarkable men of the time. 
****** 

"The powers of Curran's Irish imagination were 
exhaustless. I have heard that man speak more 
poetry than I have ever seen written, — though I 
met him seldom and but occasionally. I saw him 
presented to Madame de Stael at Mackintosh's ;— 
it was the grand confluence between the Rhone and 
the Saone, and they were both so d — d ugly, that I 
could not help wondering how the best intellects 
of France and Ireland could have taken up respect- 
ively such residences." ***** 



" One of the cleverest men I ever knew, in con- 
versation, was Scrope Berdmore Davies. Hobhouse 
is also very good in that line, though it is of less 
consequence to a man who has other ways of show- 
ing his talents than in company. Scrope was al- 
ways ready and often witty — Hobhouse as witty, 
but not always so ready, being more diffident." 



" Lewis is a good man, rhymes well, (if not 
wisely,) but is a bore. He seizes you by the but- 
ton. One night of a rout^at Mrs. Hopes's, he had 
fastened upon me, notwithstanding my symptoms 
of manifest distress (for I was in love, and had just 
nicked a minute when neither mothers, nor hus- 
bands, nor rivals, nor gossips, were near my then 
idol, who was beautiful as the statues of the gallery 
where we stood at the time) — Lewis, I say, had 
seized upon me by the button and the heart-strings, 
and spared neither. W. Spencer, who likes fun, and 
don't dislike mischief, saw my case, and coming up 
to us both, took me by the hand, and pathetically 
bade me farewell ; ' for,' said he, ' I see it is all over 
with you.' Lewis then went away. Sic me serva 
vit Apollo. 

" I remember seeing Blucher in the London as- 
semblies, and never saw any thing of his age less 
venerable. With the voice and manners of a recruit- 
ing sergeant, he pretended to the honors of a hero, 
— just as if a stone could be worshipped because a 
man had stumbled over it." 



"When I met Hudson Lowe, the jailor, at Lord 
Holland's, before he sailed for St. Helena, the dis- 
course turned on the battle of Waterloo. I asked 
him whether the dispositions of Napoleon were 
those of a great general ? He answered, disparag- 
ingly, ' that they were very simple.' I had always 
thought that a degree of simplicity was an ingre- 
dient of greatness. 



1018 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" L * * was a good man, a clever man, but a bore. 
My only revenge or consolation used to be, setting 
him by the ears with some vivacious person who 

hated bores especially, — Madame de S or H , 

for example. But I liked L * * ; he was a jewel of 
a man, had he been better set ; — I don't mean per- 
sonally, but less tiresome, for he was tedious, as 
well as contradictory to every thing and every body. 
Being shortsighted, when we used to ride out to- 
gether near the Brenta.in the twilight in summer, 
he made me go before, to pilot him : I am absent at 
times, especially towards evening ; and the conse- 
quence of this pilotage was some narrow escapes to 
the M * * on horseback. Once I led him into a 
ditch over which I had passed as usual, forgetting 
to warn my convoy ; once I led him nearly into the 
river, instead of on the moveable bridge which in- 
commodes passengers ; and twice did we both run 
against the diligence, which, being heavy and slow, 
did communicate less damage than it received in its 
leaders, who were terraced by the charge ; thrice 
did I lose him in the gray of the gloaming, and was 
obliged to bring-to to his distant signals of distance 
and distress ; — all the time he went on talking with- 
out intermission, for he was a man of many words. 
Poor fellow ! he died a martyr to his new riches— of 
a second visit to Jamaica. 



that is — 



' I'd give Che lands of Deloraine 
Dark Musgrave were alive agai 

" 1 would give many a sugar cam 
Monk Lewis were alive again ! 



" Madame de Stael was a good woman at heart, 
and the cleverest at bottom, but spoiled by a wish 
to be — she knew not what. In her own house she 
was amiable ; in any other person's, you wisrTed her 
gone, and in her own again. 

****** 

" I liked the dandies ; they were always very civil 
to me, though in general they disliked literary peo- 
ple, and persecuted and mystified Madame de Stael, 
Lewis, *•***, and the like damnably. They per- 
suaded Madame de Stael that A * * had a hundred 
thousand a year, &c, &c, till she praised him to 
his face for his beauty ! and made a set at him for 
* *, and a hundred fooleries besides. The truth is, 
that, though I gave up the business early, I had a 
tinge of dandyism in my minority, and probably 
retained enough of it to conciliate the great ones at 
five-and-twenty. I had gamed, and drank, and 
taken my degrees in most dissipations, and having 
no pedantry, and not being overbearing, we ran 
quietly together. I knew them all more or less, and 
they made me a member of Watier's, (a superb club 
at that time,) being, I take it, the only literary man 
(except two others, both men of the world, Moore 
and Spenser) in it. Our masquerade was a grand 
one ; so was the dandy ball too, at the Argyle, but 
that (the latter) was given by the four chiefs, B., 
M., A., and P., if I err not. 

"I was a member of the Alfred, too, being elected 
while in Greece. It was pleasant ; a little too sober 
and literary, and bored with * * and Sir Francis 
DTvernois ; but one met Peel, and Ward, and 
Valentia, and many other pleasant or known peo- 
ple ; and it was, upon the whole, a decent resource 
in a rainy day, in a dearth of parties, or parliament, 
or in an empty season. 

" I belonged, or belong, to the following clubs or 
societies : — to the Alfred ; to the Cocoa Tree ; to 
Waiter's ; to the Union ; to Racket's, (at Brighton) ; 
to the Pugilistic ; to the Owls, or ' Fly-by-night ; ' 
to the Cambridge Whig Club ; the Harrow Club, 
Cambridge ; and one or two private clubs ; Hamp- 
den (political) Club ; and to the Italian Carbonari, 
&c, &c, &c, 'though last, not least.' I got into 
all these, and never stood for any other — at least to 
my own knowledge. I declined being proposed to 
several others, though pressed to stand candidate. 



a * * * (commonly called long * * *, a very clevei 
man, but odd) complained to our friend Scrope B. 
Davies, in riding, that he had a stick in his side. 
' I don't wonder at it,' said Scrope, ' for you rida 
like a tailor.' Whoever has seen * * * on horse- 
back, with his very tall figure on a small nag, 
would not deny the justness of the repartee." 



" When Brummell was obliged (by that affair ot 
poor M * *, who thence acquired the name of ' ^ick 
the Dandy-killer ' — it was about money, and dt Jt, 
and all that) to retire to France, he knew no French, 
and having obtained a grammar for the purpose ol 
study, our friend Scrope Davies was asked what 
progress Brummell had made in French; he respon- 
ded, ' that Brummell had been stopped, like Bona- 
parte in Russia, by the Elements.' 

"I have put this pun into Beppo, which is 'a 
fair exchange and no robbery,' for Scrope made his 
fortune at several dinners (as he owned himself) by 
repeating occasionally, as his own, some of the 
buffooneries with which I had encountered him in 
the morning." 



" I have been called in as mediat6r, or second, at 
least twenty times, in violent quarrels, and have 
always contrived to settle the business without 
compromising the honor of the parties, or leading 
them to mortal consequences, and this too some- 
times in very difficult and delicate circumstances, 
and having to deal with very hot and haughty 
spirits, — Irishmen, gamesters, guardsmen, captains, 
and cornets of horse, and the like. This was, of 
course, in my youth, when I lived in hot-headed 
company. I have had to carry challenges from 
gentlemen to noblemen, from captains to captains, 
from lawyers to counsellors, and once from a cler- 
gyman to an officer in the life-guards ; but I found 
the latter by far the most difficult, 

' to compose 
The bloody duel wilhout blows,* 

the business being about a woman : I must add too, 
that I never saw a woman behave so ill, like a cold- 
blooded, heartless b , as she was, — but very hand- 
some, for all that. A certain Susan C * * was she 
called. I never saw hey; but once ; and that was to 
induce her but to say two words, (whioh in no 
degree compromised herself,) and which would have 
the effect of saving a priest or a lieutenant of 
cavalry. She would not say them, and neither 
N * * nor myself (the son of Sir E. N * *, and a 
friend to one of the parties) could prevail upon her 
to say them, though both of us used to deal in 
some sort with woman-kind. At last I managed to 
quiet the combatants without her talisman, and, I 
believe, to her great disappointment : she was the 

damndest b that I ever saw, and I have seen a 

great many. Though my clergyman was sure to 
lose either his life or his living, he was as warlike 
as the Bishop of Beauvais, and would hardly be 
pacified ; but then he was in love, and that is a 
martial passion. 

****** 

" Like Sylla, I have always believed that all 
things depend upon fortune, and nothing upon 
ourselves. I am not aware of any one thought or 
action worthy of being called good to myself or 
others, which is not to be attributed to the good 
goddess Fortune. 

* * * * * , * 

" If I were to live over again, I do not know 
what I would change in my life, unless it were for 
— not to have lived at all. All history, and experi 
ence, and the rest, teaches us that the good and 
evil are pretty equally balanced in this existence, 
and that what is most to be desired is an easy pas 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



1019 



sage out of it. "What can it give us, but 3'ears ? 
and those have little of good but their ending. 
****** 

" The world visits change of politics or change 
of religion with a more severe censure than a mere 
difference of opinion would appear to me to deserve. 
But there must be some reason for this feeling ; — 
and I think it is that these departures from the 
earliest instilled ideas of our childhood, and from 
the line of conduct chosen by us when we first enter 
into public life, have been seen to have more mis- 
chievous results for society, and to prove more 
weakness of mind than other actions, in themselves 
more immoral." 



Of the bust of himself by Bartollini :— " The 
bust does not turn out a good one, — though it may 
be like for aught I know, as it exactly resembles a 
superannuated Jesuit." Again, "I assure you 
Bartollini's is dreadful, though my mind misgives 
me that it is hideously like. If it is, I cannot be 
long for this world, for it overlooks seventy." 



" As far as fame goes (that is to say, living fame,) 
I have had my share, perhaps — indeed, certainly — 
more than my deserts. 

" Some odd instances have occurred, to my own 
experience, of the wild and strange places to which 
a name may penetrate, and where it may impress. 
Two years ago, (almost three, being in August or 
J.uly, 1819,) I received at Ravenna a letter, in Eng- 
lish verse, from Drontheim in Norway, written by a 
Norwegian, and full of the usual compliments, &c, 
&c. It is still somewhere among my papers. In 
the same month I received an invitation into Hol- 
stein from a Mr. Jacobsen (I think) of Hamburgh ; 
also, by the same'medium, a translation of Medora's 
song in the Corsair by a Westphalian baroness (not 
' Thunderton-Tronck '), with some original verses 
of hers, (very pretty and Klopstock-ish,) and a 
prose translation annexed to them, on the subject 
of my wife; — as they concerned her more than me, 
I sent them to her, together with Mr. Jacobsen's 
letter. It was odd enough to receive an invitation 
to pass the summer in Holstein, while in Italy, from 
people I never knew. The letter was addressed to 
Venice. Mr. Jacobsen talked to me of the ' wild 
roses growing in the Holstein summer.' Why then 
did the Cimbri and Teutones emigrate ? 

"• What a strange thing is life and man ! Were I 
to present myself at the door of the house where 
■my daughter now is, the door would be shut in my 
face — unless (as is not impossible) I knocked down 
the porter ; and if I had gone in that year (and 
perhaps now) to Drontheim, (the furthest town in 
Norway,) or into Holstein, I should have been 
received with open arms into the mansion of stran- 
gers and foreigners, attached to me by no tie but by 
that of mind and rumor. 

"As far as fame goes, I have had my share : it 
has indeed been leavened by other human con- 
tingencies, and this in a greater degree than has 
occurred to most, literary men of a decent rank in 
Life ; but, on the whole, I take it that such equi- 
poise is the condition of humanity." 



" Among the various Journals, Memoranda, Dia- 
ries, cVc., which I have kept in the course of my 
living, I began one about three months ago, and 
carried it on till I had filled one paper-book, (thin- 
nish,) and two sheets or so of another. I then left 
oft', partly because I thought we should have some 
business here, and I had furbished up my arms and 
got my apparatus ready for taking a turn with the 
patriots, having my drawers full of their proclama- 
tions, oaths, and resolutions, and my lower rooms 



of their hidden weapons, of most calibers, and 
partly because I had filled my paper-book. 

" But the Neapolitans have betrayed themselves 
and all the world ; and those who would have given 
their blood for Italy can now only give her their 
tears. 

" Some day or other, if dust holds together, I 
have been enough in the secret (at least in this part 
of the country) to cast perhaps some little light 
upon the atrocious treachery which has replunged 
Italy into barbarism : at present I have neither the 
time nor the temper. However, the real Italians 
are not to blame ; merely the scoundrels at the heel 
of the boot, which the Hun now wears, and will 
trample them to ashes with for their severity. I 
have risked myself with the others here, and how- 
far I may or may not be compromised is a problem 
at this moment. Some of them, like Craigengelt, 
would ' tell all, and more than all, to save them- 
selves.' But, come what may, the cause was a 
glorious one, though it reads at present as if the 
Greeks had run away from Xerxes. Happy the 
few who had only to reproach themselves with 
believing that those rascals were less ' rascaille ' 
than they proved ! — Here in Romagna, the efforts 
were necessarily limited to preparations and good 
intentions, until the Germans were fairly engaged 
in equal warfare — as we are upon their very fron- 
tiers, without a single fort or hill nearer than San 
Marino. Whether ' hell will he paved with ' those 
' good intentions,' I know not ; but there will prob- 
ably be a good store of Neapolitans to walk upon 
the pavement, whatever may be its composition. 
Slabs of lava from their mountain, with the bodies 
of their own damned souls for cement, would be the 
fittest causeway for Satan's ' Corso.' " 



"Fisa, Novembers, 1821. 

" ' There is a strange coincidence sometimes in 
the little things of this world, Sancho,' says Sterno 
in a letter, (if I mistake; not,) and so I have often 
found it. 

"In page [1012,] of this collection, I had alluded 
to my friend Lord Clare in terms such as my feel 
ings suggested. About a week or two afterward, 1 
met him on the road between Imola and Bologna, 
after not having met for seven or eight years. He 
was abroad in 1814, and came home just as I set out 
in 1816. 

" This meeting annihilated for a moment all the 
years between the present time and the days of 
Harrow. It was a new and inexplicable feeling, 
like rising from the grave to me. Clare too was 
much agitated — more in appearance than was my- 
self; for I could feel his heart beat to his fingers' 
ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my own 
which made me think so. He told me that I should 
find a note from him left at Bologna. I did. We 
were obliged to part for our different journeys, he 
for Rome, I for Pisa, but with the promise to meet 
again in spring. We were but five minutes together, 
and on the public road ; but I hardly recollect an 
hour of my existence which could be weighed against 
them. He had heard that I was coming on, and 
had left his letter for me at Bologna, because the 
people with whom he was travelling could not wait 
longer. 

" Of all I have ever known, he has always been 
the least alfcred in every thing from the excellent 
qualities and kind affections which attached me to 
him so strongly at school. I should hardly have 
thought it possible for society (or the world, as it is 
called) to leave a being with so little of the leaven 
of bad passions. 

" I do not speak from personal experience only, 
but from all" I have ever heard of him from others, 
during absence and distance. 

****** 

" I revisited the Florence Gallery, &c. My 
former impressions were confirmed ; but they were 



1020 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



too many visiters there to allow one to feel any 
thing properly. When we were (about thirty or 
forty) all stuffed into the cabinet of gems and 
knick-knackeries, in a corner of one of the gal- 
leries, I told Rogers that it ' felt like being in the 
watchhouse.' I left him to make his obeisances to 
Bome of his acquaintances, and strolled on alone — 
the only four minutes I could snatch of any feeling 
for the works around me. I do not mean to apply 
this to a tete a tete scrutiny with Rogers, who has 
an excellent taste, and deep feeling for the arts, 
(indeed much more of both than I can possess, for 
of the former I have not much,) but to the 
crowd of jostling starers and travelling talkers 
around me. 

" I heard one bold Briton declare to the woman 
on his arm, looking at the Yenus of Titian, ' Well, 
now, this is really very fine indeed,' — an observa- 
tion which, like that of the landlord in Joseph 
Andrews on ' the certainty of death,' was (as the 
landlord's wife observed) ' extremely true.' 

" In the Pitti Palace, I did not omit Goldsmith's 
prescription for a connoisseur, viz., ' that the pic- 
tures would have been better if the painter had 
taken more pains, and to praise the works of Pietro 
Perugino.' 

* * * * * * 

" People have wondered at the melancholy which 
runs through my writings. Others have wondered 
at my personal gayety. But I recollect once, after 
an hour in which I had been sincerely and particu- 
larly gay and rather brilliant, in company, my wife 
replying to me, when I said, (upon her remarking 
my high spirits,) 'And yet, Bell, I have been 
called and miscalled melancholy — you must have 
seen how falsely, frequently ? ' ' No, Byron,' she 
answered, ' it is not so : at heart, you are the most 
melancholy of mankind ; and often when apparently 
gayest.' 

* ***** 

" A young American,* named Coolidge, called on 
me not many months ago. He was intelligent, 
very handsome, and not more than twenty years 
old, according to appearances ; a little romantic, 
but that sits well upon youth, and mighty fond of 
poesy, as may be suspected from his approaching 
me in my cavern. He brought me a message from 
an old servant of my family, (Joe Murray,) and 
told me that he (Mr. Coolidge) had obtained a copy 
of my bust from Thorwaldsen at Rome, to send to 
America. I confess I was more flattered by this 
young enthusiasm of a solitary transatlantic travel- 
ler, than if they had decreed me a statue in the 
Paris Pantheon, (I have seen emperors and dem- 
agogues cast down from their pedestals even in 
my own time, and Grattan's name razed from the 
street, called after him in Dublin;) I say that I 
was more flattered by it, because it was single, un- 
political, and was without motive or ostentation, — 
the pure and warm feeling of a boy for the poet he 
admired. It must have been expensive, though ; — 
J would not pay the price of a Thorwaldsen bust 
for any human head and shoulders, except Napo- 
leon's, or my children's, or some ' absurd woman- 
kind's, as Monkbarns calk them — or my sister's. 
If asked why, then, I sat for my own ?— Answer, 
that it was at the particular request of J. C. Hob- 
house, Esq., and for no one else. A picture is a 
different matter ;— every body sits for their picture ; 
but a bust looks like putting up pretensions to 
permanency, and smacks something of a hankering 
for public fame rather than private remembrance. 

"Whenever an American requests to see me, 
(which is not unfrequently,) I comply, firstly, be- 
cause I respect a people who acquired their freedom 
by their firmness without excess ; and, secondly, 
because these transatlantic visits, ' few and far be- 
tween,' make me feel as if talking with posterity 
from the other side of the Styx. In a century or 



two the new English and Spanish Atlantides will 
be masters of the old countries, in all probability, 
as Greece and Europe overcame their mother Asia 
in the older or earlier ages, as they are called. 
* * * * * * 

After saying, in reference to his own choice of 
Venice as a place of residence, " I remembered 
General Ludlow's domal description, ' Omne solum 
forti patria,' and sat down free in a country which 
had been one of slavery for centuries," he adds, 
"But there is no freedom, even for masters, in the 
midst of slaves. It makes my blood boil to see the 
thing. I sometimes wish that I was the owner of 
Africa, to do at once what Wilberforce will do in 
time, viz., sweep slavery from her deserts, and look 
on upon the first dance of their freedom. 

"As to political slavery, so general, it is men's 
own fault : if they will be slaves, let them ! Yet it 
is but 'a word and a blow.' See how England for- 
merly, France, Spain, Portugal, America, Switzer- 
land, freed themselves ! There is no one instance 
of a long contest in which men did not triumph 
over systems. If Tyranny misses her first spring, 
she is cowardly as the tiger, and retires to be hunted. 
****** 

" Going to the fountain of Delphi (Castri) in 
1809, I saw a flight of twelve eagles (H. says they 
were vultures — at least, in conversation) and I 
seized the omen. On the day before, I composed 
the lines to Parnassus, (in Childe Harold,) and, on 
beholding the birds, had a hope that Apollo had 
accepted my homage. I have at least had the name 
and fame of a poet during the poetical part of life, 
(from twenty to thirty ;) — whether it will last is 
another matter. 

****** 

" In the year 1814, as Moore and I were going to 
dine with Lord Grey in Portman square, I pulled 
out a ' Java Gazette,' (which Murray had sent to 
me,) in which there was a controversy on our re- 
spective merits as poets. It was amusing enough 
that we should be proceeding peaceably to the same 
table, while they were squabbling about us in the 
Indian seas, (to be sure, the paper was dated six 
months before,) and filling columns with Batavian 
criticism. But this is fame, I presume.* 

"One of my notions different from those of my 
contemporaries is, that the present is not a high 
age of English poetry. There are more poets (soi- 
distant) than ever there were, and proportionably 
less poetry. This thesis I have maintained for 
some years, but, strange to say, it meeteth not with 
favor from my brethren of the shelf. Even Moore 
shakes his head, and firmly believes that this is the 
grand age of British poesy. 

****** 

" Of the immortality of the soul, it appears to me 
that there can be little doubt, if we attend for a 
moment to the action of mind : it is in perpetual 
activity. I used to doubt of it, but reflection has 
taught me better. It acts also so very independent 
of body — in dreams, for instance ; — incoherently and 
madly, I grant you, but still it is mind, and much 
more mind than when we are awake. Now that 
this should not act separately, as well as jointly, 
who can pronounce ? The stoics, Epictetus and 
Marcus Aurelius, call the present state ' a soul 
which drags a carcass,' — a heavy chain to be sure, 
but all chains being material may be shaken oft". 
How far our future life will be individual, or, rather, 
how far it will at all resemble our present existence, 
is another question ; but that the mind is eternal 
seems as probable as that the body is not so. Of 
course, I here venture upon the question without 
recurring to revelation, which, however, is at least 
as rational a solution of it as any other. A material 
resurrection seems strange and even absurd, except 
for purposes of punishment ; and all punishment 
which is to revenge rather than correct must be 



See Journal in Italy. 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



1021 



morally wrong ; and token the world is at an end, 
what moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures 
answer ? Human passions have probably disfigured 
the ditine doctrines here : — but the whole thing is 
inscrutable." 



" It is useless to tell me not to reason, but to be- 
lieve. You might as well tell a man not to wake, 
out sleep. And then to bully with torments, and 
all tbat! I cannot help thinking that the menace 
of hell makes as many devils as the severe penal 
codes of inhuman humanity make villains." , 



"Man is horn passionate of body, but with an 
innate though secret tendency to the love of good 
in his mainspring of mind. But, God help us all! 
it is at present a sad jar of atoms." 



" Matter is eternal, always changing, but repro- 
duced, and, as far as we can comprehend eternity, 
eternal; and why not mind? Why should not the 
mind act with and upon the universe, as portions of 
it act upon and with the congregated dust called 
mankind ? See how one, man acts upon himself 
and others, or upon multitudes ! The same agency, 
in a higher and purer degree, may act upon the 
stars, &c, ad infinitum." 



"I have often been inclined to materialism in 
philosophy, but could never bear its introduction 
into Christianity, which appears to me essentially 
founded upon the soul. For this reason, Priestley's 
Christian Materialism always struck me as deadly. 
Believe the resurrection of the body, if you will, 
but not without a soul. The deuce is in it, if, after 
having had a soul (as surely the mind, or whatever 
you call it is) in this world, we must part with it in 
the next, even for an immortal materiality ! I own 
my partiality for spirit." 



" I am always most religious upon a sunshiny 
day, as if there was some association between an 
internal approach to greater light and purity, and 
the kindler of this dark lantern of our external 
existence." 



" The night is also a religious concern, and 
even more so when I viewed the moon and stars 
through Herschell's telescope, and saw that they 
were worlds." 



" If, according to some speculations, you could 
prove the world many thousand years older than 
the Mosaic chronology, or if you could get rid of 
Adam and Eve, and the apple, and serpent, still, 
what is to be put up in their stead ? or how is the 
difficulty removed ? Things must have had a be- 
ginning, and what matters it ichen or how? " 



"I sometimes think that ma?i may be the relic of 
some higher material being wrecked in a former 
world, and degenerated in the hardship and strug- 
gle through chaos into conformity, or something 
like it, — as we see Laplanders, Esquimaux, &c, 
inferior in the present state, as the elements be- 
come more inexorable. But even then this higher 
pre- Adamite supposititious creation must have had 
an origin and a Creator, — for a creation is a more 



natural imagination than a fortuitous concourse of 
atoms : all things remount to a fountain, though 
they may flow to an ocean." 



"Plutarch says, in his Life of Lysa-nder, tha 
Aristotle observes ' that in general great geniuses 
are of a melancholy turn, and instances Socrates, 
Plato, and Hercules, (or Heraclitus,) as examples^ 
and Lysander, though not while young, yet as in- 
clined to it when approaching towards age.' Whe- 
ther I am a genius or not, I have been called such 
by my friends as well as enemies, and in more 
countries and languages than one, and also within 
a no very long period of existence. Of my genius 
I can say nothing, but of my melancholy, that it 
is 'increasing and ought to be diminishing.' But 
how ? 

"I take it that most men are so at bottom, but 
that it is only remarked in the remarkable. The 
Duchesse de firoglio, in reply to a remark of mine 
on the errors of clever people, said that ' they were 
not worse than others, only, being more in view, 
more noted, especially in all that could reduce them 
to the rest, or raise the rest to them.' In 1816 this 
was. 

"In fact, (I suppose that) if the follies of fools 
were all set down like those of the wise, the wise 
(who seem at present only a better sort of fools) 
would appear almost intelligent." 



"It is singular how soon we lose the impression 
of what ceases to be constantly before us : a year 
impairs ; a lustre obliterates. There is little dis- 
tinct left without an effort of memory. Then, in- 
deed, the lights are rekindled for a moment; but 
who can be sure that imagination is not the torch- 
bearer ? Let any man try at the end of ten years to 
bring before him the features, or the mind, or the 
sayings, or the habits of his best friend, or his great- 
est man, (I mean his favorite, his Bonaparte, his 
this, that, or t'other,) and he will be surprised at 
the extreme confusion of his ideas. I speak confi- 
dently on this point, having always passed for one 
who had a good, ay, an excellent memory. I ex- 
cept, indeed, our recollection of womankind ; there 

is no forgetting them (and be d d to them) any 

more than any other remarkable era, such as ' the 
revolution,' or 'the plague,' or 'the invasion,' or 
' the comet,' or ' the war,' of such and such an 
epoch, — being the favorite dates of mankind, who 
have so many blessings in their lot, that they never 
make their calendars from them, being too common. 
For instance, you see, 'the great drought,' 'the 
Thames frozen" over,' ' the seven years' war broke 
out,' the 'English, or French, or Spanish revolu- 
tion commenced,' 'the Lisbon earthquake,' 'the 
Lima earthquake,' ' the earthquake of Calabria,' 
' the plague of London,' ditto ' of Constantinople,' 
' the sweating sickness,' ' the yellow fever of Phila- 
delphia,' &c, &c, &-c. ; but you don't see 'the 
abundant harvest,' 'the fine summer,' 'the long 
peace,' 'the wealthy speculation,' 'the reckless 
voyage,' recorded so emphatically ! By-the-way, 
there has been a thirty years' tear and a seventy 
years' war; was there ever a seventy or a thirty 
years' peace? or was there ever a day's universal 
peace ? except perhaps in China, where they have 
found out the miserable happiness of a stationary 
and unwarlike mediocrity. And is all this because 
nature is niggard or savage, or mankind ungrateful ? 
Let philosophers decide. I am none." 



" In general I do not draw well with the literary 
men ; not that I dislike them— but I never know 
what to say to them after I have praised their last 



1022 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



publication. There are several exceptions, to be 
sure, but then they have either been men of the 
world, such as Scott and Moore, &c. ; or visionaries 
out of it, such as Shelley, &c. : but your literary 
every-day man and I never went well in company, 
especially your foreigner, whom I never could abide ; 
except Giordani, and — and — and — (I really can't 
name any other) — I don't remember a man among 
them whom I ever wished to see twice, except per- 
haps Mezzophanti, who is ampnster of languages, 
the Briarius of parts of speech, a walking Poylgiott, 
and more, who ought to have existed at the time of 
the Tower of Babel, as universal interpreter. He 
is indeed a marvel — unassuming also. I tried him 
in all the tongues of which I knew a single oath, 
(or adjuration to the gods against postboys, sav- 
ages, Tartars, boatmen, sailors, pilots, gondoliers, 
muleteers, camel-drivers, Vetturini, postmasters, 
posthorses, posthouses, post every thing,) and, 
egad ! he astounded me — even to my English." 



" 'No man would live his life over again,' is an 
aid and true saying which all can resolve for them- 



selves. At the same time, there are probably mo- 
ments in most men's lives which they would live 
over the rest of life to regain ? Else why do we 
live at all ? because Hope recurs to Memory, both 
false ; but — but — but — but and this but drags on till 
— what ? I do not know : and who does ? He that 
died o' Wednesday ? " 



" Alcibiades is said to have been ' successful in all 
his battles ' — but ivhat battles ? Name them ! If 
you mention Csesar, or Hannibal, or Napoleon, you 
at once rush upon Pharsalia, Munda, Alesia, Can- 
na?, Thrasymene, Trebia, Lodi, Marengo, Jena, 
Austerlitz, Friedland, Wagram, Moskwa: but it is 
less easy to pitch upon the victories of Alcibiades ; 
though they may be named too, though not so read- 
ily as the Leuctra and Mantinai of Epaminondas, 
the Marathon of Miltiades, the Salamis of Themis- 
tocles, and the Thermopylae of Leonidas. Yet, 
upon the whole, it may be doubted whether there 
be a name of antiquity which comes down with such 
a general charm as that of Alcibiades. Why ? I 
cannot answer. Who can ? " 



KEYIEW OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

TWO VOLS., 1807.* 
[Froji "Monthly Literary Recreations," for August, 1807.] 



, I 



The volumes before us are by the author of Lyri- 
cal Ballads, a collection which has not undeservedly 
met with a considerable share of public applause. 
The characteristics of Mr. W.'s muse are simple 
and flowing, though occasionally inharmonious 
verse, strong, and sometimes irresistible appeals 
to the feelings, with unexceptionable sentiments. 
Though the present work may not equal his former 
efforts, many of the poems possess a native ele- 
gance, natural and unaffected, totally devoid of 
the tinsel embellishments and abstract hyperboles 
of several contemporary sonneteers. The last son- 
net in the first volume, p. 152, is perhaps the best, 
without any novelty in the sentiments, which we 
hope are common to every Briton at the present 
crisis ; the force and expression is that of a genuine 
poet, feeling as he writes : — 

" Another year ! another deadly blow ! 
Another mighty empire overthrown ! 
And we are left, or shall be left, alone — 
The last that dares to struggle with the foe. 
'Tis wei! ! — from this day forward we shall know 
That in ourselves onr safety most be sought, 
That by our own right hands it must be wrought ; 
That we must stanil unprop'd, or be laid low. 
O dastard 1 whom such foretaste does not cheer ! 
We shall exult, if they who rule this land 



* I have been a reviewer. In 1807, in a Magazine called " Monthly 
Literary Recreations," I reviewed Wordsworth's trash of that time. In the 
MonMily Review I wrote some articles which were inserted. This was in the 
latter part of 1811. 



Be men who hold its many blessings dear, 
Wise, upright, valiant, not a venal band, 
Who are to judge of danger which they fear, 
And honor which they do not understand." 

The song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, the 

Seven Sisters, the Affliction of Margaret of 

, possess all the beauties, and few of the de- 
fects, o.f this writer : the following lines from the 
last are in his first style : — 

11 Ah 1 little doth the young one dream 
When full of play and childish cares, 
What power hath e'en his wildest scream, 
Heard by his mother unawares : 
He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
Years to a mother bring distress, 
But do not make her love the less." 

The pieces least worthy of the author are those 
entitled "Moods of my own Mind." We certainly 
wish these " Moods " had been less frequent, or 
not permitted to occupy a place near works which 
only make their deformity more obvious ; when Mr. 
W." ceases to please, it is by "abandoning" his 
mind to the most common-place ideas, at the same 
time clothing them in language not simple, but 
puerile. What will any reader or auditor, out of 
the nursery, say to such namby-pamby as " Lines 
written at the Foot of Brother's Bridge ? 

" The cock is crowing, 
The stream is flowing, 
The small birds twitter, 
The lake doth glitter, 



REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY. 



1023 



The green field sleeps in the aun ; 

The oldest and youngest, 

Are at work with the strongest ; 

The cattle are grazing, 

Their heads never raising, 

There are forty feeding like one. 

Like an army defeated, 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill, 

On the top of the bare hill." 



"The plough-boy is whooping anon, anon," &c, 
i.e., is in the same exquisite measure. This ap- 
pears to us neither more nor less than an imitation 
of such minstrelsy as soothed our cries in the cra- 
dle, with the shrill ditty of 



" Hey de diddle. 
The cat and the fiddle I 
The cow jump'd over the moon, 
The little dog laugh'd to see such sport, 
And the dish ran away with the spoon." 

On the whole, however, with the exception of the 
above, and other innocent odes of the same cast, 
we think these volumes display a genius worthy of 
higher pursuits, and regret that Mr. W. confines 
his muse to such trifling subjects. We trust his 
motto will be in future, " Paulo majora canamus." 
Many, with inferior abilities, have acquired a loftier 
seat on Parnassus, merely by attempting strains in 
which Mr. Wordsworth is more qualified to excel. 



REYIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA, 
AND FUNERARY OF GREECE. 

[From the " Monthly Review," for August, 1811.] 



That laudable curiosity concerning the remains 
of classical antiquity which has of late years' in- 
creased among our countrymen, is in no traveller or 
author more conspicuous than in Mr. Gell. What- 
ever difference of opinion may yet exist with regard 
to the success of the several disputants in the fa- 
mous Trojan controversy,* or, indeed, relating to 
the present author's merits as an inspector of the 
Troad, it must universally be acknowledged that 
any work, which more forcibly impresses on our 
imaginations the scenes of heroic action, and the 
subjects of immortal song, possesses claims on the 
attention of every scholar. 

Of the two works which now demand our report, 
we conceive the former to be by far the most inter- 
esting to the reader, as the latter is indisputably 
the most serviceable to the traveller. Excepting, 
indeed, the running commentary which it contains 
on a number of extracts from Pausanias and Strabo, 
it is, as the title imports, a mere itinerary of Greece, 
or rather of Argolis only, in its present circumstan- 
ces. This being the case, surely it would have an- 
swered every purpose of utility much better by being 
printed as a pocket road-book of that part of the 
Morea ; for a quarto is a very unmanageable travel- 
ling companion. The mapsf and drawings, we 
shall be told, would not permit such an arrange- 
ment : but as to the drawings, they are not in gen- 
eral to be admired as specimens of the art ; and 
several of them, as we have be?n assured by eye- 
witnesses of the scenes whioJi they describe, do not 
compensate for their mediocrity in point of execu- 
tion, by any extraordinary fidelity of representation. 
Others, indeed, are more faithful, according to our 



• We have it from the best authority that the venerable leader of the Anti- 
Homeric sect, Jacob Bryant, several years before his death, expressed regret 
for his ungrateful attempt to destroy some of the most pleasing associations 
of our youthful studies. One of his last wishes was — " Trojaque nunc 
etares," &c. 

1 Or rather, Map ; for we have only one in the volume, and that is on 
too small a scale to give more than a general idea of the relative position of 
places. The excuse about a larger map not folding well is trifling; see, for 
instance, the author's own map of Ithaca. 



informants. The true reason, however, for this 
costly mode of publication is in course to be found 
in a desire of gratifying the public passion for large 
margins, and all the luxury of typography ; and we 
have before expressed our dissatisfaction with Mr. 
Gell's aristocratical mode of communicating a spe- 
cies of knowledge which ought to be accessible to a 
much greater portion of classical students than can 
at present acquire it by his means : — but, as such 
expostulations are generally useless, we shall be 
thankful for what we can obtain, and that in the 
manner in which Mr. Gell has. chosen to present it. 
The former of these volumes, we have observed, 
is the most attractive in the closet. It comprehends 
a very full survey of the far-famed island which the 
hero of the Odyssey has immortalized ; for we really 
are inclined to think that the author has established 
the identity of the modern Thcaki with the Ithaca 
of Homer. At all events, if it be an illusion, it is 
a very agreeable deception, and is effected by an 
ingenious interpretation of the passages in Homer 
that are supposed to be descriptive of the scene* 
which our traveller has visited. We shall extract 
some of these adaptations of the ancient picture to 
the modern scene, marking the points of resem- 
blance which appear to be strained and forced, as 
well as those which are more easy and natural : but 
we must first insert some preliminary matter from 
the opening chapter. The following passage con- 
veys a sort of general sketch of the book, which 
may give our readers a tolerably adequate notion of 
its contents : — 

11 The present work may "Sddnce, by a simple and correct survey of the 
island, coincidences in its geography, in its natural pr duclions, and moral 
state, before unnoticed. Some will be directly pointed out; the fancy or 

genuity of the reader may Le employed in tracing others ; the mind familiar 

ith the imagery of the Odyssey will recognize with satisfaction the scenes 
themselves ; and this volume is offered to the public, not entirely without 
hopes of vindicating the poem of Homer from the skepticism of those critics 

ho imagine that the Odyssey is a mere poetical composition, unsupported 
by history, and unconnected with the localities of any particular situation. 

Some have asserted that, in the comparison of places now existing with 
the descriptions of Homer, we ought not to expect coincidence in minut* 
detaiU; yet it teems only by these that the kingdom of Ulysses or any 



1024 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



other, can be identified, as, if such an idea be admitted, every small and 
rocky island in the Ionian Sea, containing' a good port, might, with equal 
plausibility, assume the appellation of Ithaca, 

" The Venetian geographers have in a great degree contributed to raise 
those doubts which have existed on the identity of the modern with the 
ancienl Ithaca, by giving, in their charts, the name of Val di Compare to the 
island. That name is, however, totally unknown in tho country, where the 
isle is invariably called Ithaca by the upper ranks, and Theaki by the vulgar. 
The Venetians have equally corrupted the name of almost every place in 
Greece ; yet, as the natives of Epactos or Naupactos never heard of Lepanto, 
those o I Zacynthos of Zante, or the Athenians of Settines, it would be as 
unfair to rob Ithaca of its name, on such authority, as it would be to assert 
tliat no such island existed, because no tolerable representation of its form 
can be found in the Venetian surveys 

"The rare medals of the island, of which three are represented in the 
titlepage, might be adduced as a proof that the name of Ithaca was not lost 
during the reigns of the Roman emperors. They have the head of Ulysses, 
recognized by the pileum, or pointed cap, while the reverse of one prpspnts 
the figure of a cock, the emblem of his vigilance, with the legend I0AK12N 
A few of these medals are preserved in the cabinets of the curious, and one 
als », with (he cock, found in the island, is in the possession of Signor Zavo, 
of Bathi. The uppermost coin is in the collection of Dr. Hunter ; the second 
is copied from Newman, and the third is the property of R. P. Knight, Esq. 

" Several inscriptions, which will be hereafter produced, will tend to the 
ccnfirmation of the idea that Ithaca was inhabited about the time when the 
Romans were masters of Greece ; yet there is every reason to believe that 
few, if any of the present proprietors of the soil are descended from ancestors 
who had long resided successively in the island. Even those who lived, at 
the time of Ulyc&es, in Ithaca, seem to have been on the point of emigrating 
to Argos, and no chief remained, after the second in descent from that hero, 
worthy of being recorded in history. It appears that the isle has boen twice 
colonised from Cephalonia in modern limes, and I was informed that a grant 
bad been made by the Venetians, entitling each settler in Ithaca to as much 
land as his circumstances would enable him to cultivute." 

Mr. Gell then proceeds to invalidate the author* 
ty of previous writers on the subject of Ithaca. Sir 
George Wheeler and Mr. le Chevalier fall under his 
severe animadversion ; and, indeed, according to 
his account, neither of these gentlemen had visited 
the island, and the description of the latter is " ab- 
solutely too absurd for refutation." In another 
place, he speaks of M. le C. " disgracing a work 
of such merit by the introduction of such fabrica- 
tions ; " again, of inaccuracy of the author's maps ; 
and, lastly, of his inserting an island at the south- 
ern entry of the Channel between Cephalonia and 
Ithaca, which has no existence. This observation 
very nearly approaches to the use of that mono- 
syllable which Gibbon,* without expressing it, so 
adroitly applied to some assertion of his antagonist, 
Mr. Davies. In truth, our traveller's words are 
rather bitter towards his brother tourist : but we 
must conclude that their justice warrants their se- 
verity. 

In the second chapter, the author describes his 
landing in Ithaca, and arrival at the rock Korax 
and the fountain Arethusa, as he designates it with 
sufficient positiveness. — This rock, now known by 
the name of Korax, or Koraka Pctra, he contends 
to be the same with that which Homer mentions as 
contiguous to the habitation of Eumirus, the faith- 
ful swineherd of Ulysses. — We shall take the lib- 
erty of adding to our extracts from Mr. Gell some 
of the passages in Homer to which he refers only, 
conceiving this to be the fairest method of exhibit- 
ing the strength or the weakness of his argument. 
"Ulysses," he observes, "came to the extremity 
of the isle to visit Eumaeus, and that extremity was 
the most southern; for Telemachus, coming from 
Pylos, touched at the first south-eastern part of 
Ithaca with the same intention." 

Kat tote Srj />' 'O^i'ffr/a kclkos ttoBev fjyaye Satfxcov 
A) pn er 1 iaxarufv^ dQi Sto/iara vaie cv/Sojrrjs' 
'Ei/0' fiXOsv 0<Aoc iiiog 'OSvggiioc 6ctotu 9 
'Ev II'-'Aff finaOoevros ioji/ cvv vrjt fteXaivrj' 

'O<5u£T0~£( 



a. 



*Avrap i^riv trpcjrrjv a.KTt}v 'Wants dtpttcnat 
N/ya [A£v le iroXiv oTpwai Kat Travrac eraipov? 
, Avtuc Jc Tr/jwrtra vvftu>Tr]v iiGu<ptK£G(f>at 9 

K, 7\ A. 'OcWffCt 



* See his Vindication of the 15th and 16th chapters of the Decline and 
FhlL &c. 



These citations, we think, appear to justify the 
author in his attempt to identify the situation of 
his rock and fountain with the place of those men 
tioned by Homer. But let us now follow him in 
the closer description of the scene. — After some ac- 
count of the subjects in the plate affixed, Mr. Gell 
remarks : u It is impossible to visit this sequestered 
spot without being struck with the recollection of 
the Fount of Arethusa and the rock Korax, which 
the poet mentions in the same line, adding, that 
there the swine eat the sweet acorns,* and drink the 
black water." 

An£'$ tov ye eveaat vaprjfievov at Se vc\xnvrai 
flap KipaKoc werpriy im rf. Kpr\vr\ ^ApzQuvrj, 
Eo-fWai /3a\avov fiCvoetKca, nai pteXav vStop 
Wivitfjac 06v(T<rci' N. 

" Having passed some time at the fountain, taken a dm wing, and made 
the necessary oliservations on the situation of the place, we proceeded to an 
examination of the precipice, climbing over the terraces above the source, 
shady fig-trees, which, however, did not prevent us from feeling the 
powerful effects of the mid-day sun. After a short but fatiguing ascent, we 
ved at the rock, which extends in a vast perpendicular semicircle, beauti- 
fully fringed with trees, facing to the south-east. Under the crag we found 
two caves of inconsiderable extent, the entrance of one of which, not difficult 
of access, is seen in the view of the fount. They are still the reson of sheep 
and goats, and in one oi them are small natural receptacles for the water, 
covered by a stalagmitic incrustation. 

41 These caves, being at the extremity of the curve formed by the precipice, 
open toward the south, and present us with another accompaniment to the 
fount of Arethusa, mentioned by the poet, who informs us that the swineherd 
Eumanis left his guests in the house, whilst he, putting on a thick garment, 
went to sleep near the herd, under the hollow of the rock, which sheltered 
him from the northern blast. Now we know that the herd fed near the 
fount ; for Minerva tells Ulysses that he U to go first to Eumasus, whom he 
should find with the swine, near the rock Korax and the fount of Arethusa. 
As the 6wine then fed at the fountain, so it is necessary that a cavern should 
be found in its vicinity ; and this seems to coincide, in distance and situation, 
with that of the poem. Near the fount also was the fold or stathnios of 
Eumceus; for the goddess informs Ulysses that he should find his faithful 
servant at or above the fount. 

" Now the hero meets the swineherd close to the fold, which was con- 
sequently veiy near that source. At the top of the rock, and just above the 
spot where the waterfall shoots down the precipice, is at this day a stagni or 
pastoral dwelling, which the herdsmen of Ithaca still inhabit, on account of 
the water necessary for their cattle. One of these people walked on the 
verge of the precipice at the time of our visit to the place, and seemed so 
anxious to know how we had been conveyed to the spot, that his enquiries 
reminded us of a question probably not uncommon in the days of Homer, 
who more than once represents the Ithacences demanding of strangers what 
ship had brought them to the island, it being evident they could not come on 
foot. He told us that there was, on the summit where he stood, a small 
cistern of water, and a kalybea, or shepherd's hut. There are also vestiges 
of ancient habitations, and the place is now wiled Amarathia. 

" Convenience, as well as safety, seems to have pointed out the lofty 
situation of AmanUhia as a fit place for the resi Icnce of the herdsmen of this 
part of the island from the earliest ages. A small source of water is a 
treasure in these climates ; and if the inhabitants of Ithaca now select a rug- 
ged and elevated spot, to secure them from the robbers of the Echinades, it 
is to be recollected that the Taphian pirates were not less formidable, even in 
the days of Ulysses, and that a residence in the solitary part of the island, 
far from the fortress, and close to a celebrated fountain, must at all time* 
have been dangerous, without some such security as the rocks of Korax. 
Indeed, there can be no doubt that the house of Eumsus was on the top of 
the precipice : for Ulysses, in order to evince the truth of his story to the 
leherd, desires to be thrown from the summit if his narration does not 
e correct. 

Near the bottom of the precipice is a curious natural gallery, about seven 
feet high, which is expressed in the plate. It may be fairly presumed, from 
the very remarkable coincidence between this place and the Homeric account, 
that this was the seme designated by the poet as the fountain of Arethusa, 
and the residence of Eumaius ; and, perhaps, it would be impossible to find 

other spot which bears, at this day, so strong a resemblance to a poetic 
description composed at a period so very remote. There is no other fountain 
part of the island, nor any rock which bears the slightest resemblance 
to the Korax of Homer. 

The stathmoa of the good Eumsus appears to have been little different, 
either in use or construction, from the stagni and kalybea of the present day. 
The poet expressly mentions that other herdsmen drove their flocks into the 
city at sunset, — a custom which still prevails throughout Greece during the 
winter, and that was the season in which Ulysses visited Eumieus. Yet 
Homer accounts for this deviation from the prevailing custom, hy observing 
that he had retired from the city to avoid the suitors of Penelope. These 
occurrences afford a strong presumption that the Ithaca of Homer 
mething more than the creature of his own fancy, as some have sup- 
it ; tor though the grand outline of a fable may be easily imagined, yet 



" Sweet acorns." Does Mr. Gell translate from the Latin ? To avoid 
'ar cause of mistake, atv>iiK£a should not be ren lered sauvem, buf 
gratam, as Barnes has given it. 



REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY. 



1025 



the consistent adaptation of minute incidents to a long and elaborate falsehood 
is a task of the most arduous and complicated nature." 

After this long extract, by which we have endeav- 
ored to do justice to Mr. Gell's argument, we can- 
not allow room for any farther quotations of such 
extent; and we must oiler a brief and imperfect 
analysis of the remainder of the work. 

In the third chapter, the traveller arrives at the 
capital, and in the fourth, he describes it in an 
agreeable manner. We select his account of the 
mode of celebrating a Christian festival in the Greek 
church : — 

" We were present at the celebration of the feast of the Ascension, when 
the citizens appeared in their gayest dresses, and saluted each other in the 
streets with demonstrations of pleasure. As we sate at breakfast in the house 
of Zignor Z.ivo, we were suddenly roused by the discharge of a gun, suc- 
ceeded by a tremendous crash of pottery, which fell on the tiles, steps, and 
pavements, in every direction. The bells of the numerous churches com- 
menced a most discordant jingle ; colois were hoisted on every mast in the 
port, and a general shout of joy announced some great event. Our host 
informed us that the feast of the Ascension was annually commemorated in 
this manner at Bathi, the populace exclaiming avE$r] o X^tc;jc, aXri 
Olios Otoe, Christ is risen, the true God." 

In another passage, he continues this account as 
follows : — " In the evening of the festival, the in- 
habitants danced before their houses ; and at one 
tve saw the figure which is said to have been first 
used by the youths and virgins of Delos, at the 
happy return of Theseus from the expedition of the 
Cretan Labyrinth. It has now lost much of that 
intricacy which was supposed to allude to the wind- 
ings of the habitation of the Minotaur," &c, &c. 
This is rather too much for even the inflexible 
gravity of our censorial muscles. When the author 
talks, with all the reality (if we may use the ex- 
pression) of a Lempriere, on the stories of the 
fabulous ages, we cannot refrain from indulging a 
momentary smile ; nor can we seriously accompany 
him in the learned architectural detail by which he 
endeavors to give us, from the Odyssey, the ground- 
plot of the house of Ulysses, — of which he actually 
offers a plan in drawing ! " showing how the de- 
scription of the house of Ulysses in the Odyssey 
may be supposed to correspond with the foundations 
vet visible on the hill of Aito ! " — Oh, Foote ! 
Foote ! why are you lost to such inviting subjects 
for your ludicrous pencil ! In his account of this 
celebrated mansion, Mr. Gell says, one side of the 
court seems to have been occupied by the Thalamos, 
or sleeping apartments of the men, &c, &c. ; and, 
in confirmation of this hypothesis, he refers to the 
10th Odyssey, line three hundred and forty. On 
examining his reference, we read, 

'Ej OaXapiO!- t' ievai, Kat aiji i7Tt0r]ficviu ivi'ijc. 

where Ulysses records an invitation which he re- 
ceived from Circe to take a part of her bed. How 
this illustrates the above conjecture, we are at a loss 
to divine : but we suppose that some numerical 
error has occurred in the reference, as we have de- 
tected a trifling mistake or two of the same nature. 
Mr. G. labors hard to identify the cave of Dexia, 
near Bathi (the capital of the island), with the 
grotto of the Nymphs described in the 13th Odys- 
sey. We are disposed to grant that he has suc- 
ceeded : but we cannot here enter into the proofs 
by which he supports his opinion ; and we can only 
extract one of the concluding sentences of the 
chapter, which appears to us candid and judicious : 

" Whatever opinion may be formed as to the identity of the cave of Dexia 
with the grotto of the Nymphs, it is fair to state, that Strabo positively asserts 
that no such cave as that described by Homer existed in his time, and that 
geographer thought it better to assign a physical change, rather than 
ignorance in Homer, to account for a difference which he imagined to exist 
between the Ithaca of his time and that of the poet. But Strabo, who was 
an uncommonly accurate observer with respect to countries surveyd by him- 
self, appears to have been wretchedly misled by his informers on many 



" That Strabo had never visited this country is evident, not only from his 
Inaccurate account of it, but from his citation of Appollodorus and Scepsius, 
whose relations are in direct opposition to each other on the subject of Ithaca, 
us will be demonstrated on a future opportunity." 

129 



We must, however, observe that "demonstration" 
is a strong term.— In his description of the Leuca- 
dian Promontory (of which we have a pleasing 
representation in the plate), the author remarks 
that it is " celebrated for the leap of Sappho, and 
the death of Artemisia." From this variety in the 
expression, a reader would hardly conceive that both 
the ladies perished in the same manner: in fact, the 
sentence is as proper as it would be to talk of the 
decapitation of Russell, and the death of Sidney. 
The view from this promontory includes the island 
of Corfu; and the name suggests to Mr. Gell the 
following note, which, though rather irrelevant, is 
of a curious nature, and we therefore conclude our 
citations by transcribing it : — 

" It has been generally supposed that Corfu, or Corcyra, was the Phteacia of 
Homer; but Sir Henry Riiglefield thinks the position of that island inconsistent 
with the voyage of Ulysses as described in the Odyssey. That gentleman has 
also observed a number of such remarkable cninridencei between the courts of 
Alcinous and Solomon, that they may l>e thought curious and interesting. 
Homer was familiar with the names of Tyre, Sidon, anil Egypt ; and, as he 
lived about the time of Solomon, it would not hive been extraordinary if he had 
introduced some account of the magnificence of that prince into his poem. As 
Solomon was famous for wisdom, so lbs name of Alcinous signifies strength of 
knowledge ; as the gardens of Solomon were celebrated, so are those of Al- 
cinous (Od. 7. 112) ; as the kingdom of Solomon was distinguished by twelve 
tribes under twelve princes (1 Kings, ch. 4), so that of Alcinous (Od. 8. 300) 
was ruled by an equal number ; as the throne of Solomon was supported by 
lions of gold (1 Kings, ch. 10), so that of Alcinous was placed on dogs of 
silver and gold (Od. 7. 91) ; as the fleets of Solomon were famous, so were 
those of Alcinous. It is perhaps worthy of remark-, that Neptune sate on the 
mountains of the Solymi, as he returned from .Ethiopia to j£ga?, while he 
raised the tempest which threw Ulysses on the coast of Phancia ; and that 
the Solymi of Pampbilia are very considerably distant from the route. — The 
suspicious character, also, which Nansicaa attributes to her countryman 
agrees precisely with that which the Greeks and Romans gave of the Jews." 

The seventh chapter contains a description of the 
Monastery of Kathara, and several adjacent places. 
The eighth, among other curiosities, fixes on an 
imaginary site for the farm of Laertes : but this is 
the agony of conjecture, indeed ! — and the ninth 
chapter mentions another Monastery, and a rock 
still called the school of Homer. Some sepulchral 
inscriptions of a very simple nature are included. — 
The tenth and last chapter brings us round to the 
Port of Schoenus, near Bathi ; after we have com- 
pleted, seemingly in a very minute and accurate 
manner, the tour of the island. 

We can certainly recommend a perusal of this 
volume to every lover of classical scene and story. 
If we may indulge the pleasing belief that Homer 
sang of a real kingdom, and that Ulysses governed 
it, though we discern many feeble links in Mr. Cell's 
chain of evidence, we are on the whole induced to 
fancy that it is the Ithaca of the bard and'of the 
monarch. At all events, Mr. Gell has enabled even- 
future traveller to form a clearer judgment on the 
question than he could have established without 
such a " "Vade-mecum to Ithaca," or a " Have with 
you, to the House of Ulysses," as the present. 
With Homer in his pocket, and Gell on his sumpter- 
horse or mule, the Odyssean tourist may now make 
a very classical and delightful excursion ; and we 
doubt not the advantages accruing to the Ithacen- 
ces, from the increased number of travellers who 
will visit them in consequence of Mr. Cell's account 
of their country, will induce them to confer on that 
gentleman any heraldic honors which they may have 
to bestow, should he ever look in upon them again. 
— Baron Baths would be a pretty title : — 

" Hoc Ithacus velit, et magno mercentur Atrida." — Virgil. 

For ourselves, we confess that all our old Grecian 
feelings would be alive on approaching the fountain 
ofMelainudros, where, as the tradition runs, or as 
the priests relate, Homer was restored to sight. 

We now come to the " Grecian Patterson," or 
" Cary," which Mr. Gell has begun to publish ; and 
really he has carried the epic rule of concealing the 
person of the author to as great a length as either 
of the above-mentioned heroes of itinerary writ. 
We hear nothing of his "hair-breadth 'scapes" by 
sea or land ; and we do not even know, for the 



1G26 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



greater part of his journey through Argolis, whether 
ne relates what he has seen or what he has heard. 
From other parts of the book, we find the former 
to be the case ; but, though there have been tour- 
ists and "strangers" in other countries, who have 
kindly permitted their readers to learn rather too 
much of their sweet selves, yet it is possible to carry 
delicacy, or cautious silence, or whatever it may be 
called, to the contrary extreme. We think that 
Mr. Gell has fallen into this error, so opposite to 
that of his numerous brethren. It is offensive, in- 
deed, to be told what a man has eaten for dinner, or 
how pathetic he was on certain occasions ; but we 
like to know that there is a being yet living who 
describes the scenes to which he introduces us ; and 
that it is not a mere translation from Strabo or Pau- 
sanias which we are reading, or a commentary on 
those authors. This reflection leads us to the con- 
cluding remark in Mr. Gell's preface (by much the 
most interesting part of his book) to his Itinerary 
of Greece, in which he thus expresses himself: — 

11 The confusion of the modern with the ancient names of places in this 
volume is absolutely unavoidable ; they are, however, mentioned in such a 
manner, that the reader will soon be accustomed to the indiscriminate use 
of them. The necessity of applying the ancient appellations to the different 
routes, will be evident from the total ignorance of the public on the subject of 
the modern names, which, having never appeared in print, are only known 
to the few individuals who have visited the country. 

" What could appear less intelligible to the reader, or less useful to the 
traveller, than a route from Chione and Zaracca to Kucchukmadi, from 
thence to Kr.ibuta to Scoumochorio, and by the mills of Feali, while every 
one is in some degree acquainted with the names of Stymphalus, Nemea 
Myceny, Lyrceia, Lenta, and Tegea ? " 

Although this may be very true inasmuch as it 
relates to the reader, yet to the traveller we must 
observe, in opposition to Mr. Gell, that nothing can 
be less useful than the designation of his route 
according to the ancient names. We might as well, 
and with as much chance of arriving at the place of 
our destination, talk to a Hounslow postboy about 
making haste to Augusta, as apply to our Turkish 
guide in modern Greece for a direction to Stympha- 
lus, Nemea, Mycenae, &c, &c. This is neither 
more nor less than classical affectation ; and it ren- 
ders Mr. Gell's book of much more confined use 
than it would otherwise have been : — but we have 
some other and more important remarks to make 
on his general directions to Grecian tourists; and 
we beg leave to assure our readers that they are de- 
rived from travellers who have lately visited Greece. 
In the first place, Mr. Gell is absolutely incautious 
enough to recommend an interference on the part of 
English travellers with Ithe Minister at the Porte, 
in behalf of the Greeks. " The folly of such neglect 
(page 16, preface), in many instances, where the 
emancipation of a district might often be obtained 
by the present of a snuff-box or a watch, at Con- 
stantinople, and without the smallest danger of ex- 
citing the jealousy of such a court as that of Turkey, 
will be acknowledged when we are no longer able to 
rectify the error." We have every reason to believe, 
on the contrary, that the folly of half a dozen travel- 
lers taking this advice, might bring us into a war. 
" Never interfere with any thing of the kind," is a 
much sounder and more political suggestion to all 
English travellers in Greece. 

Mr. Gell apologises for the introduction of "his 
panoramic designs," as he calls them, on the score 
of the great difficulty of giving any tolerable idea 
of the face of a country in writing, and the ease 
with which a very accurate knowledge of it may be 
acquired by maps and panoramic designs. We are 
informed that this is not the case with many of these 
designs. The small scale of the single map we 
have already censured; and we have hinted that 
some of the drawings are not remarkable for correct 
resemblance of their originals. The two nearer 
views of the Gate of the Lions at Mycenae are indeed 
good likenesses of their subject, and the first of 
them is unusually well executed ; but the general 
view of Mycenae is not more than tolerable in any 



respect ; and the prospect of Larissa, &c, is barely 
equal to the former. The view from this last place 
is also indifferent; and we are positively assured 
that there are no windows at Mauplia which look 
like a box of dominos, — the idea suggested by Mr. 
Gell's plate. We must not, however, be too severe 
on these picturesque bagatelles, which, probably, 
were very hasty sketches ; and the circumstances of 
weather, &c, may have occasioned some difference 
in the appearance of the same objects to different 
spectators. We shall therefore return to Mr. Gell's 
preface ; endeavoring to set him right in his direc- 
tions to travellers, where we think that he is erro- 
neous, and adding what appears to have been omit- 
ted. In his first sentence, he makes an assertion 
which is by no means correct. He says, " We are 
at present as ignorant of Greece, as of the interior 
of Africa." Surely not quite so ignorant ; or several 
of our Grecian Mungo Paries have travelled in vain, 
and some very sumptuous works have been pub- 
lished to no purpose! As we proceed, we find the 
author observing that "Athens is now the most 
polished city of Greece," when we believe it to be 
the most barbarous, even to a proverb — 

'ii 'A9rjKI, Ttp'JTIl Xoj/JOj 
Ti yat<5u/)»c Tpcd>eis rcopfi," 

is a couplet of reproach now applied to this once 
famous city ; whose inhabitants seem little worthy 
of the inspiring call which was addressed to them 
within these twenty years, by the celebrated Riga: — 

Atirt iraiiti t-uji/ EAAijtw— *. r. A. 

Iannina, the capital of Epirus, and the seat of Ali 
Pacha's government, is in truth deserving of the 
honors which Mr. Gell has improperly bestowed on 
degraded Athens. As to the correctness of the 
remark concerning the fashion of wearing the hair 
cropped in Molossia, as Mr. Gell informs us, our 
authorities cannot depose: but why will he use the 
classical term of Eleuthero-Lacones, when that 
people are so much better known by their modern 
name of Mainotes ? " The court of the Pacha of 
Tripolizza " is said "to realise the splendid visions 
of the Arabian Nights." This is true with regard 
to the court: but surely the traveller ought to have 
added that the city and palace are most miserable, 
and form an extraordinary contrast to the splendor 
of the court. — Mr. Gell mentions gold mines in 
Greece; he should have specified their situation, - 
as it certainly is not universally known. When. 
also, he remarks that " the first article of necessity 
in Greece is a firman, or order from the Sultan, 
permitting the traveller to pass unmolested," we are 
much misinformed if he be right. On the contrary, 
we believe this to be almost the only part of the 
Turkish dominions in which a firman is not neces- 
sary ; since the passport of the Pacha is absolute 
within his territory (according to Mr. G.'s own 
admission), and much more effectual than a firman. 
"Money," he remarks, "is easily procured at Sa- 
lonica, or Patras, where the English have consuls." 
It is much better procured, we understand, from the 
Turkish governors, who never charge discount. 
The consuls for the English are not of the most 
magnanimous order of Greeks, and far from being 
so liberal, generally speaking ; although there are, 
iu course, some exceptions, and Strune of Patras 
has been more honorably mentioned. — After having 
observed that "horses seem the best mode of con- 
veyance in Greece," Mr. Gell proceeds : " Some 
travellers would prefer an English saddle ; but a 
saddle of this sort is always objected to by the owner 
of the hor^e, and not without reason," X'c. This, 
we learn, is far from being the case ; and, indeed, 
for a very simple reason, an English saddle must 
seem to be preferable to one of the country, because 



• We write these lines from the re citation of the travellers to whom we 
hare alluded ; but we cannot Touch for the correctness of the Romaic. 



REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY. 



1027 



it is much lighter. "When, too, Mr. Gell calls the 
postilion " Menzilgi," he mistakes him for his bet- 
ters : Semu/ees are postilions ; Menzilgis are post- 
masters : — Our traveller was fortunate in his Turks, 
who are hired to walk by the side of the baggage- 
horses. They "are certain," he says, "of perform- 
ing their engagement v.'ithout grumbling." We 
apprehend that this is by no means certain : — but 
Mr. Gell is perfectly right in preferring a Turk to a 
Greek for this purpose; and in his general recom- 
mendation to take a Janissary on the tour : who, 
we may add, should be suffered to act as he pleases, 
since nothing is to be done by gentle means, or even 
by offers of money, at the places of accommodation. 
A courier, to be sent on before to the place at which 
the traveller intends to sleep, is indispensable to 
comfort : but no tourist should be misled by the 
author's advice to suffer the (Jreeks to gratify their 
curiosity, in permitting them to remain for some 
time about him on his arrival at an inn. They 
should be removed as soon as possible ; for, as to 
the remark that "no stranger would think of in- 
truding when a room is preoccupied," our inform- 
ants were not so well convinced of that fact. 

Though we have made the above exceptions to 
the accuracy of Mr. Gell's information, we are most 
ready to do justice to the general utility of his 
directions, x and can certainly concede the praise 
which he is desirous of obtaining, — namely, " of 
having facilitated the researches of future travel- 
lers, by affording that local information which it was 
before impossible to obtain." This book, indeed, is 
absolutely necessary to any person who wishes to 
explore the Morea advantageously ; and we hope 
that Mr. Gell will continue his Itinerary over that 
and every other part of Greece. He allows that his 
volume "is only calculated to become a book of 
reference, and not of general entertainment:" but 
we do not see any reason against the compatibility 
of both objects in a survey of the most celebrated 
country of the ancient world. To that country, we 
trust, the attention, not only of our travellers, but 
of our legislators, will hereafter be directed. The 
greatest caution will, indeed, be required, as we 
have premised, in touching on so delicate a subject 
as the amelioration of the possessions of an ally : 
but the field for the exercise of political sagacity is 
wide and inviting in this portion of the globe ; and 
Mr. Gell, and all other writers who interest us, 
however remotely, in its extraordinary capabilities, j 
deserve well of the British empire. We shall con- 
clude by an extract from the author's work, which, 
c*-en if it fails of exciting that general interest 
which we hope most earnestly it may attract, to- 
wards its important subject, cannot, as he justly 
observes, "be entirely uninteresting to the scholar;" 



since it is a work "which gives him a faithful de- 
scription of the remains of cities, the very existence 
of which was doubtful, as they perished before the 
era of authentic history." The subjoined quotation 
is a good specimen of the author's minuteness of 
research as a topographer ; and we trust that the 
credit which must accrue to him from the present 
performance will ensure the completion of his Itin- 
erary : — 

11 The inaccuracies of the ms.ps o r Anacharsis are in many respects very 
glaring. The situation of Plilius is maiked by Strabo as surrounded by the 
territories of Sicyon, Argos, Cleans, and S'.ymphalus. Mr. Hawkins 
observed, that Phlius, the ruins of which still exist near Agios Giorgios, lies 
a direct line between .Cleona: and Stymphahis, and another from Sicyon 
to Argos ; so that Strabo was correct in saying that it lay between those four 
towns ; yet we see Phlius, in the map of Argolis by M. Barbie du Bocage, 
placed ten miles to the north of Stymphahis, contradicting both history and 
fact. D'Anville is guilty of the same error. 

M. dn Bocage places a town named Phlius, and by him Phlionte, on 
the point of land which forms the port of Drepano : there are not at present 
ny ruins there. The maps of D'Anville are generally more correct than 
ny others where ancient geography is concerned. A mistake occurs on the 
subject of Tiryns, and a place named by him Vathia, but of which nothing 
be understood. It is possible that Vathi, or the profound valley, may be 
a name sometimes used for the valley of Barbitsa, and that the place named 
by D'Auville Claustra may be the outlet of that valley called Kleisoura 
which has a corresponding signification. 

" The city of Tiryns is also placed in two different positions, once by itl 
Greek name, and again as Tirynlhus. The mistake between the islands o 
Sph.rria and Calaura has been noticed in page 135. The Pontinus, which 
D'Anville represents as a river, and the Erasmus are equally ill placed in his 
map. There was a place called Creopolis, somewhere toward Cynouria ; 
but its situation is not easily fixed. The ports called Bucephalium and 
Pineus seem to have been nothing more than little bays in the country 
between Corinth and Epidaurus. The town called Athens, in Cynouria, by 
Pausanias, is called Anihena by Thucydides, book 5. 41. 

11 In general, the map of D'Anville will be found more accurate than 
those which have been published since his tin.e ; indeed the mistakes of that 
geographer are in general such as could not be avoided without visiting the 
country. Two errors of D'Anville may be mentioned, lest the opportunity 
of publishing the itinerary of Arcadia should never occur. The first is, that 
the rivers Mahetas and Mylaon, near Methydrium, are represented as run- 
ning toward the south, whereas they flow northwards to the Ladon ; and 
the second is, that the Aroanius, which falls into the Erymanthus at Psophis, 
is represented as flowing from the hike of Pheneos; a mistake which arises 
from the ignorance of the anctems themselves who have written on the 
subject. The fact is that the Laidon receives the waters of the lakes of 
Orchomenos and Pheneos ; but the Aroanius rises at a spot not two hours 
distant from Psophis." 

In furtherance of our principal object in this cri- 
tique, we have only to add a wish that some of our 
Grecian tourists, among the fresh articles of infor- 
mation concerning Greece which they have lately 
imported, would turn their minds to the language 
of the country. So strikingly similar to the ancient 
Greek is the modern Romaic as a written language, 
and so dissimilar in sound, that even a few general 
rules concerning pronunciation would be of most 
extensive use. 



THE FIRST CHAPTER OF A NOYEL, 

CONTEMPLATED BY LORD BYRON IN THE "SPRING OF 1812; 



[Afterwards Published in one of Mr. Dallas's Novels.] 



— Darrell to G. Y. 

* * * * So much for your present pursuits. 



will now resume the subject of my lust. How I 
wish you were upon the spot ; your taste for the 
ridiculous would be fully gratified ; and if you felt 
inclined for more serious amusement, there is no 
"lack of argument." Within this last week our 
guests have been doubled in number, some of them 
my old acquaintance. Our host you already know 
— absurd as ever, but rather duller, and I should 
conceive, troublesome to such of his very good 
friends as find his house more agreeable than its 
owner. I confine myself to observation, and do 
not find him at all in the way, though Veramore 
and Asply are of a different opinion. The former, 
in particular, imparts to me many pathetic com- 
plaints of the want of opportunities (nothing else 
being wanting to the success of the said Veramore) 
created by the fractious and but ill-concealed jeal- 
ousy of poor Bramblebear, whose Penelope seems 
to have as many suitors as her namesake, and for 
aught I can see to the contrary, with as much pro- 
spect of carrying their point. In the mean time, I 
look on and laugh, or rather I should laugh were 
you present to share in it ; sackcloth and sorrow 
are excellent wear for soliloquy ; but for a laugh 
there should be two, but not many more, except at 
the first night of a modern tragedy. 

You are very much mistaken in the design you 
impute to myself; I have none here or elsewhere. 
I am sick of old intrigues, and too indolent to en- 
gage in new ones. Besides, I am, that is, I used 
to be, apt to find my heart gone at the very time 
when you fastidious gentlemen begin to recover 
yours. I agree with you that the world, as well as 
yourself, are of a different opinion. I shall never 
be at the trouble to undeceive either ; my follies 
have seldom been of my own seeking. "Rebellion 
came in my way, and I found it." This may appear 
as coxcombical a speech as Veramore could make, 
yet you partly know its truth. You talk to me too 
of " my character," and yet it is one which you and 
fifty others have been struggling these seven years 
to obtain for yourselves. I wish you had it, you 
would make so much better, that is, worse use of it ; 
relieve me, and gratify an ambition which is un- 
worthy of a man of sense. It has always appeared 
to me extraordinary that you should value women 
so highly, and yet love them so little. The height 
of your gratification ceases with its accomplishment; 
you bow, and you sigh, and you worship, — and 
abandon. For my part I regard them as a very 
beautiful, but inferior animal. I think them as 
much out of place at our tables as they would be 



, J. 180—. 

in our senates. The whole present system, with 
regard to that sex, is a remnant of the chivalrous 
barbarism of our ancestors ; I look upon them as 
grown-up children, but, like a foolish mamma, am 
always the slave of some only one. With a con- 
tempt for the race, I am ever attached to the indi- 
vidual, in spite of myself. You know that, though 
not rude, I am inattentive ; any thing but a " beau 
garcon." I would not hand a woman out of her 
carriage, but I would leap into a river after her. 
However, I grant you that, as they must walk 
oftener out of chariots than into the Thames, you 
gentlemen servitors, Cortejos and Cicisbei, have a 
better chance of being agreeable and useful; you 
might, very probably, do both ; but as you can't 
swim, and I can, I recommend you to invite me to 
your first water-party. 

Bramblebear's Lady Penelope puzzles me. She 
is very beautiful, but not one of my beauties. You 
know I admire a different complexion, but the fig- 
ure is perfect. She is accomplished, if her mother 
and music-master may be believed ; amiable, if a 
soft voice and a sweet smile could make her so ; 
young, even by the register of her baptism ; pious 
and chaste, and doting on her husband, according to 
Bramblebear's observation ; equally loving, not of 
her husband, though rather less pious, and t'other 
thing, according to Veramore's ; and if mine hath 
any discernment, she detests the one, despises the 
other, and loves — herself. That she dislikes Bram- 
blebear is evident; poor soul, I can't blame her; 
she has found him out to be mighty weak and little- 
tempered ; she has also discovered that she married 
too early to know what she liked, and that there are 
many likeable people who would have been less 
discordant and more creditable partners. Still, she 
conducts herself well, and in point of good humor, 
to admiration. A good deal of religion, (not enthu- 
siasm, for that leads the contrary way,) a prying 
husband who never leaves her, and, as I think, a 
very temperate pulse, will keep her out of scrapes. 
I am glad of it, first, because, though Bramblebear 
is bad, I don't think Veramore much better ; and 
next, because Bramblebear is ridiculous enough 
already, and it would be thrown away upon him to 
make him more so ; thirdly, it would be a pity, be- 
cause nobody would pity him ; and, fourthly, (as 
Scrub says,) he would then become a melancholy 
and sentimental harlequin, instead of a merry, fret- 
ful pantaloon, and I like the pantomime better as it 
is now cast. More in my next. 

Yours, truly, 

Darrell. 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



DEBATE ON THE FRAME-WORK BILL, IN THE HOUSE 
OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 27, 1812. 

The order of the day for the second reading of 
this bill being read, 

LORD BYRON rose, and (for the first time) ad- 
dressed their lordships, as follows : 

My Lords — The subject now submitted to your 
lordships for the first time, though new to the 
House, is by no means new to the country. 1 
believe it had occupied the serious thoughts of all 
descriptions of persons, long before its introduction 
to the notice of that legislature, whose interference 
alone could be of real service. As a person in some 
degree connected with the suffering county, though 
a stranger not only to this House in general, but to 
almost every individual whose attention I presume 
to solicit, I must claim some portion of your lord- 
ships' indulgence whilst I offer a few observations 
on a question in which I confess myself deeply in- 
terested. 

To enter into any detail of the riots would be 
superfluous : the House is already aware that every 
outrage short of actual bloodshed has been perpe- 
trated, and that the proprietors of the frames ob- 
noxious to the rioters, and all persons supposed to 
be connected with them, have been liable to insult 
and violence. During the short time I recently 
passed in Nottinghamshire, not twelve hours elapsed 
without some fresh act of violence ; and on the day 
I left the county, I was informed that forty frames 
had been broken the preceding evening, as usual, 
without resistence and without detection. 

Such was then the state of that county, and such 
I have reason to believe it to be at this moment. 
But whilst these outrages must be admitted to exist 
to an alarming extent, it cannot be denied that they 
have arisen from circumstances of the most unpar- 
alleled distress. The perseverance of these misera- 
ble men in their proceedings, tends to prove that 
nothing but absolute want could have driven a 
large, and once honest and industrious, body of the 
people, into the commission of excesses so hazard- 
ous to themselves, their families, and the commu- 
nity. At the time to which I allude, the town and 
county were burdened with large detachments of 
the military ; the police was in motion, the magis- 
trates assembled ; yet all the movements, civil and 
military, had led to — nothing. Not a single in- 
stance had occurred of the apprehension of any real 
delinquent actually taken in the fact, against whom 
there existed legal evidence sufficient for conviction. 
But the police, however useless, were by no means 
idle : several notorious delinquents had been de- 
tected ; men, liable to conviction, on the clearest 
evidence, of the capital crime of poverty ; men who 
had been nefariously guilty of lawfully begetting 
several children, whom, thanks to the times ! they 
were unable to maintain. Considerable injury had 
oeen done to the proprietors of the improved frames. 



These machines were to them an advantage, inas- 
much as they superseded the necessity of employing 
a number of workmen, who were left in consequence 
to starve. By the adoption of one species of frame 
in particular, one man performed the work of many, 
and the superfluous laborers were thrown out of 
employment. Yet it is to be observed, that the 
work thus executed was inferior in quality; not 
marketable at home, and merely hurried over with 
a view to exportation. It was called, in the cant of 
the trade, by the name of " Spider work." The 
rejected workmen, in the blindness of their igno- 
rance, instead of rejoicing at these improvements 
in arts so beneficial to mankind, conceived them- 
selves to be sacrificed to improvements in mechan- 
ism. In the foolishness of their hearts they im- 
agined, that the maintenance and well-doing of the 
industrious poor were objects of greater consequence 
than the enrichment of a few individuals by any 
improvement, in the implements of trade, which 
threw the workmen out of employment, and ren- 
dered the laborer unworthy of his hire. And it 
must be confessed that although the adoption of 
the enlarged machinery, in that state of our com- 
merce which the country once boasted, might have 
been beneficial to the master without being detri- 
mental to the servant ; yet, in the present situation 
of our manufactures, rotting in warehouses, with- 
out a prospect of exportation, with the demand for 
work and workmen equally diminished, frames of 
this description tend materially to aggravate the 
distress and discontent of the disappointed suffer- 
ers. But the real cause of these distresses and con- 
sequent disturbances lies deeper. When we are 
told that these men are leagued together not only 
for the destruction of their own comfort, but of their 
very means of subsistence, can we forget that it is 
the bitter policy, the destructive warfare of the last 
eighteen years, which has destroyed their comfort, 
your comfort, all men's comfort ? That policy which, 
originating with "great statesmen now no more," has 
survived the dead to become a curse on the living, 
unto the third and fourth generation ! These men 
never destroyed their looms till they were become 
useless, worse than useless ; till they were become 
actual impediments to their exertions in obtaining 
their daily bread. Can you, then, wonder that in 
times like these, when bankruptcy, convicted fraud, 
and imputed felony are found in a station not far 
beneath that of your lordships, the lowest, though 
once most useful portion of the people, should for- 
get their duty in their distresses, and become only 
less guilty than one of their representatives ? But 
while the exalted offender can find means to baffle 
the law, new capital punishments must be devised, 
new snares of death must be spread for the wretched 
mechanic, who is famished into guilt. These men 
ere willing to dig, but the spade was in other 
ands : they were not ashamed to beg, but there 
was none to relieve them : their own means of sub- 
sistence were cut off, all other employments pre 






1030 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



occupied, and their excesses, however to be deplored 
and condemned, can hardly be subject of surprise. 

It has been stated that the persons in the tem- 
porary possession of frames connive at their de- 
struction ; if this be proved upon inquiry, it were 
necessary that such material accessaries to the 
crime should be principals in the punishment. 
But I did hope, that any measure proposed by his 
majesty's government, for your lordship's decision, 
would have had conciliation for its basis ; or, if 
that were hopeless, that some previous inquiry, 
some deliberation would have been deemed requi- 
site ; not that we should have been called at once 
without examination, and without cause, to pass 
sentences by wholesale, and sign death-warrants 
blindfold. But admitting that these men had no 
cause of complaint ; that the grievances of them 
and their employers were alike groundless ; that 
they deserve the worst ; what inefficiency, what im- 
becility has been evinced in the method chosen to 
reduce them ! Why were the military called out to 
be made a mockery of, if they were to be called out 
at all ? As far as the difference of seasons would 
permit, they have merely parodied the summer cam- 
paign of Major Sturgeon ; and, indeed, the whole 
proceedings, civil and military, seemed on the model 
of those of the Mayor and corporation of Garratt. 
— Such marchings and countermarchings ! from 
Nottingham to Bullwell, from Bullwell to Banford, 
from Banford to Mansfield ! and when at length the 
detachments arrived at their destinations, in all 
" the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious 
war," they came just in time to witness the mischief 
which had been done, and ascertain the escape of 
the perpetrators, to collect the " spolia opima" in 
the fragments of broken frames, and return to their 
quarters amidst the derision of old women, and the 
hootings of children. Now, though in a free coun- 
try, it were to be wished that our military should 
never be too formidable, at least to ourselves, I can- 
not see the policy of placing them in situations 
where they can only be made ridiculous. As the 
sword is the worst argument that can be used, so 
should it be the last. In this instance it has been 
the first ; but providentially as yet only in the scab- 
bard. The present measure will, indeed, pluck it 
from the sheath; yet had proper meetings been 
held in the earlier stages of these riots, — had the 
grievances of these men and their masters (for they 
also had their grievances) been fairly weighed and 
justly examined, I do think that means might have 
been devised to restore these" workmen to their avo- 
cations, and tranquillity to the country. At present 
the country suffers from the double infliction of an 
idle military, and a starving population. In what 
state of apathy have we been plunged so long, that 
now for the first time the House has been officially 
apprized of these disturbances ! All this has been 
transacting within one hundred and thirty miles of 
London, and yet we, " good easy men, have deemed 
full surely our greatness was a-ripening," and have 
sat down to enjoy our foreign triumphs in the midst 
of domestic calamity. But all the cities you have 
taken, all the armies which have retreated before 
your leaders, are but paltry subjects of self-congrat- 
ulation, if your land divides against itself, and your 
dragoons and your executioners must be let loose 
against your fellow-citizens.— You call these men a 
mob, desperate, dangerous, and ignorant ; and seem 
to think that the only way to quiet the " Bellua 
multorum capitum" is to lop off a few of its super- 
fluous heads. But even a mob may be better re- 
duced to reason by a mixture of conciliation and 
firmness, than by additional irritation and redoubled 
penalties. Are we aware of our obligations to a 
mob ? It is the mob that labor in your fields, and 
serve in your houses, — that man your navy, and re- 
cruit your army, — that have enabled you to defy alL 
the world, and can also defy you when neglect ana 
calamity have driven them to despair. You may 
call the people a mob ; but do not forget, that a 



mob too often speaks the sentiments of the people. 
And here I must remark, with what alacrity you are 
accustomed to fly to the succor of your distressed 
allies, leaving the distressed of your own country to 
the care of Providence, or — the parish. When the 
Portuguese suffered under the retreat of the French, 
every arm was stretched out, every hand was opened, 
from the rich man's largess to the widow's mite, all 
was bestowed to enable them to rebuild their vil- 
lages and replenish their granaries. And at this mo- 
ment, when thousands of misguided but most un- 
fortunate fellow-countrymen are struggling with the 
extremes of hardships and hunger, as your charity 
began abroad, it should end at home. A much less 
sum, a tithe of the bounty bestowed on Portugal, 
even if those men (which I cannot admit without 
inquiry) could not have been restored to their em- 
ployments, would have rendered unnecessary the 
tender mercies of the bayonet and the gibbet. But 
doubtless our friends have too many foreign claims 
to admit a prospect of domestic relief; though 
never did such objects demand it. I have traversed 
the seat of war in the Peninsula, I have been in 
some of the most oppressed provinces of Turkey, 
but never under the most despotic of infidel govern- 
ments did I behold such squalid wretchedness as I 
have seen since my return in the very heart of a 
Christian country. And what are your remedies ? 
After months of inaction, and months of action 
worse than inactivity, at length comes forth the 
grand specific, the never-failing nostrum of all state 
physicians, from the days of Draco to the present 
time. After feeling the pulse and shaking the head 
over the patient, prescribing the usual course of 
warm water and bleeding, the warm water of your 
maukish police, and the lancets of your military, 
these convulsions must terminate in death, the sure 
consummation of the prescriptions of all political 
Sangrados. Setting aside the palpable injustice, 
and the certain inefficiency of the bill, are there not 
capital punishments sufficient in your statutes ? Is 
there not blood enough upon your penal code, that 
more must be poured forth to ascend to Heaven and 
testify against you ? How will you carry the bill 
into effect ? Can you commit a whole county to 
their own prison ? Will you erect a gibbet in every 
field, and hang up men like scarecrows ? or will you 
proceed (as you must, to bring this measure into 
effect) by decimation ? place the country under 
martial law ? depopulate and lay waste all around 
you ? and restore Sherwood Forest as an acceptable 
gift to the crown, in its former condition of a royal 
chase and an asylum for outlaws ? Are these the 
remedies for a starving and desperate populace ? 
Will the famished wretch who has braved your bay- 
onets, be appalled by your gibbets ? When deatnis 
a relief,, and the only relief it appears that you will 
afford him, will he be dragooned into tranquillity ? 
Will that which could not be effected by your gren- 
adiers be accomplished by your executioners ? If 
you proceed by the forms of law, where is your evi- 
dence ? Those! who have refused to impeach their 
accomplices, when transportation only was the pun- 
ishment, will hardly be tempted to witness against 
them when death is the penalty. With all due de- 
ference to the noble lords opposite, I think a little 
investigation, some previous inquiry, would induce 
even them to change their purpose. That most fa- 
vorite state measure, so marvellously efficacious in 
many and recent instances, temporizing, would not 
be without its advantages in this. When a proposal 
is made to emancipate or relieve, you hesitate, you 
deliberate for years, you temporize and tamper with 
the minds of men ; but a death-bill must be passed 
off hand, without a thought of the consequences. 
Sure I am, from what I have heard, and from what 
I have seen, that to pass the Bill under all the ex- 
isting circumstances, without inquiry, without de- 
liberation, would only be to add injustice to irritation, 
and barbarity to neglect. The framers of such a 
Bill must be content to inherit the honors of that 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



1031 



Athenian lawgiver whose edicts were said to be 
written not in ink, but in blood. But suppose it 
past ; suppose one of these men, as I have seen 
them, — meagre with famine, sullen with despair, 
careless of a life which your lordships are perhaps 
about to value at something less than the price of a 
stocking-frame — suppose this man, surrounded by 
the children for whom he is unable to procure bread 
at the hazard of his existence, about to be torn for 
ever from a family which he lately supported in 

Eeaceful industry, and which it is not his fault that 
e can no longer so support — suppose this man, and 
there are ten thousand such from whom you may 
E sleet your victims, dragged into court, to be tried 
far this new offence," by this new law; still, there 
are two things wanting to convict and condemn 
him ; and these are, in my opinion, — twelve Butch- 
ers for a Jury, and a Jeffries for a Judge ! 

DEBATE ON THE EARL OP DONOUGHMORE'S 

MOTION FOR A COMMITTEE ON THE 

ROMAN CATHOLIC CLAIMS, 

APRIL 21, 1812. 

My Lords — The question before the House has 
been so frequently, fully, and ably discussed, and 
never perhaps more ably than on this night, that it 
would be difficult to adduce new arguments for or 
against it. But with each discussion difficulties 
have been removed, objections have been canvassed 
and refuted, and some of the former opponents of 
Catholic Emancipation have at length conceded to 
the expediency of relieving the petitioners. In con- 
ceding thus much, however, a new objection is 
started ; it is not the time, say they, or it is an im- 
proper time, or there is time enough yet. In some 
degree I concur with those who say it is not the time 
exactly ; that time is passed ; better had it been for 
the country, that the Catholics possessed at this 
moment their proportion of our privileges, that their 
nobles held their due weight in our councils, than 
that we should be assembled to discuss their claims. 
It had indeed been better 

" Non tempore tali 
Cogere concillium cum muros obsLlit hoalis." 

The enemy is without, and distress within. It is 
too late to cavil on doctrinal points, when we must 
unite in defence of things more important than the 
mere ceremonies of religion. It is indeed singular, 
that we are called together to deliberate, not on the 
God we adore, for in that we are agreed ; not about 
the king we obey, for to him we are loyal ; but how 
far a difference in the ceremonials of worship, how 
for believing not too little, but too much, (the worst 
that can be imputed to the Catholics,) how far 
too much devotion to their God, may incapacitate 
our fellow-subjects from effectually serving their 
king. 

Much has been said, within and witfiout doors, of 
Church and State, and although those venerable 
words have been often prostituted to the most despi- 
cable of party purposes, we cannot hear them too 
often ; all, I presume, are the advocates of Church 
and State, the Church of 'Christ, and the State of 
Great Britain ; but not a state of exclusion and 
despotism ; not an intolerant church ; not a church 
militant, which renders itself liable to the very ob- 
jection urged against the Romish communion, and 
in a greater degree, for the Catholic merely with- 
holds its spiritual benediction, (and even that is 
doubtful,) but our church, or rather our churchmen, 
not only refuse to the Catholic their spiritual grace, 
but all temporal blessings whatsoever. It was an 
observation of the great Lord Peterborough, made 
within these walls, or within the walls where the 
Lords then assembled, that he was for a " parlia- 
mentary king and a parliamentary constitution, but 
not a parliamentary God, and a parliamentary re- 
ligion." The interval of a century has not weak- 



ened the force of the remark. It is indeed time 
that we should leave off these petty cavils on friv- 
olous points, these Lilliputian sophistries whether 
our " eggs are best broken at the brOad or narrow 
end." 

The opponents of the Catholics may be divided 
into two classes ; those who assert that the Catho- 
lics have too much already, and those who allege 
that the lower orders, at least, have nothing more 
to require. We are told by the former, that the 
Catholics never will be contented : by the latter, 
that they are already too happy. The last paradox 
is sufficiently refuted by the present, as by all past 
petitions ; it might as well be said, that the negroes 
did not desire to be emancipated — but this is an un- 
fortunate comparison, for you have already delivered 
them out of the house of bondage without any peti- 
tion on their part, but many from their taskmasters 
to a contrary effect ; and for myself, when I consider 
this, I pity the Catholic peasantry for not having 
the good fortune to be born black. But the Catho- 
lics are contented, or at least ought to be, as we are 
told : I shall therefore proceed to touch on a few of 
those circumstances which so marvellously con- 
tribute to their exceeding contentment. They are 
not allowed the free exercise of their religion in the 
regular army ; the Catholic soldier cannot absent 
himself from the service of the Protestant clergy- 
man, and, unless he is quartered in Ireland, or in 
Spain, where can he find eligible opportunities of 
attending his own ? The permission of Catholic 
chaplains to the Irish militia regiments was con- 
ceded as a special favor, and not till after years of 
remonstrance, although an act, passed in 1793, 
established it as a right. But are the Catholics 
properly protected in Ireland ? Can the church 
purchase a rood of land whereon to erect a chapel ? 
No ; all the places of worship are built on leases of 
trust or sufferance from the laity, easily broken and 
often betrayed. The moment any irregular wish, 
any casual caprice of the benevolent landlord meets 
with oppostion, the doors are barred against the 
congregation. This has happened continually, but 
in no instance more glaringly, than at the town of 
Newtown Barry in the county of Wexford. The 
Catholics, enjoying no regular chapel, as a tempo- 
rary expedient, hired two barns, which, being thrown 
into one, served for public worship. At this time 
there was quartered opposite to the spot an officer, 
whose mind appears to have been deeply imbued 
with those prejudices which the Protestant peti- 
tions, now on the tabic, prove to have been fortu- 
nately eradicated from the more rational portion of 
the people ; and when the Catholics were assembled 
on the Sabbath as usual, in peace and good-will 
towards men, for the worship of their God and yours, 
they found the chapel door closed, and were told 
that if they did not immediately retire, (and they 
were told this by a yeoman officer and a magistrate,) 
the riot act should be read, and the assembly dis 
persed at the point of the bayonet ! This was com 
plained of to the middle-man of government, the 
secretary at the Castle in 1806, and the answer was. 
(in lieu of redress, ) that he would cause a letter to 
be written to the colonel, to prevent, if possible, the 
recurrence of similar disturbances. Upon this fact, 
no very great stress need be laid ; but it tends to 
prove that while the Catholic church has not power 
to purchase land for its chapels to stand upon, the 
laws for its/protection are of no avail. In the mean 
time, the Catholics are at the mercy of every " pelt- 
ing, petty officer," who may choose to play his " fan- 
tastic tricks before high heaven," to insult his God, 
and injure his fellow-creatures. 

Every schoolboy, any f'ootboy, (such have held 
commissions in our service,) any footboy who can 
exchange his shoulder-knot for an epaulet, may per- 
form all this and more against the Catholic, by vir- 
tue of that very authority delegated to him by his 
sovereign, for the express purpose of defending his 
fellow-subjects to the last drop of his blood, without 



1032 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



discrimination or distinction between Catholic and 
Protestant. 

Have the Irish Catholics the full benefit of trial 
by jury ? They have not ; they never can have until 
they are permitted to share the privilege of serving 
as sheriffs and undersheriffs. Of this a striking ex- 
ample occurred at the last Enniskillen assizes. A 
yeoman was arraigned for the murder of a Catholic 
named Macvournagh : three respectable uncontra- 
dicted witnesses deposed that they saw the prisoner 
load, take aim, fire at, and kill the said Macvour- 
nagh. This was properly commented on by the 
judge ; but, to the astonishment of the bar, and 
indignation of the court, the Protestant jury ac- 
quitted the accused. So glaring was the partiality, 
that Mr. Justice Osborne felt it his duty to bind 
over the acquitted, but not absolved assassin, in 
large recognizances, thus for a time taking away his 
license to kill Catholics. 

Are the very laws passed in their favor observed ? 
They are rendered nugatory in trivial as in serious 
cases. By a late act, Catholic chaplains are per- 
mitted in jails, but in Fermanagh county the grand 
jury lately persisted in presenting a suspended cler- 
gyman for the office, thereby evading the statute, 
notwithstanding the most pressing remonstrances 
of a most respectable magistrate, named Fletcher, 
to the contrary. Such is law, such is justice, for the 
happy, free, contented Catholic ! 

It has been asked in another place, why do not 
the rich Catholics endow foundations for the educa- 
tion of the priesthood ? Why do you not permit 
them to do so ? Why are all such bequests subject 
to the interference, the vexatious, arbitrary, pecu- 
lating interference of the Orange commissioners for 
charitable donations ? 

As to Maynooth college, in no instance, except 
at the time of its foundation, when a noble Lord 
(Camden), at the head of the Irish administration, 
did appear to interest himself in its advancement ; 
and during the government of a noble Duke (Bed- 
ford), who, like his ancestors, has ever been the 
friend of freedom and mankind, and who has not so 
far adopted the selfish policy of the day as to ex- 
clude the Catholics from the number of his fellow- 
creatures ; with these exceptions, in no instance 
has that institution been properly encouraged. 
There was indeed a time when the Catholic clergy 
were conciliated, while the Union was pending, that 
Union which could not be carried without them, 
while their assistance was requisite in procuring 
addresses from the Catholic counties ; then they 
were cajoled and caressed, feared and flattered, and 
given to understand that " the Union would do 
every thing ; " but, the moment it was passed, they 
were driven back with contempt into their former 
obscurity. 

In the contempt pursued towards Maynooth col- 
lege, every thing is done to irritate and perplex — 
every thing is done to efface the slightest impres- 
sion of gratitude from the Catholic mind ; the very 
hay made upon the lawn, the fat and tallow of the 
beef and mutton allowed, must be paid for and 
accounted upon oath. It is true, this economy in 
miniature cannot be sufficiently commended, par- 
ticularly at a time when only the insect defaulters 
of the treasury, your Hunts and your Chinnerys, 
when only these " gilded bugs " can escape the 
microscopic eye of ministers. But when you come 
forward session after session, as your paltry pittance 
is wrung from you with wrangling and reluctance, 
to boast of your liberality, well might the Catholic 
exclaim, in the words of Prior, — 

" To John I owe some obligation, 
But John unluckily thinks fit 
To publish it to all the nation, 

So John and 1 arn more than quit." 

Some persons have compared the Catholics to the 
beggar in Gil Bias. Who made them beggars ? 
Who are enriched with the spoils of their ances- 



tors ? And cannot you relieve the beggar when 
your fathers have made him such ? If you are dis- 
posed to relieve him at all, cannot you do it without 
flinging your farthings in his face ? As a contrast, 
however, to this beggarly benevolence, let us look at 
the Protestant Charter Schools ; to them you have 
lately granted 41,000/. : thus are they supported, 
and how are they recruited ? Montesquieu ob- 
serves, on the English constitution, that the model 
may be found in Tacitus, where the historian de- 
scribes the policy of the Germans, and adds, "this 
beautiful system was taken from the woods;" so 
in speaking of the charter schools, it may be ob- 
served, that this beautiful system was taken from 
the gipsies. These schools are recruited in the 
same manner as the Janizaries at the time of their 
enrolment under Amurath, and the gipsies of the 
present day, with stolen children, with children 
decoyed and kidnapped from their Catholic con- 
nexions by their rich and powerful Protestant 
neighbors : this is notorious, and one instance may 
suffice to show in what manner. The sister of a 
Mr. Carthy (a Catholic gentleman of very con- 
siderable property) died, leaving two girls, who 
were immediately marked out as proselytes, and 
conveyed to the charter school of Coolgreny. Their 
uncle, on being apprized of the fact, which took 
place during his absence, applied for the restitution 
of his nieces, offering to settle an independence on 
these relations ; his request was refused, and not 
till after five years' struggle, and the interference 
of very high authority, could this Catholic gentle- 
man obtain back his nearest of kindred from a 
charity charter school. In this manner are prose- 
lytes obtained, and mingled with the offspring of 
such Protestants as may avail themselves of the 
institution. And how are they taught 2 A cate- 
chism is put into their hands consisting of, I believe, 
forty-five pages, in which are three questions rela- 
tive to the Protestant religion ; one of these queries 
is, "Where was the Protestant religion before Lu- 
ther ? " Answer, " In the Gospel." The remaining 
forty-four pages and a half regard the damnable 
idolatry of Papists ! 

Allow me to ask our spiritual pastors and mas- 
ters, is this training up_a child in the way which he 
should go ? Is this the religion of the Gospel before 
the time of Luther ? that religion which preaches 
" Peace on earth, and glory to God ? " Is it bring- 
ing up infants to be men or devils ? Better would 
it be to send them any where than teach them such 
doctrines ; better send them to those islands in the 
South Seas, where they might more humanely learn 
to become cannibals ; it would be less disgusting 
that they were brought up to devour the dead, than 
persecute the living. Schools, do you call them ? 
call them rather dunghills, where the viper of in- 
tolerance deposits her young, that, when their teeth 
are cut and their poison is mature, they may issue 
forth, filthy and venomous, to sting the Catholic. 
But are these the doctrines of the Church of Eng- 
land, or of churchmen ? No ; the most enlightened 
churchmen are of a different opinion. What says 
Paley ? "I perceive no reason why men of different 
religious persuasions, should not sit upon the same 
bench, deliberate in the same council, or fight in the 
same ranks, as well as men of various religious opin- 
ions, upon any controverted topic of natural history, 
philosophy, or ethics." It may be answered that 
Paley was not strictly orthodox ; I know nothing of 
his orthodoxy, but who will deny that he was an 
ornament to the church, to human nature, to Christ- 
ianity ? 

I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, so 
severely felt by the peasantry, but it may be proper 
to observe that there is an addition to the burden, 
a percentage to the gatherer, whose interest it thus 
becomes to rate thejn as highly as possible, and we 
know that in many large livings in Ireland, the only 
resident Protestants are the tithe-proctor and his 
family. 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



1033 



Among; many causes of irritation, too numerous 
for recapitulation, there is one in the militia not to 
be passed over — I mean the existence of Orange 
lodges amongst the privates ; can the officers deny 
this ? And if such lodges do exist, do they, can 
they tend to promote harmony amongst the men, 
who are thus individually separated in society, al- 
though mingled in the ranks ? And is this general 
system of persecution to be permitted, or is it to be 
believed that with such a system the Catholics can 
or ought to be contented ? If they are, they belie 
human nature ; they are then, indeed, unworthy to 
be any thing but the slaves you have made them. 
The facts stated are from most respectable authority, 
or I should not have dared in this place, or any 
place, to hazard this avowal.' If exaggerated, there 
are plenty, as willing as I believe them to be unable, 
to disprove them. Should it be objected that I 
never was in Ireland, I beg leave to observe, that it 
is as easy to know something of Ireland without 
having been there, as it appears with some to have 
been born, bred, and cherished there, and yet remain 
ignorant of its best interests. 

But there are, who assert that the Catholics have 
already been too much indulged: see (cry they) 
what has been done : we have given them one entire 
college, we allow them food and raiment, the full 
enjoyment of the elements, and leave to fight for us 
as long as they have limbs and lives to offer; and 
yet they are never to be satisfied ! Generous and 
just declaimers ! To this, and to this only, amount 
the whole of your arguments when stript of their 
sophistry. These personages remind me of the 
story of a certain drummer, who being called upon 
in the course of duty to administer punishment to 
a friend tied to the h alberta, was requested to flog 
high, he did — to flog low, he did — to flog in the 
noddle, he did — high, low, down the middle, and up 
again, but all in vain, the patient continued his 
complaints with the most provoking pertinacity, 
until the drummer, exhausted and angry, flung down 
his scourge, exclaiming, " the devil burn you, there's 
no pleasing you, flog where one will ! " Thus it is, 
you have flogged the Catholic, high, low, here, 
there, and every where, and then you wonder he is 
not pleased. It is true, that time, experience, and 
that weariness which attends even the exercise of 
barbarity, have taught you to flog a little more 
gently, but still you continue to lay on the lash, 
and will so continue, till perhaps the rod may be 
wrested from your hands, and applied to the backs 
of yourselves and your posterity. 

It was said by somebody in a former debate, (I 
forget by whom, and am not very anxious to remem- 
ber,) if the Catholics are emancipated, why not the 
Jews ? If this sentiment was dictated by compas- 
sion for the Jews, it might deserve attention, but as 
a sneer against the Catholic, what is it but the lan- 
guage of Shyloek transferred from his daughter's 
marriage to Catholic emancipation — 

" Would any of Ihe tribe of BarrabbaB 
Should have it rather than a Christian." 

I presume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the 
opinion of him whose taste only can be called in 
question for his preference of the Jews. 

It is a remark often quoted of Dr. Johnson, 
(whom I take to be almost as good authority as the 
gentle apostle of intolerance, Dr. Duigenan,) that 
he who could entertain serious .apprehensions of 
danger to the Church in these times, would have 
"cried fire in the deluge." This is more than a 
metaphor, for a remnant of these antediluvians 
appear actually to have come down to us, with fire 
in their mouths and water in their brains, to disturb 
and perplex mankind with their whimsical outcries. 
And as it is an infallible symptom of that distres- 
sing malady with which I conceive them to be af- 
flicted, (so any doctor will inform your lordships,) 
for the unhappy invalids to perceive a flame per- 
130 



petually flashing before their eyes, particularly when 
their eyes are shut, (as those of the persons to whom 
I allude have long been,) it is impossible to con- 
vince these poor creatures, that the fire against 
which they are perpetually warning us and them- 
selves, is nothing but an ignis fatuus of their own 
drivelling imaginations. What rhubarb, senna, or 
" what purgative drug can scour that fancy thence ?" 
It is impossible, they are given over, theirs is the 
true 

11 Caput insanabile tribu3 Anticyris." 

These are your true Protestants. Like Bayle, who 
protested against all sects whatsoever, so do they 
protest against Catholic petitions, Protestant peti- 
tions, all redress, all that reason, humanity, policy, 
justice, and common sense, can urge against the 
delusions of their absurd delirium. These are the 
persons who reverse the fable of the mountain that 
brought forth a mouse ; they are the mice who con- 
ceive themselves in labor with mountains. 

To return to the Catholics, suppose the Irish 
were actually contented under their disabilities, 
suppose them capable of such a bull as not to desire 
deliverance, ought we not to wish it for ourselves ? 
Have we nothing to gain by their emancipation ? 
What resources have been wasted ! What talents 
have been lost by the selfish system of exclusion ! 
You already know the value of Irish aid ; at this 
moment the defence of England is intrusted to the 
Irish militia : at this moment, while the starving 
people are rising in the fierceness of despair, the 
Irish are faithful to their trust. But till equal 
energy is imparted throughout by the extension of 
freedom, you cannot enjoy the full benefit of the 
strength which you are glad to interpose between 
you and destruction. Ireland has done much, but 
will do more. At this moment the only triumph 
obtained through long years of continental disaster 
has been achieved by an Irish general ; it is true he 
is not a Catholic ; had he been so, we should have 
been deprived of his exertions ; but I presume no 
one will assert that his religion would have impaired 
his talents or diminished his patriotism, though in 
that case he must have conquered in the ranks, for 
he never could have commanded an army. 

But while he is fighting the battles of the Catho- 
lics abroad, his noble brother has this night advo- 
cated their cause, with an eloquence which I shall 
not depreciate by the humble tribute of my pane- 
gyric, whilst a third of his 'kindred, as unlike as 
unequal, has been combating against his Catholic 
brethren in Dublin, with circular letters, edicts, pro- 
clamations, arrests, and dispersions — all the vexa- 
tious implements of petty warfare that could be 
wielded by the mercenary guerillas of government, 
•clad in the rusty armor of their obsolete statutes. 
Your lordships will, doubtless, divide new honors 
between the saviour of Portugal, and the dispenser 
of delegates. It is singular, indeed, to observe the 
difference between our foreign and domestic policy ; 
if Catholic Spain, faithful Portugal, or the no less 
Catholic and faithful king of the one Sicily, (of 
which, by-the-by, you have lately deprived him,) 
stand in need of succor, away goes a fleet and an 
army, an ambassador and a subsidy, sometimes to 
fight pretty hardly, generally to negotiate very badly, 
and always to pay very dearly for our Popish allies. 
Bnt let four millions of fellow-subjects pray for 
relief, who fight and pay and labor in your behalf, 
they must be treated as aliens, and although their 
"father's house has many mansions," there is no 
resting-place for them. Allow me to ask, are you 
not fighting for the emancipation of Ferdinand the 
Seventh, who certainly is a fool, and consequently, 
in all probability, a bigot; and have you more re- 
gard for a foreign sovereign than your own fellow- 
subjects, who are not fools, for they know your 
interest better than you know your own ; who are 
not bigots, for they return you good for evil ; but 
who are in worse durance than the prison of an 



1034 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



usurper, inasmuch as the fetters of the mind are 
more galling than those of the body. 

Upon the consequences of your not acceding to 
the claims of the petitioners, I shall not expatiate ; 
you know them, you will feel them, and your chil- 
dren's children when you are passed away. Adieu 
to that Union so called, as " Lucks a non hwendo," 
a Union from never uniting, which, in its first 
operation, gave a death-blow to the independence of 
Ireland, and in its last may be the cause of her 
eternal separation from this country. If it must be 
called a Union, it is the union of the shark with 
his prey ; the spoiler swallows up his victim, and 
thus they become one and indivisible. Thus has 
Great Britain swallowed up the parliament, the 
constitution, the independence of Ireland, and re- 
luse to disgorge even a single privilege, although 
for the relief of her swollen and distempered body 
politic. 

And now, my lords, before I sit down, will his 
majesty's ministers permit me to say a few words, 
not on their merits, for that would be superfluous, 
but on the degree of estimation in which they are 
held by the people of these realms. The esteem in 
which they are held has been boasted of in a trium- 
phant tone on a late occasion within these walls, 
and a comparison instituted between their conduct, 
and that of noble lords on this side of the house. 

What portion of popularity may have fallen to 
the share of my noble friends, (if such I may pre- 
sume to call them,) I shall not pretend to ascer- 
tain ; but that of his majesty's ministers it were 
vain to deny. It is, to be sure, a little like the 
wind, "no one knows whence it cometh or whither 
it goeth," but they feel it, they enjoy it, they boast 
of it. Indeed, modest and unostentatious as they 
are, to what part of the kingdom, even the most 
remote, can they flee to avoid the triumph which 
pursues them ? If they plunge into the midland 
counties, there they will be greeted by the manu- 
facturers, with spurned petitions in their hands, 
and those halters round their necks recently voted 
in their behalf, imploring blessings on the heads of 
those who so simply, yet ingeniously contrived to 
remove them from their miseries in this to a better 
world. If they journey on to Scotland, from Glas- 
glow to Johnny Groat's, every where will they re- 
ceive similar marks of approbation. If they take a 
trip from Portpatrkk to Donaghadee, there will 
they rush at once into the embraces of four Catholic 
millions, to whom their vote of this night is about 
to endear them for ever. When they return to the 
metropolis, if they can pass under Temple Bar with- 
out unpleasant sensations at the sight of the greedy 
niches over that ominous gateway, they cannot 
escape the acclamations of the livery, and the more 
tremulous, but not less sincere, applause, the bless- 
ings "not loud but deep" of bankrupt merchants 
and doubting stockholders. If they look to the 
army, what wreaths, not of laurel, but of night- 
shade, are preparing for the heroes of Walcheren ! 
It is true there are few living deponents left to tes- 
tify to their merits on that occasion ; but a " cloud 
of witnesses" are gone above from that gallant army 
which they so generously and piously despatched, to 
recruit the " noble army of martyrs." 

What if, in the course of this triumphal career, 
(in which they will gather as many pebbles as Ca- 
ligula's army did on a similar triumph, the proto- 
type of their own,) they do not perceive any of those 
memorials which a grateful people erect in honor of 
their benefactors ; what although not even a sign- 
post will condescend to depose the Saracen's head 
in favor of the likeness of the conquerors of Wal- 
cheren, they will not want a picture who can always 
have a caricature ; or regret the omission of a statue 
who will so often see themselves exalted in effigy. 
But their popularity is not limited to the narrow 
bounds of an island ; there are other countries where 
their measures, and, above all, their conduct to the 
Catholics, must render them preeminently popular. 



If they are beloved here, in France they must ba 
adored. There is no measure more repugnant to 
the designs and feelings of Bonaparte than Catholic 
emancipation ; no line of conduct more propitious 
to his projects, than that which has been pursued, 
is pursuing, and, I fear, will be pursued towards Ire- 
land. What is England without Ireland, and what 
is Ireland without the Catholics ? It is on the basis 
of your tyranny Napoleon hopes to build his own. 
So grateful must oppression of the Catholics be to 
his mind, that doubtless (as he has lately permitted 
some renewal of intercourse) the next cartel will 
convey to this country cargoes of Sevres china and 
blue ribands, (things in great request, and of equal 
value at this moment,) blue ribands of the legion 
of honor for Dr. Duigenan and his ministerial dis- 
ciples. Such is that well-earned popularity, the re- 
sult of those extraordinary expeditions, so expen- 
sive to ourselves, and so useless to our allies ; of 
those singular inquiries, so exculpatory to the ac- 
cused and so dissatisfactory to the people ; of those 
paradoxical victories, so honorable, as we are told, to 
the British name, and so destructive to the best inter- 
ests of the British nation ; above all, such is the re- 
ward of a conduct pursued by ministers towards the 
Catholics. 

I have to apologize to the House, who will, I 
trust, pardon one, not often in the habit of intrud- 
ing upon their indulgence, for so long attempting 
to engage their attention. My most decided opin- 
ion is, as my vote will be, in favor of the motion. 



DEBATE ON MAJOR CARTWRIGHT'8 PETITION, 
JUNE 1, 1813. 

My Lords — The petition which I now hold for 
the purpose of presenting to the House, is <>»e 
which I humbly conceive requires the particular at- 
tention of your lordships, inasmuch as, though 
signed but by a single individual, it contains state- 
ments which (if not disproved) demand most seri- 
ous investigation. The grievance of which the 
petitioner complains is neither selfish nor imaginary. 
It is not his own only, for it has been, and is still 
felt by numbers. No one without these walls, nor 
indeed within, but may to-morrow be made liable to 
the same insult and obstruction, in the discharge of 
an imperious duty for the restoration of the true 
constitution of these realms by petitioning for re- 
form in parliament. The petitioner, my Lords, is 
a man whose long life has been spent in one unceas- 
ing struggle for the liberty of the subject, against 
that undue influence which " has increased, is in- 
creasing, and ought to be diminished ; " and, what- 
ever difference of opinion may exist as to his politi- 
cal tenets, few will be found to question the integri- 
ty of his intentions. Even now, oppressed with 
years, and not exempt from the infirmities attendant 
on his age, but still unimpaired in talent, and un- 
shaken in spirit — "frangus non Jlectcs " — he has 
received many a wound in the combat against cor- 
ruption ; and the new grievance, the fresh insult of 
which he complains, may inflict another scar, but no 
dishonor. The petition is signed by John Cart- 
wright, and it was in behalf of the people and par- 
liament, in the lawful pursuit of that reform in the 
representation which is the best service to be ren- 
dered both to parliament and people, that he en- 
countered the wanton outrage which forms the 
subject matter of his petition to your lordships. It 
is couched in firm, yet respectful language — in the 
language of a man, not regardless of what is due 
to himself, but at the same time, I trust, equally 
mindful of the deference to be paid to this House. 
The petitioner states, among other matter of equal, 
if not greater importance, to all who are British in 
their feelings, as well as blood and birth, that on the 
21st of January, 1813, at Huddersfield, himself and 
six other persons, who, on hearing of his arrival, 
had waited on him merely as a testimony of respect, 



A FRAGMENT. 



1035 



were seized by a military and civil force, and kept 
in close custody for several hours, subjected to gross 
and abusive insinuations from the commanding offi- 
cer relative to the character of the petitioner; that 
he (the petitioner) was finally carried before a mag- 
istrate ; and not released till an examination of his 
papers proved that there was not only no just, but 
not even statutable charge against him; and that, 
notwithstanding the promise and order from the 
presiding magistrates of a copy of the warrant 
against your petitioner, it was afterwards withheld 
on divers pretexts, and has thever until this hour 
been granted. The names and condition of the 
parties will be found in the petition. .To the other 
topics touched upon in the petition, I shall not now 
advert, from a wish not to encroach upon the time 
of the House ; but I do most sincerely call the at- 
tention of your lordships to its general contents — it 
is in the cause of the parliament and people that 
the rights of this venerable freeman have been vio- 
lated, and it is, in my opinion, the highest mark of 
respect that could be paid to the House, that to 
your justice, rather than by appeal to any inferior 
court, he now commits himself. Whatever may be 
the fate of his remonstrance, it is some satisfaction 
to me, though mixed with regret for the occasion, 
that I have this opportunity of publicly stating the 
obstruction to which the subject is liable, in the 
prosecution of the most lawful and imperious of his 
duties, the obtaining by petition reform in parlia- 
ment. I have shortly stated his complaint ; the 



petitioner has more fully expressed it. Your lord- 
ships will, I hope, adopt some measure fully to pro- 
tect and redress him, and not him alone, but the 
whole body of the people insulted and aggrieved 
in his person by the interposition of an abused 
civil, and unlawful military force, between them 
and their right of petition to their own represen- 
tatives. 

His lordship then presented the petition from 
Major Cartwright, which was rea'd, complaining of 
the circumstances at Huddersfield, and of interrup- 
tions given to the right of petitioning, in several 
places in the northern parts of the kingdom, and 
which his lordship moved should be laid on the 
table. 

Several Lords having spoken on the question, 

LORD BYRON replied, that he had, from mo- 
tives of duty, presented this petition to their lord- 
ships' consideration. The noble Earl had contend- 
ed that it was not a petition but a speech ; and 
that, as it contained no prayer, it should not be re- 
ceived. What was the necessity of a prayer ? If 
that word were to be used in its proper sense, their 
lordships could not expect that any man should 
pray to others. He had only to say that the peti- 
tion, though in some parts expressed strongly per- 
haps, did not contain any improper mode of address, 
but was couched in respectful language towards 
their lordships ; he should therefore trust their lord- 
ships would allow the petition to be received. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Juue 17, ISIS. 

In the year 17 — , having for some time deter- 
mined on a journey through countries not hitherto 
much frequented by travellers, I set out, acompa- 
nied by a friend whom I shall designate by the name 
of Augustus Darvell. He was a few years my elder, 
and a man of considerable fortune and ancient 
family — advantages which an extensive capacity 
prevented him alike from undervaluing or over- 
rating. Some peculiar circumstances in his private 
history had rendered him to me an object of atten- 
tion, of interest, and even of regard, which neither 
the reserve of his manners, nor occasional indica- 
tions of an inquietude at times nearly approaching 
to alienation of mind, could extinguish. 

I was yet young in life, which I had begun early ; 
but my intimacy with him was of a recent date : we 
had been educated at the same schools and univer- 
sity ; but his progress through these had preceded 
mine, and he had been deeply initiated into what is 
called the world, while I was yet in my noviciate, 
While thus engaged, I had heard much both of his 
past and present life ; and, although in these 
accounts there were many and irreconcilable con- 
tradictions, I could still gather from the whole that 
he was a being of no common order, and one who, 
whatever pains he might take to avoid remark, 
would still be remarkable. I had cultivated his 
acquaintance subsequently, and endeavored to ob- 
tain his friendship, but this last appeared to be 
unattainable ; whatever affections he might have 
possessed seemed now, some to have been extin- 
guished, and others to' be concentred: that his 



feelings were acute, I had sufficient opportunities 
of observing ; for, although he could control, he 
could not altogether disguise them : still he had a 
power of giving to one passion the appearance of 
another in such a manner that it was difficult to 
define the nature of what was working within him ; 
and the expressions of his features would vary so 
rapidly, though slightly, that it was useless to trace 
them to their sources. It was evident that he was 
a prey to some cureless disquiet ; but whether it 
arose from ambition, love, remorse, grief, from one 
or all of these, or merely from a morbid tempera- 
ment akin to disease, I could not discover : there 
were circumstances alleged which might have justi- 
fied the application to each of these causes ; but, 
as I have before said, these were so contradictory 
and contradicted, that none could be fixed upon 
with accuracy. Where there is mystery, it is gene- 
rally supposed that there must also be evil : I know 
not how this may be, but in him there certainly was 
the one, though I could not ascertain the extent of 
the other — and felt loth, as far as regarded himself, 
to believe in its existence. My advances were 
received with sufficient coldness ; but I was young, 
and not easily discouraged, and at length succeeded 
in obtaining, to a certain degree, that common-place 
intercourse and moderate confidence of common and 
every-day concerns created and cemented by simi- 
larity of pursuit and frequency of meeting, which 
is called intimacy, or friendship according to the 
ideas of him who uses those words to express them. 
Darvell had already travelled extensively, and to 
him I had applied for information with regard to 



1036 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the conduct of my intended journey. It was my 
secret wish that he might be prevailed on to accom- 
pany me : it was also a probable hope, founded upon 
the shadowy restlessness which I had observed in 
him, and to which the animation which he appeared 
to feel on such subjects, and his apparent indiffer- 
ence to all by which he was more immediately sur- 
rounded, gave fresh strength. This wish I first 
hinted, and then expressed : his answer, though I 
had partly expected it, gave me all the pleasure of 
surprise — he consented; and, after the requisite ar- 
rangements, we commenced our voyages. After 
journeying through various countries of the south 
of Europe, our attention was turned towards the 
east, according to our original destination ; and it 
tvas in my progress though those regions that the 
incident occurred upon which will turn what I may 
lave to relate. 

The constitution of Darvell, which must, from 
his appearance, have been in early life more than 
usually robust, had been for some time gradually 
giving way, without the intervention of any appa- 
rent disease : he had neither cough nor hectic, yet 
he became daily more enfeebled ; his habits were 
temperate, and he neither declined nor complained 
of fatigue, yet he was evidently wasting away ; he 
became more and more silent and sleepless, and at 
length so seriously altered, that my alarm grew 
proportionate to what I conceived to be his danger. 

We had determined, on our arrival at Smyrna, on 
an excursion to the ruins of Ephesus and Sardis, 
from which I endeavored to dissuade him, in his 
present state of indisposition — but in vain : there 
appeared to be an oppression on his mind, and a 
solemnity in his manner, which ill corresponded 
with his eagerness to proceed on what I regarded as 
a mere party of pleasure, little suited to a valetudi- 
narean ; but I opposed him no longer — and in a few 
days we set off together, accompanied only by a 
serrugee and a single janizary. 

We had passed half-way towards the remains of 
Ephesus, leaving behind us the more fertile environs 
of Smyrna, and were entering upon that wild and 
tenantless track through the marshes and defiles 
which lead to the few huts yet lingering over the 
broken columns of Diana — the roofless walls of 
expelled Christianity, and the still more recent but 
complete desolation of abandoned mosques — when 
the sudden and rapid illness of my companion obliged 
us to halt at a Turkish cemetery, the turbaned 
tombstones of which were the sole indication that 
human life had ever been a sojourner in this wilder- 
ness. The only caravansera we had seen was left 
some hours behind us ; not a vestige of a town or 
even a cottage, was within sight or hope, and this 
" city of the dead" appeared to be the sole refuge 
for my unfortunate friend, who seemed on the verge 
of becoming the last of its inhabitants. 

In this situation, I looked round for a place where 
Vie might most conveniently repose : — contrary to 
the usual aspect of Mahometan burial grounds, the 
cypresses were in this few in number, and these 
thinly scattered over its extent : the tombstones 
were mostly fallen, and worn with age: upon one 
of the most considerable of these, and beneath one 
of the most spreading trees, Darvell supported 
himself, in a half-reclining posture, with great dif- 
ficulty. He asked for water. I had some doubts of 
our being able to find any, and prepared to go in 
search of it with hesitating despondency — but he 
desired me to remain : and, turning to Suleiman, 
our janizary, who stood by us smoking with great 
tranquillity, he said, " Suleiman, verbana su," (t. e. 
bring some water,) and went on describing the spot 
where it was to be found with great minuteness, at 
a small well for camels, a few hundred yards to the 
right : the janizary obeyed. I said to Darvell, 
" How did you know this ? " — He replied, " From 
our situation ; you must perceive that this place 
was once inhabited, and could not have been so 
without springs ; I have also been here before." 



" You have been here before ! — How came you 
never to mention this to me? and what could you 
be doing in a place where no one would remain a 
moment longer than they could help it ? " 

To this question I received no answer. In the 
mean time, Suleiman returned with the water, 
leaving the serrugee and the horses at the fountain. 
The quenching of his thirst had the appearance of 
reviving him for a moment ; and I conceived hopes 
of his being able to proceed, or at least to return, 
and I urged the attempt. He was silent — and 
appeared to be collectii% his spirits for an effort to 
speak. He began, — 

" This is the end of my journey, and of my life — 
I came here to die: but I have a request to make, a 
command — for such my last words must be. — You 
will observe it ? " 

" Most certainly ; but have better hopes." 

" I have no hopes nor wishes, but this — conceal 
my death from every human being." 

" I hope there will be no occasion ; that you will 
recover, and " 

" Peace ! it must be so : promise this." 

"I do." 

" Swear it by all that " He here dictated an 

oath of great solemnity. 

" There is no occasion for this — I will observe 
your request ; and to doubt me is " 

" It cannot be helped, you must swear." 

I took the oath ; it appeared to relieve him. He 
removed a seal-ring from his finger, on which were 
some Arabic characters, and presented it to me. 
He proceeded — 

" On the ninth day of the month, at noon pre- 
cisely, (what month you please, but this must be 
the day,) you must fling this ring into the salt 
springs which run into the Bay of Eleusis : the day 
after, at the same hour, you must repair to the 
ruins of the temple of Ceres, and wait one hour " 

"Why?" 

" You will see." 

" The ninth day of the month, you say ? " 

" The ninth." 

As I observed that the present was the ninth day 
of the month, his countenance changed, and he 
paused. As he sate, evidently becoming more 
feeble, a stork, with a snake in her beak, perched 
upon a tombstone near us ; and, without devouring 
her prey, appeared to be steadfastly regarding us. 
I know not what impelled me to drive it away, but 
the attempt was useless ; she made a few circles in 
the air, and returned exactly to the same spot. 
Darvell pointed to it, and smiled : he spoke — I 
know not whether to himself or to me — but the 
words were only, " 'Tis well ! " 

" What is we'll ? what do you mean ? " 

" No matter : you must bury me here this eve- 
ning, and exactly where that bird is now perched. 
You know the rest of my injunctions." 

He then proceeded to give me several directions 
as to the manner in which his death might be best 
concealed. After these were finished, he exclaimed, 
" You perceive that bird ? " 

" Certainly." 

" And the serpent writhing in her beak ? " 

" Doubtless : there is nothing uncommon in it ; 
it is her natural prey. But it is odd that she does 
not devour it." 

He smiled in a ghastly manner, and said, faintly, 
" It is not yet time ! " As he spoke, the stork flew 
away. My eyes followed it for a moment ; it could 
hardly be longer than ten might be counted. I felt 
Darvell's weight, as it were, increase upon my 
shoulder, and, turning to look upon his face, per- 
ceived that he was dead ! « 

I was shocked with the sudden certainty which 
could not be mistaken — his countenance in a few 
minutes became nearly black. I should have at- 
tributed so rapid a change to poison, had I not been 
aware that he had no opportunity of receiving it 
unperceived. The day was declining, the body was 



LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 1Q37 



rapidly altering, and nothing remained but to fulfil 
his request. With the aid of Suleiman's ataghan 
and my own sabre, we scooped a shallow grave upon 
the spot which Darvell had indicated: the earth 
easily gave way, having already received some Ma- 
hometan tenant. We dug as deeply as the time 
permitted us, and throwing the dry earth upon 



all that remained of the singular being so lately 
departed, we cut a few sods "of greener turf from 
the less withered soil around us, and laid them 
upon his sepulchre. 

Between astonishment and grief, I was tearless. 



LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY 

ON THE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON THE LIFE ANE 

WRITINGS OF POPE. 



" I'll play at Bowles with the sun and moon." 

OLD SONG. 
" My mither 's auld, sir, and she has rather forgotten hersell in 
speaking io my Leddy, that canna weel bide to be contradickit, (as 
1 ken naebody likes it if thy could help themsHls.)" 

TALES OP MY LANDLORD, Old Mortality, vol. li. 



Ravenna, February 7, 1821. 

Dear Sir, 

In the different pamphlets which you have had 
the goodness to send me, on the Pope and Bowles' 
controversy, I perceive that my name is occasionally 
introduced by both parties. Mr. Bowles refers more 
than once to what he is pleased to consider " a 
remarkable circumstance," not only in his letter to 
Mr. Campbell, but in his reply to the Quarterly. 
The Quarterly also and Mr. Gilchrist have conferred 
on me the dangerous honor of a quotation ; and 
Mr. Bowles indirectly makes a kind of appeal to 
me personally, by saying, " Lord Byron, if he 
remembers the circumstance, will witness — (witness 
IN italic, an ominous character for a testimony at 
present.)* 

I shall not avail myself of a " non mi ricordo " 
even after so long a residence in Italy ; — I do " re- 
member the circumstance " — and have no reluctance 
to relate it (since called upon so to do) as correctly 
as the distance of time and the impression of in- 
tervening events will permit me. In the year 1812, 
more than three years after the publication of 
"English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," I had the 
honor of meeting Mr. Bowles in the house of our 
venerable host of " Human Life, etc.," the last 
Argonaut of classic English poetry, and the Nestor 
of our inferior race of living poets. Mr. Bowles 
calls this " soon after " the publication ; but to me 
three years appear a considerable segment of the 
immortality of a modern poem. I recollect nothing 
of " the rest of the company going into another 
room" — nor, though I well remember the topogra- 
phy of our host's elegant and classically-furnished 
mansion, could I swear to the very room where 
the conversation occurred, though the " taking 
down the poem " seems to fix it in the library. 
Had it been " taken ttp," it would probably have 
been in the drawing-room. I presume also that the 
" remarkable circumstance " took place after din- 
ner, as I conceive that neither Mr. Bowles's polite- 



* He alludes to Mujocchi, and the other Italian witnesses on the trial of 
ths Queen. 



ness nor appetite would have allowed him to detain 
"the rest of the company" standing round their 
chairs in the " other room " while we were discus- 
sing " the Woods of Madeira" instead of circulating 
its vintage. Of Mr. Bowles's "good-humor" I 
have a full and not ungrateful recollection ; as also 
of his gentlemanly manners and agreeable con- 
versation. I speak of the whole, and not of 
particulars ; for whether he did or did not use the 
precise words printed in the pamphlet, I cannot 
say, nor could he with accuracy. Of " the tone of 
seriousness" I certainly recollect nothing: on the 
contrary, I thought Mr. Bowles rather disposed to 
treat the subject lightly ; for he said (I have no 
objection to be contradicted if incorrect) that some 
of his good-natured friends had come to him and 
exclaimed, "Eh! Bowles! how came you to make 
the Woods of Madeira," etc., etc., and that he had 
been at some, pains and pulling down of the poem 
to convince them that he had never made " the 
Woods" do any thing of the kind. He was right, 
and / was wrong, and have been wrong still up to 
this acknowledgment ; for I ought to have looked 
twice before I wrote that which involved an inac- 
curacy capable of giving pain. The fact was, that 
although I had certainly before read " the Spirit of 
Discovery," I took the quotation from the review. 
But the mistake was mine, and not the review's, 
which quoted the passage correctly enough, I 
believe. I blundered — God knows how — into at- 
tributing the tremors ot the lovers to the " Woods 
of Madeira," by which they were surrounded. And 
I hereby do fully and freely declare and asseverate, 
that the Woods did not tremble to a kiss, and that 
the lovers did. I quote from memory — 

" A kiss 
Stole on the list'iiing silence, etc., etc., 
They (the lovers) trembled, even as if the power," etc. 

And if I had been aware that this declaration would 
have been in the smallest degree satisfactory to Mr. 
Bowles, I should not have waited nine years to 
make it. notwithstanding that " English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers " had been suppressed some time 



1038 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



previously to my meeting him at Mr. Rogers's. 
Our worthy host might indeed have told him as 
much, as it was at his representation that I sup- 
pressed it. A new edition of that lampoon was 
preparing for the press, when Mr. Rogers rep- 
resented to me, that " I was now acquainted with 
many of the persons mentioned in it, and with some 
on terms of intimacy;" and that he knew "one 
family in particular to whom its suppression would 
give pleasure." I did not hesitate one moment; it 
was cancelled instantly ; and it is no fault of mine 
that it has ever been republished. When I left 
England, in April, 1816, with no very violent inten- 
tions of troubling that country again, and amidst 
scenes of various kinds to distract my attention — 
almost my last act, I believe, was to sign a power 
of attorney, to yourself, to prevent or suppress any 
attempts (of which several had been made in Ire- 
land) at a republication. It is proper that I should 
state, that the persons with whom I was subse- 
quently acquainted, whose names had occurred in 
that publication, were made my acquaintances at 
their own desire, or through the unsought interven- 
tion of others. I never, to the best of my know- 
ledge, sought a personal introduction to any. Some 
of them to this day I know only by correspondence; 
and with one of those it was begun by myself, in 
consequence, however, of a polite verbal com- 
munication from a third person. 

I have dwelt for an instant on these circum- 
stances because it has sometimes been made a 
subject of bitter reproach to me to have endeavored 
to suppress that satire. I never shrunk, as those 
who know me know from any personal consequences 
which could be attached to its publication. Of its 
subsequent suppression, as I possessed the copy- 
right, I was the best judge and the sole master. 
The circumstances which occasioned the suppres- 
sion I have now stated ; of the motives, each must 
judge according to his candor or malignity. Mr. 
Bowles does me the honor to talk of " noble mind," 
and " generous magnanimity ; " and all this because 
" the circumstance would have been explained had 
not the book been suppressed." I see no " nobility 
of mind " in an act of simple justice ; and I hate the 
word " magnanimity," because I have sometimes 
seen it applied to the grossest of impostors by the 
greatest of fools; but I would have "explained the 
circumstance," notwithstanding "the suppression 
of the book," if Mr. Bowles had expressed any 
desire that I should. As the " gallant Galbraith " 
says to " Baillie Jarvie," " W> 11, the devil take the 
mistake and all that occasioned it." I have had as 
great and greater mistakr* made about me per- 
sonally and poetically, onre a month for these last 
ten years, and never care 1 /ery much about correct- 
ing one or the other, a' jtast after the first eight- 
and-forty hours had i^i over them. 

I must now, how ,-ier, say a word or two about 
Pope, of whom yr i have my opinion more at large 
in the unpublis"' el letter on or to (for I forget 
which) the edit' < of " Blackwood's Edinburgh Mag- 
azine ; " — and '.ere I doubt that Mr. Bowles will not 
approve of rr / sentiments. 

Although I regret having published "English 
Bards an-. Scotch Reviewers," the part which I 
regret t> t jeast is that which regards Mr. Bowles 
with reverence to Pope. Whilst I was writing that 
publication, in 1807 and 1808, Mr. Hobhouse was 
desir as that I should express our mutual opinion 
of J~ope, and of Mr. Bowles's edition of his works. 
A' I had completed my outline, and felt lazy, I re- 
quested that he would "do so. lie did it. His four- 
teen lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edition 
of " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers ; " and 
are quite as severe and much more poetical than mv 
own in the second. On reprinting the work, as I 
put my name to it, I omitted Mr. Hobhouse's lines, 
and replaced them with my own, by which the work 
gained less than Mr. Bowles. I have stated this in 
the preface to the second edition. It is many years 



since I have read that poem ; but the Quarterly 
Review, Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, and Mr. Bowles 
himself, have been so obliging as to refresh my 
memory, and that of the public. I am grieved to 
say, that in reading over those lines, I repent of 
their having so far fallen short of what I meant to 
express upon the subject of Bowles's edition of 
Pope's Works. Mr. Bowles says that " Lord By- 
ron knoies he does not deserve this character." I 
know no such thing. I have met Mr. Bowles occa- 
sionally, in the best society in London ; he appeared 
to me an amiable, well-informed, and extremely able 
man. I desire nothing better than to dine in com- 
pany with such a mannered man every day in the 
week : but of "his character" I know nothing per- 
sonally; I can only speak of his manners, and these 
have my warmest approbation. But I never judge 
from manners, for I once had my pocket picked by 
the civilest gentleman I ever met with ; and one of 
the mildest persons I ever saw was Ali Pacha. Of 
Mr. Bowles's "character" I will not do him the 
injustice to judge from the edition of Pope, if he 
prepared it heedlessly ; nor the justice, should it be 
otherwise, because I would neither become a literary 
executioner, nor a personal one. Mr. Bowles the 
individual, and Mr. Bowles the editor, appear the 
two most opposite things imaginable. 

11 And he himself one antithesis." 

I won't say "vile," because it is harsh ; nor "mis- 
taken," because it has two syllables too many ; but 
every one must fill up the blank as lie pleases. 

What I saw of Mr. Bowles increased my surprise 
and regret that he should ever have lent his talents 
to such a task. If he had been a fool, there would 
have been some excuse for him ; if he had been a 
needy or a bad man, his conduct would have been 
intelligible ; but he is the opposite of all these ; and 
thinking and feeling as I do of Pope, to me the 
whole thing is unaccountable. However, I must 
call things by their right names. I cannot call his 
edition of Pope a " candid" work; and I still think 
that there is an affectation of that quality not only 
in those volumes, but in the pamphlets lately pub- 
lished. 

" Why ytt he iluth dtny his prisoners." 

Mr. Bowles says, that "he has seen passages in 
his letters to Martha Blount, which were never pub- 
lished by me, and I hope never will be by others ; 
which are so gross as to imply the grossest licen- 
tiousness." Is this fair play? It may, or it may 
not be, that such passages exist ; and that Pope, 
who was not a monk, although a Catholic, may have 
occasionally sinned in word and in deed with woman 
in his youth ; but is this a sufficient ground for such 
a sweeping denunciation ? Where is the unmarried 
Englishman of a certain rank of life, who (provided 
he has not taken orders) has not to reproach him- 
self between the ages of sixteen and thirty with far 
more licentiousness than has ever yet been traced 
to Pope ? Pope lived in the public eye from his 
youth upwards ; he had all the dunces of his own 
time for his enemies, and, I am sorry to say, some, 
who have not the apology of dulness for detraction, 
since his death ; and yet to what do all their accu- 
mulated hints and charges amount; — to an equivo- 
cal liaison with Martha Blount, which might arise 
as much from his infirmities as from his passions ; 
to a hopeless flirtation with Lady Mary W. Mon- 
tagu ; to a story of Cibber's ; and to two or three 
coarse passages in his wprks. Who could come 
forth clearer from an invidious inquest on a life :if 
fifty-six years ? Why are we to be officiously re- 
minded of such passages in his letters, provided 
that they exist? Is Mr. Bowles aware to what 
such rummaging among "letters" and "stories" 
might lead ? I have myself seen a collection of let- 
ters of another eminent, nay, preeminent, deceased 
poet, so abominably gross, and elaborately coarse, 
that I do not believe that they could be paralleled 



LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 1039 



m oui language. What is more strange, is, that 
some of these are couched as postscripts to his seri- 
ous and sentimental letters, to which are tacked 
either a piece of prose, or some verses, of the most 
hyperbolical indecency. He himself says that if 
"obscenity (using a much coarser word) be the sin 
against the Holy Ghost, he most certainly cannot 
be saved." These letters are in existence, and have 
been seen by many besides myself; but would his 
editor have been "candid" in even alluding to 
them ? Nothing would have even provoked me, an 
indifferent spectator, to allude to them, but this 
further attempt at the depreciation of Pope. 

What should we say to an editor of Addison, who 
cited the following passage from Walpole's letters to 
George Montagtu ? " Dr. Young has published a 
new book, etc. Mr. Addison sent for the young 
Earl of Warwick, as he was dying, to show him in^ 
what peace a Christian could die ; 'unluckily, he died 
of brandy : nothing makes a Christian die in peace 
like being maudlin ! but don't say this in Gath, 
where you are." Suppose the editor introduced it 
with this preface : " One circumstance is mentioned 
by Horace Walpole, which, if true, was indeed fla- 
gitious. Walpole informs Montagu that Addison 
sent for the young Earl of Warwick, when dying, 
to show him in what peace a Christian could die ; 
but unluckily he died drunk, etc., etc." Now, al- 
though there might occur on the subsequent, or on 
the same page, a faint show of disbelief, seasoned 
with the expression of "the same candor" (the 
same exactly as throughout the book,) I should say 
that this editor was either foolish or false to his 
trust : such a story ought not to have been admit- 
ted, except for one brief mark of crushing indigna- 
tion ; unless it were completely proved. Why the 
words "if true?" That "if" is not a peace- 
maker. Why talk of "Gibber's testimony" to his 
licentiousness' ? To what does this amount? that 
Pope, when very young, was once decoyed by some 
noblemen and the player to a house of carnal recre- 
tion. Mr. Bowles was not always a clergyman; 
and when he was a very young man, was he never 
seduced into as much ? If I were in the humor for 
story-telling, and relating little anecdotes, I could 
tell a much better story of Mr. Bowles than Cib- 
ber's, upon much better authority, viz., that of Mr. 
Bowles himself. It was not related by him in my 
presence, but in that of a third person, whom Mr. 
Bowles names oftener than once in the course of 
his replies. This gentleman related it to me as a 
humorous and witty anecdote; and so it was, what- 
ever its other characteristics might be. But should 
I, from a youthful frolic, brand Mr. Bowles with a 
" libertine sort of love," or with " licentiousness r " 
is he the less now a pious or a good man for not 
having always been a priest ? No such thing ; I am 
willing to believe him a good man, almost as good 
a man as Pope, but no better. 

The truth is, that in these days the grand "pri- 
mnm mobile" of England is cant; cant political, 
cant poetical, cant religious, cant moral ; but always 
cant, multiplied through all the varieties of life. It 
is the fashion, and while it lasts will be* too power- 
ful for those who can only exist by taking the tone 
of the time. I say cant, because it is a thing of 
words, without the smallest influence upon human 
actions, the English being no wiser, no better, and 
much poorer, and more divided among themselves, 
as well as far less moral, than they were before the 
prevalence of this verbal decorum. This hysterical 
horror of poor Pope's not very well ascertained, and 
never fully proved amours, (for even Cibber owns 
that he prevented the somewhat perilous adventure 
in which Pppe was embarking,) sounds very virtu- 
ous in a controversial pamphlet ; but all men of the 
world who know what life is, or at least what it was 
to them in their youth, must laugh at such a ludi- 
crous foundation of the charge of a "libertine sort 
y>i love;" while the more serious will look upon 
those who bring forward such charges upon an in- 



sulated fact, as fanatics or hypocrites, perhaps both. 
The two are sometimes compounded in a happy 
mixture. 

Mr. Octavius Gilchrist speaks rather irreverently 
of a " second tumbler of hot white-wine negus." 
What does he mean ? Is there any harm in negus ? 
or is it the worse for being hot I or does Mr. Bowles 
drink negus ? I had a better opinion of him. I 
hoped that whatever wine he drank was neat ; or at 
least that, like the ordinary in Jonathan Wild, "he 
preferred punch, the rather as there was nothing 
against it in Scripture." I should be sorry to be- 
lieve that Mr. Bowles was fond of negus ; it is such 
a "candid" liquor, so like a wishy-washy compro- 
mise between the passion for wine and the proprie- 
ty of water. But different writers have divers tastes. 
Judge B'uckstone composed his "Commentaries," 
(he was a poet too in his youth,) with a bottle of 
port before him. Addison's conversation was not 
good for much till he had taken a similar dose. 
Perhaps the prescription of these two great men 
was not inferior to the very different one of a soi- 
distant poet of this day, who, after wandering 
among the hills, returns, goes to bed, and dictates 
his verses, being fed by a bystander with bread and 
butter, during the operation. 

I now come to Mr. Bowles's "invariable princi- 
ples of poetry." These Mr. Bowles and some of 
his correspondents pronounce "unanswerable;" 
and they are "unanswered," at least by Campbell, 
who seems to have been astounded by the title. 
The sultan of the time being, offered to ally himself 
tp the king of France, because " he hated the word 
league:" which proves that the Padishan under- 
stood French. Mr. Campbell has no need of my 
alliance, nor shall I presume to offer it ; but I do 
hate that word " invariable." What is there of 
human, be it poetry, philosophy, wit, wisdom, sci- 
ence, power, glory, mind, matter, life or death, 
which is "invariable?" Of course I put things 
divine out of the "question. Of all arrogant bap- 
tisms of a book, this title to a pamphlet appears the 
most complacently conceited. It is Mr. Campbell's 
part to answer the contents of this performance, 
and especially to vindicate his own " Ship," which 
Mr. Bowles most triumphantly proclaims to have 
struck to his very first fire. 

11 Quoth he, there was a Ship ; 
Now let me go, thou grav-hair'd loon, 
Or my staff shall make tliee skip; " 

It is no affair of mine, but having once begun, (cer 
tainly not by my own wish, but called upon by the 
frequent recurrence to my name in the pamphlets,) 
I am like an Irishman in a "row," "anybody's 
customer." I shall therefore say a word or two on 
the "Ship." 

Mr. Bowles asserts that Campbell's " Ship of the 
Line" derives all its poetry not from "art" but 
from " nature." " Take away the waves, the winds, 
the sun, etc., etc., one will become a stripe of 
blue bunting ; and the other a piece of coarse can- 
vas on three tall poles." Very true; take away 
" the waves," "the winds," and there will be no 
ship at all, not only for poetical, but for any other 
purpose; and take away "the sun," and we must 
read Mr. Bowles's pamphlet by candlelight. But 
the "poetry" of the "Ship" does not depend on 
" the waves," etc. ; on the contrary, the " Ship of 
the Line " confers its own poetry upon the waters, 
and heightens theirs. I do not deny, that the 
"waves and winds," and above all "the sun," are 
highly poetical ; we know it to our cost, by the 
many descriptions of them in verse : but if the 
waves bore only the foam upon their bosoms, if the 
winds wafted only the sea-weed to the shore, if the 
sun shone neither upon pyramids, nor fleets, nor 
fortresses, would its beams be equally poetical ? I 
think not : the poetry is at least reciprocal. Take 
away "the ship of the line" "swinging rj'ind" 



1040 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the " calm water," and the calm water becomes a 
somewhat monotonous thing to look at, particularly 
if not transparently clear; witness the thousands 
who pass by without looking on it at all. What 
was it attracted the thousands to the launch ? they 
might have seen the poetical " calm water," at 
Wapping, or in the "London Dock," or in the 
Paddington Canal, or in a horsepond, or in a slop- 
basin, or in any other vase. They might have heard 
the poetical winds howling through the chinks of a 
pig-sty, or the garret-window ; they might have 
seen the sun shining on a footman's livery, or on a 
brass warming-pan ; but could the " calm water," 
or the " wind," or the "sun," make all, or any of 
these, "poetical?" I think not. Mr. Bowles ad- 
mits " the ship " to be poetical, but only from those 
accessaries : now if they confer poetry so as to make 
one thing poetical, they would make other things 
poetical ; the more so, as Mr. Bowles calls a 
" ship of the line " without them, that is to say, its 
"masts and sails and streamers," " blue bunting," 
and "coarse canvas," and "tall poles." So they 
are; and porcelain is clay, and man is dust, and 
flesh is grass, and yet the two latter at least are the 
subjects of much poesy. 

Did Mr. Bowles ever gaze upon the sea ? I pre- 
sume that he has, at least upon a sea-piece. Did 
any painter ever paint the sea only, without the 
addition of a ship, boat, wreck, or some such ad- 
junct ? Is the sea itself a more attractive, a more 
moral, a more poetical object with or without a 
vessel, breaking its vast but fatiguing monotony ? 
Is a storm more poetical without a ship ? or, in. the 
poem of the Shipwreck, is it the storm or the ship 
which most interests? both much, undoubtedly; 
but without the vessel, what should we care for the 
tempest ? It would sink into mere descriptive 
poetry, which, in itself, was never esteemed a high 
order of that art. 

I look upon myself as entitled to talk of naval 
matters, at least to poets : — with the exception of 
Walter Scott, Moore, and Southey, perhaps, (who 
have been voyagers,) I have swum more miles than 
all the rest of them together now living ever sailed, 
and have lived for months and months on shipboard ; 
and during the whole period of my life abroad, have 
scarce ever passed a month out of sight of the ocean : 
besides being brought up from two years till ten on 
the brink of it. I recollect, when anchored off 
Cape Sigreum, in 1810, in an English frigate, a vio- 
lent squall coming on at sunset, so violent as to 
make us imagine that the ship would part cable, or 
drive from her anchorage. Mr. Hobhouse and my- 
self, and some officers, had been up the Dardan- 
elles to Abydos, and were just returned in time. 
The aspect of a storm in the Archipelago is as poet- 
ical as need be, the sea being particularly short, 
dashing, and dangerous, and the navigation intri- 
cate and broken by the isles and currents. Cape 
Sigreum, the tumuli of the Troad, Lemnos, Tene- 
dos, all added to the associations of the time. But 
what seemed the most "poetical" of all at the mo- 
ment, were the numbers (about two hundred) of 
Greek and Turkish craft, which were obliged to 
"cut and run" before the wind, from their unsafe 
anchorage, some for Tenedos, some for other isles, 
some for the main, and some it might be for eter- 
nity. The sight of these little scudding vessels, 
darting over the foam in the twilight, now appear- 
ing and how disappearing betweenthe waves in the 
cloud of night, with their peculiarly white sails (the 
Levant sails not being of "coarse canvas," but of 
white cotton) skimming along as quickly, but less 
safely than the seamews which hovered over them ; 
their evident distress, their reduction to fluttering 
specks in the distance, their crowded succession, 
their littleness, as contending with the giant ele- 
ment, which made our stout forty-four's teak tim- 
bers (she was built in India) creak again; their 
aspect and their motion, all struck me as something 
far more "poetical" than the mere broad, brawl- 



ing, shiplcss sea, and the sullen winds, could possi 
bly have been without them. 

The Euxine is a noble sea to look upon, and the 
port of Constantinople the most beautiful of har- 
bors, and yet I cannot but think that the twenty 
sail of the line, some of one hundred and forty guns, 
rendered it more " poetical " by day in the sun, and 
by night perhaps still more, for the Turks illumi- 
nate their vessels of war in a manner the most pic- 
turesque — and yet all this is artificial. As for the. 
Euxine, I stood upon the Symplegades — I stood by 
the broken altar still exposed to the winds upon one 
of them — I felt all the "poetry" of the situation, 
as I repeated the first lines of Medea ; but would 
not that " poetry " have been heightened by the 
Argof It was so even by the appearance of any 
merchant vessel arriving from Odessa. But Wc. 
Bowles says, " why bring your ship off the stocks ?" 
for no reason that I know, except that ships are 
built to be launched. The water, etc., undoubtedly 
heightens the poetical associations, but it does 
not make them ; and the ship amply repays the 
obligation : they aid each other ; the water is more 
poetical with the ship — the ship less so without the 
water. But even a ship, laid up in dock, is a grand 
and poetical sight. Even an old boat, keel up- 
wards, wrecked upon the barren sand, is a " poet- 
ical " object, (and Wordsworth, who made a poem 
about a washing-tub and a blind boy, may tell you 
so as well as I ;) whilst a long extent of sand and 
unbroken water, without the boat, would be as like 
dull prose as any pamphlet lately published. 

What makes the poetry in the image of the 
"marble xcaste of Taclmor," or Grainger's " Ode to 
Solitude," so much admired by Johnson ? Is it the 
" marble," or the " waste," the artificial or the natu- 
ral object ? The " waste " is like all other icastes ; 
but the "marble" of Palmyra makes the poetry of 
the passage as of the place. 

The beautiful but barren Hymettus, the whole 
coast of Attica, her hills and mountains, Penteli- 
cus, Anchesmus, Philopappus, etc., etc., are in 
themselves poetical, and would be so if the name of 
Athens, of Athenians, and her very ruins, were 
swept from the earth. But am I to be told that the 
" nature " of Attica would be more poetical without 
the " art " of the Acropolis ? of the Temple of The- 
seus ? and of the still all Greek and glorious monu- 
ments of her exquisitely artificial genius ? Ask the 
traveller what strikes him as most poetical, the 
Parthenon, or the rock on which it stands ? The 
columns of Cape Colonna, or the Cape itself? The 
rocks, at the foot of it, or the recollection that Fal- 
coner's ship was bulged upon them ? There are a 
thousand rocks and capes, far more picturesque 
than those of the Acropolis and Cape Sunium in 
themselves ; what are they to a thousand scenes in 
the wilder parts of Greece, of Asia Minor, Switzer- 
land, or even of Cintra in Portugal, or to many 
scenes of Italy, and the Sierras of Spain ? But it 
is the "art," the columns, the temples, the wrecked 
vessel, which give them their antique and their 
modern poetry, and not the spots themselves. 
Without them, the spots of earth would be unno- 
ticed and unknown ; buried, like Babylon and Nine- 
veh, in indistinct confusion, without poetry, as 
without existence ; but to whatever spot of earth 
these ruins were transported, if they were capable 
of transportation, like the obelisk, and the sphinx, 
and the Memnon's head, there they would still ex- 
ist in the perfection of their beauty, and in the pride 
of their poetry. I opposed, and will ever oppose, 
the robbery of ruins from Athens, to instruct the 
English in sculpture ; but why did I so ? The ruins 
are as poetical in Piccadilly as they were in the Par- 
thenon ; but the Parthenon and its rock 'are less so 
without them. Such is the poetry of art. 

Mr. Bowles contends, again, that the pyramids of 
Egypt are poetical, because of " the association 
with boundless deserts," and that a " pyramid of 
the same dimensions " would not be sublime in 



LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 1041 

and tearing, and kicking, and biting, and gnashing, 
foaming, grinning, and gouging, in all the poetry of 
martial nature, unencumbered with gross, prosaic, 
artificial arms, an equal superfluity to the natural 
warrior, and his natural poet ? Is there any thing 
unpoetical in Ulysses striking the horses of Rhesus 
with ///show, (having forgotten his thong,) or would 
Mr. Bowles have had him kick them with his foot, 
or smack them with his hand, as being more unso- 
phisticated ? 

In Gray's Elegy, is there an image more striking 
than his "shapeless sculpture?" Of sculpture in 
general, it may be observed, that it is more poetical 
than nature itself, inasmuch as it represents and 
bodies forth that ideal beauty and sublimity which 
is never to be found in actual nature. This at least 
is the general opinion ; but, always excepting the 
Venus di Medicis, I differ from Chat opinion, at least 
as far as regards female beauty, for the head of Lady 
Charlcmont (when I first saw her, nine years ago) 
seemed to possess all that sculpture could require 
for its ideal. I recollect seeing something of the 
same kind in the head of an Albanian girl, who was 
actually employed in mending a road in the moun- 
tains, and in some Greek, and one or two Italian 
faces. But of sublimity, I have never seen any 
tiling in human nature at all to approach the ex- 
pression of sculpture, either in the Apollo, the 
Moses, or other of the sterner works of ancient or 
modern art. 

Let us examine a little further this "babble of 
green fields," and of bare nature in general, as su- 
perior to artificial imagery, for the poetical purposes 
of the fine arts. In landscape painting, the great 
artist does not give you a literal copy of a country, 
but he invents and composes one. Nature, in her 
actual aspect, does not furnish him with such exist- 
ing scenes as he requires. Even where he presents 
you with some famous city, or celebrated scene from 
mountain or other nature it must be taken from 
some particular point of view, and with such light, 
and shade, and distance, etc., as serve not only to 
heighten its beauties, but to shadow its deformities. 
The poetry of nature alone, exactly as she appears, 
is not sufficient to bear him out. The very sky of 
his painting is not the port ra if of the sky of nature; 
it is a composition of diit'erent skies, observed at 
different times, and not the whole copied from any 
particular day. And why ? Because Nature is not 
lavish of her beauties ; the)' are widely scattered, 
and occasionally displayed, to be selected with care, 
and gathered with difficulty. 

Of sculpture I have just spoken. It is the great 
scope of the sculptor to heighten nature into heroic 
beauty, i. e. in plain English, to surpass his model. 
When Canova forms a statue, he takes a limb from 
one, a hand from another, a feature from a third, 
and a shape, it may be, from 'a fourth, probably at 
the same time improving upon all, as the Greek of 
old did in^mbodying his Venus. 

Ask a portrait painter to describe his agonies in 
accommodating the faces with which Nature and 
his sitters have crowded his painting-room to the 
principles of his art ; with the exception of perhaps 
ten faces in as many millions, there is not one which 
he can venture to give without shading much and 
adding more. Nature, exactly, simply, barely na- 
ture, will make no great artist of any kind, and least 
of all a poet — the most artificial, perhaps, of all 
artists in his very essence. With regard to natural 
imagery, the poets are obliged to take some of their 
best illustrations from art. You say that " a foun- 
tain is as clear or clearer than (/lass," to express its 
beauty — 

(( O fons Eandusue, splendidior vitro ! " 



" Lincoln's Inn Field; ; " not so poetical, certainly ; 
but take away the "pyramids," and what is the 
'• desert? " Tike away Stone-henge from Salisbury 
Plain, and it is nothing more than Hounslow Heath, 
or any other unenclosed down. It appears to me 
that St. Peter's, the Coliseum, the Pantheon, the 
Palatine, the Apollo, the iiaoco»n, the Venus di 
Medicis, the Hercules, the dying Gladiator, the 
Moses of Michael Angela, and all the higher works 
of Canova, (I have already spoken of those of an- 
cient Greece, still extant in that country, or trans- 
ported to England,) are as poetical as Mont Blanc 
or Mount JEtna, perhaps still more so, as they are 
direct manifestations of mind, and presuppose poetry 
in their very Conception ; and have, moreover, as 
J»eing such, a something of actual life, which can- 
not belong to any part of inanimate nature, unless 
we adopt the system of Spinosa, that the world is 
the Deity. There can be nothing more poetical in 
its aspect than the city of Venice: does this depend 
upon the sea, or the canals-? — 

" The dirt arid seaweed wbeuce proud Venice rose ! "• 

Is it the canal which runs between the palace and the 
prison, or the " Bridge of Sighs " which connects 
them, that render it poetical? Is it the " Canal 
Grande," or the Rialto which arches it, the churches 
which tower over it, the palaces which line, and the 
gondolas which glide over the waters, that render 
this city more poetical than Rome itself? Mr. 
Bowles will say, perhaps, that the Rialto is but 
marble, the palaces and churches only stone, and 
the gondolas a "coarse" black cloth, thrown over 
some planks of carved wood, with a shining bit of 
fantastically-formed iron at the prow, "without" 
the water. And I tell him that without these the 
water would be nothing but a (day-colored ditch, 
and whoever says the contrary, deserves to be at the 
bottom of that where Pope's heroes are embraced 
by the mud nymphs. There would be nothing to 
make the canal of Venice more poetical than that 
of Paddington, were it not for the artificial adjuncts 
above mentioned, although it is a perfectly natural 
canal, formed by the sea, and the innumerable 
islands which constitute the site of this extraordi- 
nary city. 

The very Cloacae of Tarquin at Rome are as poet- 
ical as Richmond Hill ; many will think more so. 
Take away Rome, and leave the Tiber and the seven 
hills, in the nature of Evander's time ; let Mr. 
Bowles, or Mr. Wordsworth, or Mr. Southey, or any 
of the other "naturals," make a poem upon them, 
and then see which is most poetical, their produc- 
tion or the commonest guide-book which tells you 
the road from St. Peter's to the Coliseum, and in- 
forms you what you will see by the way. The 
ground interests in Virgil, because it will be Rome, 
and not because it is Evander's rural domain. 

Mr. Bowles then proceeds to press Homer into 
his service, in answer to a remark of Mr. Campbell's, 
that " Homer was a great describer of works of art." 
Mr. Bowles contends, that all his great power, even 
in this, depends upon their connexion with nature. 
The " shield of Achilles derives its poetical interest 
from the subjects described on it." And from what 
does the spear of Achilles derive its interest? and 
the helmet and the mail worn by Patroclus, and the 
celestial armor, and the very brazen greaves of the 
well-booted Greeks ? Is it solely from the legs, and 
the back, and the breast, and the human body, 
which they enclose ? In that case, it would have 
been more poetical to have made them fight naked ; 
and Gully and Gregson, as being nearer to a state 
of nature, are more poetical, boxing in a pair of 
drawers, than Hector and Achilles in radiant armor, 
and with heroic weapons. 

Instead of the clash of helmets, and the rushing 
of chariots, and the whizzing of spears, and the 
glancing of swords, and the cleaving of shields, and 
the piercing of breastplates, why not represent the 
Greeks and Trojans like two savage tribes, tugging 



In the speech of Mark Antony, the body of Caesar 
is displayed, but so also is his mantle — 

" You all do know this mantle," etc, 

" LooL ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through." 



1042 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



If the poet had said that Cassius had run his fist 
through the rent of the mantle, it would have had 
more of Mr. Bowles's " nature " to help it ; but the 
artificial dagger is more poetical than any natural 
hand without it. In the sublime of sacred poetry, 
" Who is this that cometh from Edom ? with dyed 
garments from Bozrah ? " Would "the comer "be 
poetical without his " dyed garments 1 " which strike 
and startle the spectator, and identify the approach- 
ing object. 

The mother of Sisera is represented listening for 
the " xuheels of his chariot." Solomon, in his Song, 
compares the nose of his beloved to a " tower," 
which to us appears an Eastern exaggeration. If 
he had said, that her statue was like that of "a 
tower," it would have been as poetical as if he had 
compared her to a tree. 

11 The virtuous Marcia Iowqts above her sex." 

is an instance of an artificial image to express a 
moral superiority. But Solomon, it is probable, 
did not compare his beloved's nose to a " tower " on 
account of its length, but of its symmetry ; and, 
making allowance for Eastern hyperbole and the 
difficulty of finding a discreet image for a female 
nose in nature, it is perhaps as good a figure as any 
other. 

Art is not inferior to nature for poetical purposes. 
What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble 
object of view than the same mass of mob ? Their 
arms, their dresses, their banners, and the art and 
artificial symmetry of their position and movements. 
A Highlander's plaid, a Mussulman's turban, and a 
Roman toga, are more poetical than the tattooed or 
untattooed buttocks of a New Sandwich savage, 
although they were described by William Words- 
worth himself like the " idiot in his glory." 

I have seen as many mountains as most men, and 
more fleets than the generality of landsmen : and, 
to my mind, a large convoy, with a few sail of the 
line to conduct them, is as noble and as poetical a 
prospect as all that inanimate nature can produce. 
I prefer the "mast of some* great admiral," with 
all its tackle, to the Scotch fir or the Alpine tannen, 
and think that more poetry has been made out of it. 
In what does the infinite superiority of " Falconer's 
Shipwreck," over all other shipwrecks, consist ? In 
his admirable application of the terms of his art ; 
in a poet-sailor's description of the sailor's fate. 
These rery terms, by his application, make the 
strength and reality of his poem. Why ? because 
he was a poet, and in the hands of a poet art will 
not be found less ornamental than nature. It is 
precisely in general nature, and in stepping out of 
his element, that Falconer fails ; where he digresses 
to speak of ancient Greece, and "such branches of 
learning." 

In Dyer's Grongar Hill, upon which 'his fame 
rests, the very appearance of Nature herself is 
moralized into an artificial image : 

14 Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, 
To instruct our wandering thought j 
Thus she dresses green and gay, 
To disperse our cares away." 

And here also we have the telescope, the misuse 
of which, from Milton, has rendered Mr. Bowles so 
triumphant over Mr. Campbell : 

,( So we mistake the future's face, 
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass " 

And here a word, en passant, to Mr. Campbell : 

" As yon summits, aoft and fair, 
Clad in colors of the air, 
Which to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear, 
Still we tread the 6ame coarse way — 
The present's still a cloudy day." 

Is not this the original of the far-famed, 

" 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in iu azure hue t " 



To return one« more to the sea. Let any one 
look on the long wall of Malamocco, which curbs 
the Adriatic, and pronounce between the sea and 
its master. .Surely that Roman work, (I mean 
Roman in conception and performance,) which says 
to the ocean, " thus far shalt thou come, and no 
further," and is obeyed, is not less sublime and 
poetical than the angry waves which vainly break 
beneath it. 

Mr. Bowles makes the chief part of a ship's 
poesy depend on the "wind:" then why is a ship 
under sail more poetical than a hog in a high 
wind ? The hog is all nature, the ship is all art, 
"coarse canvas," "blue bunting," and "tall 
poles ; " both are violently acted upon by the wind, 
tossed here and there, to and fro ; and yet nothing 
but excessive hunger could make me look upon the 
pig as the more poetical of the two, and then only 
in the shape of a griskin. 

Will Mr. Bowles tell us that the poetry of an 
aqueduct consists in the water which it conveys ? 
Let him look on that of Justinian, on those of 
Rome, Constantinople, Lisbon, and Elvas, or even 
at the remains of that in Africa. 

We are asked " what makes the venerable towers 
of Westminster Abbey more poetical, as objects, 
than the tower for the manufactory of patent shot, 
surrounded by the same scenery ? " I will answer — 
the architecture. Turn Westminster Abbey, or 
Saint Paul's, into a powder magazine, their poetry, 
as objects, remains the same ; the Parthenon was 
actually converted into one by the Turks, during 
Morosini's Venetian siege, and part of it destroyed 
in consequence. Cromwell's dragoons stalled their 
steeds in Worcester Cathedral ; was it less poetical, 
as an object, than before ? Ask a foreigner on his 
approach to London, what strikes him as the most 
poetical of the towers before him ; he will point out 
St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, without, per- 
haps, knowing the names or associations of either, 
and pass over the "tower for patent shot," not 
that, for any thing he knows to the contrary, it 
might not be the mausoleum of a monarch, or a 
Waterloo column, or a Trafalgar monument, but 
because its architecture is obviously inferior. 

To the question, "whether the description of a 
game of cards be as poetical, supposing the execu- 
tion of the artists equal, as a descrition of a walk 
in a forest ? " it may be answered, that the materi- 
als are certainly not equal; but that "the artist," 
who has rendered the " game of cards poetical," is 
by far the greater of the two. But all this " order- 
ing" of poets is purely arbitrary on the part of Mr. 
Bowles. There may or may not be, in fact, different 
" orders " of poetry, but the poet is always ranked 
according to his execution, and not according to his 
branch of the art. 

Tragedy is one of the highest presumed orders 
Hughes has written a tragedy, and a very successful 
one ; Fenton another ; and Pope none. Did any 
man, however, — will even Mr. Bowles himself rank 
Hughes and Fenton as poets above Pope? Was 
even Addison, (the author of Cato,) or Rowe (one 
of the highest order of dramatists, as far as suc- 
cess goes), or Young, or even Otway and Southerne, 
ever raised for a moment to the same rank with 
Pope in the estimation of the reader or the critic, 
before his death or since ? If Mr. Bowles will con- 
tend for classifications of this kind, let him recollect 
that descriptive poetry has been ranked as among 
the lowest branches of the art, and description as a 
mere ornament, but which should never form " the 
subject " of a poem. The Italians, with the most 
poetical language, and the most fastidious taste in 
Europe, possess now five great poets, they say, 
Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Tasso,„and lastly Alfieri ; 
and whom do they esteem one of the highest of 
these, and some of them the very highest ? Pe- 
trarch, the sonnetteer : it is true that some of his 
Canzoni are not less esteemed, but not more ; who 
ever dreams of his Latin Africa ? 



LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 1043 

The artillery of the demons was but the first step 
of his mistake, the thunder the next, and it is a 
step lower. « It would have been fit for Jove, but 
not for Jehovah. The subject altogether was 
essentially unpoetical ; he has made more of it 
than another could, but it is beyond him and all 
men. 

In a portion of his reply, Mr. Bowles asserts that 
Pope "envied Phillips," because he quizzed his 
pastorals in the Guardian, in that most admirable 
model of irony, his paper on the subject. If there 
was any thing enviable about Phillips, it could 
hardly be his pastorals. They were despicable, and 
Pope expressed his contempt. If Mr. Fitzgerald 
published a volume of sonnets, or a " Spirit of 
Discovery," or a "Missionary," and Mr. Bowles 
wrote in any periodical journal an ironical paper 
upon them, would this be " envy ? " The authors 
of the "Rejected Addresses" have ridiculed the 
sixteen or twenty "first living poets" of the day ; 
but do they "envy" them? "Envy" writhes, it 
don't laugh. The authors of the " Rejected Ad- 
dresses " may despise some, but they can hardly 
"envy" any of the persons whom they have paro- 
died ; and Pope could have no more envied Phillips 
than he did Welsted, or Theobalds, or Smedly, or 
any other given hero of the Dunciad. He could 
not have envied him, even'had he himself not been 
the greatest poet of his age. Did Mr. Ings " envy" 
Mr. Phillips, when he asked him, "how came your 
Pyrrhus to drive oxen, and say, I am goaded on by 
love ? " This question silenced poor Phillips ; but 
it no more proceeded from " envy " than did Pope's 
ridicule. Did he envy Swift ? Did he envy Boling- 
broke ? Did he envy Gay the unparalleled success 
of his "Beggars' Opera r " We may be answered 
that these were his friends — true ; but does friend- 
ship prevent envy? Study the first woman you 
meet with, or the first scribbler, let Mr. Bowles 
himself (whom I acquit fully of such an odious 
quality) study some of his own poetical intimates : 
the most envious man I ever heard of is a poet, and 
a high one; besides it is an universal passion. 
Goldsmith envied not only the puppets for their 
dancing, and broke his shins iu the attempt at 
rivalry, but was seriously angry because two pretty 
woman received more attention than he did. This 
is envy ; but where does Pope show a sign of the 
passion ? In that case, Dryden envied the hero of 
his Mac Flecknoe. Mr. Bowles compares, when 
and where he can, Pope with Cowper, (the same 
Cowper whom, in his edition of Pope, he laughs at 
for his attachment to an old woman, Mrs. Unwifi : 
search and you will find it ; I remember the pas- 
sage, though not the page „) in particular he re- 
quotes Cowper's Dutch delineation of a wood, drawn 
up like a seedman's catalogue,* with an affected 



Were Petrarch to be ranked according to the 
" order " of his compositions, where would the best 
of sonnets place him ? with Dante and the others ? 
No : but, as I have before said, the poet who ex- 
ecutes best is the highest, whatever his department, 
and will ever be so rated in the world's esteem 

Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as 
he stands, I am not sure that he would not stand 
higher ; it is the corner-stone of his glory ; without 
it, his odes would be insufficient for his fame. The 
depreciation of Pope is partly founded upon a false 
idea of the dignity of his order of po'etry, to which 
he has partly contributed by the ingenuous boast, 

" That not in fancy's maze he wander'd long, 
But stoop'd to troth, and moralized hia song." 

He should have written " rose to truth." In my 
mind, the highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, as 
the highest ,of all earthly objects must be moral 
truth. Religion does not make a part of my sub- 
ject ; it is something beyond human powers, and 
has failed in all human hands, except Milton's and 
Dante's, and even Dante's powers are involved in 
the delineation of human passions, though in 
supernatural circumstances. What made Socrates 
the greatest of men ? His moral truth — his ethics. 
What proved Jesus Christ the Son of God hardlv 
less than his miracles ? His moral precepts. And 
■ if ethics have made a philosopher the first of men, 
and have not been disdained as an adjunct to his 
gospel by the Deity himself, are we to be told that 
ethical poetry or didactic poetry, or by whatever 
name you term it, whose object is to make men 
better and wiser, is not the very Jirst order of 
poetry ? and are we to be told this too by one of the 
priesthood ? It requires more mind, more wisdom, 
more power, than all the "forests" that ever were 
"walked" for their "description," and all the 
epics that ever were founded upon fields of battle. 
The Georgics are . indisputably, and, I believe, 
vndisputedly, even a finer poem than the jEneid. 
Virgil knew this ; he did not order them to be burnt. 

" The proper study of mankind is man." 

It is the fashion of the day to lay great stress 
upon what they call "imagination" and "inven- 
tion," the two commonest of qualities : an Irish 
peasant, with a little whiskey in his head, will 
imagine and invent more than would furnish forth 
a modern poem. If Lucretius had not been spoiled 
by the Epicurean system, we should have had a far 
superior poem to any now in existence. As mere 
poetry, it is the first of Latin poems. What then 
has ruined it ? His ethics. Pope has not this 
defect ; his moral is as pure as his poetry is glo- 
rious. In speaking of artificial objects, I have 
omitted to touch upon one which I will now 
mention. Cannon may be presumed to be as highly 
poetical as art can make her objects. Mr. Bowles 
will, perhaps, tell me that this is because they 
resemble that grand natural article of sound in 
heaven, and simile upon earth — thunder. I shall 
be told triumphantly, that Milton made. sad work 
with his artillery, when he armed his devils there- 
withal. He did so ; and this artificial object must 
have had much of the sublime to attract his atten- 
tion for such a conflict. He has made an absurd 
use of it ; but the absurdity consists not in using 
cannon against the angels of God, but any material 
weapon. The thunder of the clouds would have 
been as ridiculous and vain in the hands of the 
devils, as the " villanous saltpetre:" the angels 
were as impervious to the one as to the other. The 
thunderbolts became sublime in the hands of the 
Almighty, not as such, but because he deigns to 
use them as a means of repelling the rebel spirits ; 
but no one can attribute their defeat to this grand 
piece of natural electricity : the Almighty willed, 
and they fell ; his word would have been enough ; 
and Milton is as absurd (and in fact, blasphemous) 
in putting material lightnings into the hands of the 
Godhead as in giving him hands at all. 



of Cowper's, ti 
lines to Mary, 



bmit to Mr. Bowles's own judgment a passage from another poetn 
be compared with tlie same writer's Sylvan Sampler. In the 



' Thy needles, ojice a shining store, 
For rny sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more, 
My Mary," 

contain a simple, household, "indoor," artificial, and ordinary Image. I 
refer Mr. Bowles to the stanza, and ask if these three lines about " neerlltt" 
are not worth all the bossted twaddling about trees, so triumphantly re- 
quoted ? and yet in fact what do they convey ? A homely collection o( 
images and ideas associated with the darning of stockings, and the hemming 
of shirts, and the mending of breeches ; but will any one deny that they are 
eminently poetical and pathetic as addressed by Cowper to his nurse ? The 
trash of trees reminds me of a saying of Sheridan's. Soon after the " Re- 
jected Address " scene, in 1812, 1 met Sheridan. In the course of dinner ha 
said, "Lord Byron, did you know that among the writers of address's was 
Whitbread himself? " 1 answered by an inquiry of what sort of an address 
he had made. " Of that," replied Sheridan, " I remember little, except 
that there was a phanix in it." " A phomix 1 1 Well, how did he describe 
' " "Like a poulterer,*' answered Sheridan : " It was green, and yellow, 
d red, and blue : he did not let us off for a single feather." And just such 
this poulterer's account ol a phoenix, is Cowper's stick-picker's detail of a 
>od, with all its petty minutia of this, tti.it, and the other. 
One more poetical instance of the power of art, and even its superiority 
er nature, in poetry, and 1 have done : — the bust of Antinous! Is there 



1044 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



imitation of Milton's style, as burlesque as the 
" Splendid Shilling." These two writers (for Cow- 
per is no poet) come into comparison in one great 
work — the translation of Homer. Now,^vith all the 
great, and manifest, and manifold, and reproved, and 
acknowledged, and uncontroverted faults of Pope's 
translation, and all the scholarship, and pains, and 
time, and trouble, and blank verse of the other, 
who can ever read Cowper ? and who will ever lay 
down Pope, unless for the original ? Pope's was 
"not Homer, it was Spondanus ; " but Cowper 's is 
not Homer, either, it is not even Cowper. -As a 
child I first read Pope's Homer with a rapture 
which no subsequent work could ever off'ord ; and 
children are not the worst judges of their language. 
As a boy I read Homor in the original, as we have 
all done, some of us by force, and a few by favor ; 
under which description I come is nothing to the 
purpose, it is enough that I read him. As a man I 
have tried to read Cowper's version, and I found it 
impossible. Has any human reader ever succeeded r 

And now that we have heard the Catholic re- 
proached with envy, duplicity, licentiousness, 
avarice — what was the Calvinist ? He attempted 
the most atrocious of crimes in the Christian code, 
viz., suicide — and why ? Because he was to be 
examined whether he was fit for an office which he 
seems to wish to have made a sinecure. His con- 
nexion with Mrs. Uuwin was pure enough, for the 
old lady was devout, and he was deranged ; but 
why then is the infirm and then elderly Pope to be 
reproved for his connexion with Martha Blount ? 
Cowper was the almoner of Mrs. Throgmorton ; but 
Pope's charities were his own, and they were noble 
and extensive, far beyond his fortune's warrant. 
Pope was the tolerant yet steady adherent of the 
most bigoted of sects ; and Cowper the most bigoted 
and despondent sectary that ever anticipated dam- 
nation to himself or others. Is this harsh ? I 
know it is, and I do not assert it as my opinion of 
Cowper personally, but to s/iuw what might be said, 
with just as great an appearance of truth and 
candor, as all the odium which has been accumu- 
lated upon Pope in similar speculations. Cowper 
was a good man, and lived at a fortunate time for 
his works. 

Mr. Bowles, apparently not relying entirely upon 
his own arguments, has, in person or by proxy, 
brought forward the names of Southey and Moore. 
Mr. Southey " agrees entirely with Mr. Bowles in 
his invariable principles of poetry." The least that 
Mr. Bowles can do in return is to approve the 
"invariable principles of Mr. Southey." I should 
have thought that the word "invariable" might 
have stuck in Southey's throat, like Macbeth's 
" Amen ! " I am sure it did in mine, and I am not 
the least consistent of the two, at least as a voter. 
Moore (et tu Brute !) also approves, and a Mr. J. 
Scott. There is a letter also of two lines from a 
gentleman in asterisks, who, it seems, is a poet of 
" the highest rank " — who can this be ? not my 
friend, Sir Walter, surely. Campbell it can't be ; 
Rogers it won't be. 

" Yon have Ail the nail in the head, and ***" [Pope, 1 presume] on the 
bead also." 1 remain, yours, affectionately, 

(Four Asterisks.) 

And in asterisks let him remain. Whoever this 



any tlung in marble like this marble, excepting the Venus ? Can there be 
is.ok poetry gathered into existence than in that wonderful creation of perfect 
beaut; '. But th; poetry of this bust is in no r^sp-cl derived from nature, nor 
from any association of moral exaltedness ; for what is there in common with 
moral nature and the male minion of Adrian ? The very execution is not 
natural, but supernatural, or rather super-artificial, fur nature has never 
don; so much. 

Away, then, with tins cant about nature and " invariable principles of po- 
etry I " A great artist will make a block of stone as sublime as a mountain, 
and a good poet can imbue a pack of cards with mure poetry than inhabits 
the forests of America. It is the business and 'he proof of a poet to give the 
De to the proverb, and sometimes to " make a silken purse out of a sow's 
tar' t " and to conclude with another homely proverb, "a good workman 
will not find fault with his tools." 



person may be, he deserves for such a judgment of 
Midas, that " the nail" which Mr. Bowles has hit 
in the head should be driven through his own ears ; 
I am sure that they are long enough. 

The attention of the poetical populace of the pres- 
ent day to obtain an ostracism against Pope is as 
easily accounted for as the Athenian's shell against 
Aristides ; they are tired of hearing him always 
called " the Just." They are also fighting for life ; 
for if he maintains his station, they will reach their 
own falling. They have raised a mosque by the 
side of a Grecian temple of the purest architecture ; 
and, more barbarous than the barbarians from whose 
practice I have borrowed the figure, they are not 
contented with their own grotesque edifice, unless 
they destroy the prior and purely beautiful' fabric 
which preceded, and which shames them and theirs 
for ever and ever. I shall be told that amongst 
those I have been (or it may be still am) conspicu- 
ous — true, and I am ashamed of it. I have been 
among the builders of this Babel, attended by a con 
fusion of tongues, but never among the envious 
destroyers of the classic temple of our predecessor. 
I have loved and honored the fame and name of that 
illustrious and unrivalled man, far more than my 
own paltry renown, and the trashy gingle of the 
crowd of "schools " and upstarts, who pretend to 
rival, or even surpass him. Sooner than a single 
leaf should be torn from his laurel, it were better 
that all which these men, and I, as one of their set, 
have ever written, should 

" Line trunks, clothe spice, or, fluttering in a row, 
Refringe the rails of Bedlam or Soho I " 

There are those who will believe this, and those 
who will not. You, sir, know how far I am sin- 
cere, and whether my opinion, not only in the short 
work intended for publication, and in private letters 
which can never be published, has or has not been 
the same. I look upon this as the declining age of 
English poetry ; no regard for others, no selfish 
feeling can prevent me from seeing this, and ex- 
pressing the truth. There can be no worse sign for 
the taste of the times than the depreciation of Pope. 
It would be better to receive for proof Mr Cobbet's 
rough but strong attack upon Shakspeare and Mil- 
ton, than to allow this smooth and " candid " un- 
dermining of the reputation of the most perfect of 
our poets and the purest of our moralists. Of his 
power in the passions, in description, in the mock- 
heroic, I leave others to descant. I take him on 
his --trong ground, as an ethical poet: in the former 
none excel, in the mock-heroic and the ethical none 
equal him ; and, in my mind, the latter is the high- 
est of all poetry, because it does that in . 
which the greatest of men have wished to accom- 
plish in prose. If the essence of poetry must be a 
lie, throw it to the dogs, or banish it from your re- 
public, as Plato would have done. He who can 
reconcile poetry with truth and wisdom, is the only 
true "poet " in its real sense ; " the maker," " the 
creator" — why must this mean the "liar," the 
" feigner," " the tale-teller?" A man may make 
and create better things than these. 

I shall not presume to say that Pope is as high a 
poet as Shakspeare and Milton, though his enemy, 
Warton, places him immediately under them. I 
would no more say this than I would assert in the 
mosque, (once St. Sophia's,) that Socrates was a 
greater man than Mahomet. But if I say that he 
is very near them, it is no more than has been as- 
serted of Burns, who is supposed 

" To rival all hut Shakspeare's name below." 

I say nothing against this opinion. But of what 
"order," according to the poetical aristocracy, are 
Burns's poems? These are his opus magnum, 
" Tarn O'Shanter," a tale ; the "Cotter's Saturday 
Night," a descriptive sketch ; some others in the 
same style ; the rest are songs. So much for the 
rank of his productions ; the rank of Burns is the 
very first of his art. Of Pope I have expressed my 



LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 1045 

and, as I have been publicly educated also, I can 
sympathize with his predilection. When we were 
iu the third form even, had we pleaded on the Mon- 
day morning, that we had not brought up the Sat- 
urday's exercise because " we had forgotten it," 
what would have been the reply ? And is an excuse, 
which would not be pardoned to a schoolboy, to pass 
current in a matter which so nearly concerns the 
fame of the first poet of his age, if not of his coun- 
try ? If Mr. Bowles so readily forgets the virtues of 
others, why complain so grievously that others have 
a better memory- for his own faults ? They are but 
the faults of an author ; while the virtues" he omit- 
ted from his catalogue are essential to the justice 
due to a man. 

Mr. Bowles appears, indfed, to be susceptible 
beyond the privilege of authorship. There is a 
plaintive dedication to Mr. Gilford, in which he is 
made responsible for all the articles of the Quarter- 
ly. Mr. Southey, it seems, " the most able and elo- 
quent writer in that Review," approves of Mr. 
Bowles's publication. Now, it seems to me the 
more impartial, that notwithstanding that the great 
writer of the Quarterly entertains opinions opposite 
to the able article on Spence, nevertheless that essay 
was permitted to appear. Is a review to be devoted 
to the opinions of any one man ? Must it not vary 
according to circumstances, and according to the 
subjects to be criticised ? I fear that writers must 
take the sweets and bitters of the public journals as 
they occur, and an author of so long a standing as 
Mr. Bowles might have become accustomed to such 
incidents; he might be angry, but not astonished. I 
have been reviewed in the Quarterly almost as often 
as Mr. Bowles, and have had as pleasant things 
said, and some as unpleasant, as could well be pro- 
nounced. In the review of " The Fall of Jerusa- 
lem," it is stated that I have devoted "my powers, 
etc., to the worst parts of manicheism," which, being 
interpreted, means that I worship the devil. Now, 
I have neither written a reply, nor complained to 
Gilford. I believe that I observed in a letter to you, 
that I thought " that the critic might have praised 
Milman without finding it necessary to abuse me ; " 
but I did not add at the same time, or soon after, 
(apropos, of the note in the book of travels,) that 
I would not, if it were even in my power, have a 
single line cancelled on my account in that or in 
any other publication ? Of course, I reserve to my- 
self the privilege of response when necessary. Mr. 
Bowles seems in a whimsical state about the article 
on Spence. You know very well that I am not in 
your confidence, nor in that of the conductor of the 
j-ournal. The moment I saw that article, I was 
morally certain that I knew the author " by his 
style." You wilHcll me that I do not know him : 
that is all as it should be : keep the secret ; so shall 
I, though no one has ever intrusted it to me. lie is 
not the^ person whom Mr. Bowles denounces. Mr. 
Bowles's extreme sensibility reminds me of a cir- 
cumstance which occurred on board of a frigate, in 
which I was a passenger and guest of the captain's 
for a considerable time. The surgeon on board, a 
very gentlemanly young man, and remarkably able 
in his profession, wore a wig. Upon this ornament 
he was extremely tenacious. As naval jests are 
sometimes a little rough, his brother officers made 
occasional allusions to this delicate appendage to 
the doctor's person. One day a young lieutenant, 
in the course of a facetious discussion, said, " Sup- 
pose, now, doctor, I should take off your hat." 
"Sir," replied the doctor, " I shall talk no longer 
with you ; you grow scurrilous." He would not 
even admit so near an approach as to the hat which 
protected it. In like manner, if any body approaches 
Mr. Bowles's laurels, even in his outside capacity of 
an editor, "they grow scurrilous." You say that 
you are about to prepare an edition of Pope ; you 
cannot do better for your own credit as a publisher, 
nor for the redemption of Pope from Mr. Bowles, 
and of the public taste from rapid degeneracy. 



opinion elsewhere, as also of the effect which the 
present attempts at poetry have had upon our lite- 
rature. If any great national or natural convulsion 
could or should overwhelm your country, in 6uch 
sort as to sweep Great Britain from the kingdoms of 
the earth, and leave only that, after all the most 
living of human things, a dead language, to be 
studied and read, and imitated, by the wise of fu- 
ture and far generations upon foreign shores ; if 
your literature should become the learning of man- 
kind, divested of party cabals, temporary fashions, 
and national pride and prejudice ; an Englishman, 
anxious that the posterity of strangers should know 
that there had been such a thing as a British Epic 
and Tragedy, miadit wish for the preservation of 
Shak/.peare and Milton ; but the surviving world 
would snatch Pope from the wreck, and let the rest 
sink with the people. He is the moral poet of all 
civilization, and, as such, let us hope that he will 
one day be the national poet of mankind. He is 
the only poet that never shocks ; the only poet 
whose faultlessness has been made his reproach. 
Cast your eye over his productions ; consider their 
extent, and contemplate their variety : — pastoral, 
passion, mock-heroic, translation, satire, ethics, — 
all excellent, and often perfect. If his great charm 
be his melody, how comes it that foreigners adore 
him even in their diluted translation ? But I 
have made this letter too long. Give my compli- 
ments to Mr. Bowles. 

Yours ever, very truly, 

BYRON. 
To J. Murray, Esq. 

Post scriptum. — Long as this letter has grown, I 
find it necessary to append a postscript, — if possi- 
ble, a short one. Mr. Bowles denies that he has 
accused Pope of " a sordid money-getting passion ;" 
but he adds " if I had ever done so, I should be glad 
to find any testimoy that might show me he was 
not so." This testimony he may find to his heart's 
content in Spence and elsewhere. First, there is 
Martha Blount, who, Mr. Bowles charitably says, 
" probably thought he did not save enough for her 
as legatee." Whatever she thought upon this point, 
her words are in Pope's favor. Then there is Alder- 
man Barber — see Spence's Anecdotes. There is 
Pope's cold answer to Halifax, when he proposed a 
pension ; his behavior to Craggs and to Addison 
upon like occasions ; and his own two lines — 

11 And, thanks to Homer, since I Jive anil thrive, 
Indebted to no prince or peer alive — " 

written when princes would have been proud to 
pension, and peers to promote him, and when the 
whole army of dunces were in array against him, 
and would have been but too happy to deprive him 
of this boast of independence. But there is some- 
thing a little more serious in Mr. Bowles's declara- 
tion, that he " would have spoken " of his " noble 
generosity to the outcast, Richard Savage," and 
other instances of a compassionate and generous 
heart, "had they occurred to his recollection when 
he wrote." What ! is it come to this ? Does Mr. 
Bowles sit down to write a minute and labored life 
and edition of a great poet ? Does he anatomize 
his character, moral and political ? Does he present 
us with his faults and with his foibles ? Does he 
sneer at his feelings, and doubt of his sincerity ? 
Does he unfold his vanity and duplicity ? and then 
omit the good qualities which might, in part, have 
" covered this multitude of sins ? " and then plead 
that " they did not occur to his recollection?" Is 
this the frame of mind and of memory with which 
the illustrious dead are to be reproached ? If Mr. 
Bowles, who must have had access to all the means 
of refreshing his memory, did not reaollect these 
facts, he is unfit for his task ; but if he did recollect, 
and omit them, I know not what he is fit for, but I 
know what would be fit for him. Is the plea of 
" not recollecting " such prominent facts to be ad- 
mitted ? Mr. Bowles has been at a public school, 



1046 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



NOTES. 



1. 



The Italians, with the most poetical language, and 
the most fastidious taste in Europe, j>ossess now Jive 
great poets, they say, Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, 
Tasso, and lastly Aljieri. Page 1042. 

Of these there is one ranked with the others for 
his Sonnets, and two for compositions which be- 
long to no class at all ! Where is Dante ? His 
poem is not an epic; then what is it ? He himself 
calls it a "divine comedy;" and why? This is 
more than all his thousand commentators have been 
able to explain. Ariosto's is not an epic poem ; and 
if poets are to be classed according to the genus of 
their poetry, where is he to be placed ? Of these 
five, Tasso and Alfieri only come within Aristotle's 
arrangement, and Mr. Bowles's class-book. But 
the whole position is false. Poets are classed by 
the power of their performance, and not according 
to its rank in a gradus. In the contrary case, the 
forgotten epic poets of all countries would rank 
above Petrarch, Dante, Ariosto, Burns, Gray, Dry- 
den, and the highest names of various countries. 
Mr. Bowles's title of " invariable principles of po- thority, they will also hold good against Gray, Mil- 



once Dryden, and since Walter Scott ; now Cor- 
neille, and now Racine ; now Crebillon, now Vol- 
taire. The Homerists and Virgilians in France dis- 
puted for half a century. Not fifty years ago the 
Italians neglected Dante — Bettinelli reproved Monti 
for reading " that barbarian ; " at present they 
adore him. Shakspeare and Milton have had their 
rise, and they will have their decline. Already they 
have more than once fluctuated, as must be the 
case with all the dramatists and poets of a living 
language. This does not depend upon their merits, 
but upon the ordinary vicissitudes of human opin- 
ions. Schlegel and Madame de Stael have en- 
deavored also to reduce poetry to two systems, clas 
sical and romantic. The effect is only beginning. 



/ shall not presume to say that Pope is as high a 
poet as Shakspeare and Milton, though his enemy, 
Warton, places him immediately under them. 

Page 1044. 
If the opinions cited by Mr. Bowles, of Dr. John- 
son against Pope, are to be taken as decisive au- 



etry," is, perhaps, the most arrogant ever prefixed 
to a volume. So far are the principles of poetry 
from being " invariable," that they never were nor 
never will be settled. These " principles " mean 
nothing more than the predilections of a particular 
age ; and every age has its own, and a different from 
its predecessor. It is now Homer and now Virgil ; 



ton, Swift, Thomson, and Dryden : in that case 
what becomes of Gray's poetical and Milton's moral 
character ? even of Milton's poetical character/ or, 
indeed, of English poetry in general ? for Johnson 
strips many a leaf from every laurel. Still John- 
son's is the finest critical work extant, and can 
never be read without instruction and delight. 



OBSERVATIONS UPON "OBSERVATIONS." 

A SECOND LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY, ESQ. 

ON THE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON THE LIFE AND 

WRITINGS OF POPE. 



Ravenna, March 25, 1821. 

Dear Sir, 

Ix the further " Observations " of Mr. Bowles, in 
rejoinder to the charges brought against his edition 
of Pope, it is to be regretted that he has lost his 
temper. Whatever the language of his antagonists 
may have been, I fear that his replies have afforded 
more pleasure to them than to the public. That Mr. 
Bowles should not be pleased is natural, whether 
right or wrong ; but a temperate defence would 
have answered his purpose in the former case — and, 
in the latter, no defence, however violent, can tend 
to any thing but his discomfiture. I have read over 
this third pamphlet, which you have been so oblig- 
ing as to send me, and shall venture a few observa- 
tions, in addition to those upon the previous 
controversy. 

Mr. Bowles sets out with repeating his " confirmed 
conviction," that " what he said of the moral part 
of Pope's character, was, generally speaking, true ; 
and that the principles of poetical criticism which 
he has laid down are invariable and invulnerable," 



&c. ; and that he is the more persuaded of this by 
the " exaggerations of his opponents." This is all 
very well, and highly natural and sincere. Nobody 
ever expected that either Mr. Bowles or any other 
author, would be convinced of human fallibility in 
their own persons. But it is nothing to the purpose 
— for it is not wl\at Mr. Bowles thinks, but what is 
to be thought of Pope — that is the question. It is 
what he has asserted or insinuated against a name 
which is the patrimony of posterity, that is to be 
tried ; and Mr. Bowles, as a party, can be no judge. 
The more he is persuaded, the better for himself, if 
it give 'him any pleasure ; but he can only persuade 
others by the proofs brought out in his defence. 

After these prefatory remarks of " conviction," 
&c, Mr. Bowles proceeds to Mr. Gilchrist ; whom 
he charges with " slang " and " slander," besides a 
small subsidiary indictment of " abuse, ignorance, 
malice," and so forth. Mr. Gilchrist has, indeed, 
shown some anger ; but it is an honest indignation, 
which rises up in defence of the illustrious dead. It 
is a generous rage which interposes between our 



OBSERVATIONS UPON "OBSERVATIONS.' 



1047 



ashes and their disturbers. There appears also to 
have been some slight personal provocation. Mr. 
Gilchrist, with a chivalrous disdain of the fury of 
an incensed poet, put his name to a letter avowing 
the production of a former essay in defence of Pope, 
and consequently of an attack upon Mr. Bowles. 
Mr. Bowles appears to be angry with Mr. Gilchrist 
for four reasons : — firstly, because he wrote an arti- 
cle in " The London Magazine ; " secondly, because 
he afterwards avowed it : thirdly, because he was 
the author of a still more extended article in " The 
Quarterly Review ; " and, fourthly, because he was 
not the author of the said Quarterly article, and 
had the audacity to disown it — for no earthly reason 
but because he had not written it. 

Mr. Bowles declares, that " he will not enter into 
a particular examination of the pamphlet," which by 
a misnomer is called " Gilchrist's Answer to Bowles," 
when it should have been called " Gilchrist's Abuse 
of Bowles." On this error in the baptism of Mr. 
Gilchrist's pamphlet, it may be observed, that an 
answer may be abusive and yet no less an answer, 
though indisputably a temperate one might be the 
better of the two ; but if abuse is to cancel all pre- 
tensions to reply, what becomes of Mr. Bowles's 
answers to Mr. Gilchrist ? 

Mr. Bowles continues, — " But as Mr. Gilchrist 
derides my peculiar sensitiveness to criticism, before 
I show how destitute of truth is this representation, 
I will here explicitly declare the only grounds," 
&c, &c, &c. — Mr. Bowles's sensibility in denying 
his "sensitiveness to criticism " proves perhaps too 
much. But if he has been so charged, and truly — 
what then ? There is no moral turpitude in such 
acuteness of feeling : it has been, and may be, com- 
bined with many good and great qualities. Is Mr. 
Bowles a poet, or is he not ? If he be, he must, 
from his very essence, be sensitive to criticism ; 
and even if he be not, he need not be ashamed of 
the common repugnance to being attacked. All 
that is to be wished is, that he had considered how 
disagreeable a thing it is, before he assailed the 
greatest moral poet of any age, or in any language. 

Pope himself " sleeps well." — nothing can touch 
him further ; but those who love the honor of their 
country, the perfection of lier literature, the glory 
of her language — are not to be expected to permit 
an atom of his dust to be stirred in his tomb, or a 
leaf to be stripped from the laurel which grows 
over it. 

Mr. Bowles assigns several reasons why and when 
" an author is justified in appealing to every upright 
and honorable mind in the kingdom." If Mr. Bowles 
limits the perusal of his defence to the "upright 
and honorable" only, I greatly fear that it will not 
be extensively circulated. I should rather hope 
that some of the downright and dishonest will read 
and be converted, or convicted. But the whole of 
his reasoning is here superfluous — "an author is 
justified in appealing" &c, when and why he 
pleases. Let him make out a tolerable case, and 
few of his readers will quarrel with his motives. 

Mr. Bowles " will now plainly set before the lite- 
rary public all the circumstances which have led 
to his name and Mr. Gilchrist's being brought to- 
gether," &c. Courtesy requires, in speaking of others 
and ourselves, that we should place the name of the 
former first — and not " Ego et Rex mens." Mr. 
Bowles should have written "Mr. Gilchrist's name 
and his." 

This point he wishes "particularly to address to 
those most respectable characters, who have the di- 
rection and management of the periodical critical 
press." That the press may be, in some instances, 
conducted by respectable characters is probable 
enough ; but if they are so, there is no occasion to 
tell them of it ; and if they are not, it is a base 
adulation. In either case, it looks like a kind of 
flattery, by which those gentry are not very likely 
to be softened ; since it would be difficult to find 
two passages in fifteen pages more at variance, 



than Mr. Bowles's prose at the beginning of this 
pamphlet, and his verse at the end of it. In page 
4, he speaks of " those most respectable characters 
who have the direction, &c, of the periodical press," 
and in page 10, we find — 

" Ye dark inquisitors, a monk-like band, 
Who o'er some ehrinking- victim-author stand, 
A solemn, secret, and vindictive brood, 
Only terrific in your cowl and hood." 

And so on — to "bloody law" and "red scourges," 
with other similar phrases, which may not be alto 
gether agreeable to the above-mentioned "most 
respectable characters." Mr. Bowles goes on, "I 
concluded my observations in the last Pamphleteer 
with feelings not unkind towards Mr. Gilchrist, or" 
[it should be nor'] " to the author of the review of 
Spence, be he whom he might." — " I was in hope, 
as I have always been ready to admit any errors I 
might have been led into, or prejudice I might have 
entertained, that even Mr. Gilchrist might be dis- 
posed to a more amicable mode of discussing what I 
had advanced in regard to Pope's moral character." 
As Major Sturgeon observes, "There never was a 
set of more amicable officers — with the exception of 
a boxing-bout between Captain Shears and the Col- 
onel." 

A page and a half— nay only a page before — Mr. 
Bowles reaffirms his conviction, that "what he has 
said of Pope's moral character is (generally speak- 
ing) true, and that his " poetical principles are 
invariable and invulnerable." He has also pub- 
lished three pamphlets, — ay, four of the same tenor, 
— and yet, with this declaration and these declama- 
tions staring him and his adversaries in the face, he 
speaks of his " readiness to admit errors or to aban- 
don prejudices ! ! ! " His use of the word "amica- 
ble " reminds me of the Irish Institution (which 
I have somewhere heard or read of) called the 
" Friendly Society," where the president always 
carried pistols in his pocket, so that when one ami- 
cable gentleman knocked down another, the differ- 
ence might be adjusted on the spot, at the harmo- 
nious distance of twelve paces. 

But Mr. Bowles " has since read a publication by 
him (Mr. Gilchrist) containing such vulgar slander, 
affecting private life and character," &c, &c. ; and 
Mr. Gilchrist has also had the advantage of reading 
a publication by Mr. Bowles sufficiently imbued 
with personality ; for one of the first and principal 
topics of reproach is that he is a grocer, that he has 
a "pipe in his mouth, ledger-book, green canisters, 
dingy shop-boy, half a hogshead of brown treacle," 
&c. Nay, the same delicate raillery is upon the 
very title-page. When controversy has once com- 
menced upon this footing, as Dr. Johnson said to 
Dr. Percy, " Sir, there is an end of politeness — we 
are to be as rude as we please — Sir, you said that I 
was short-sighted." As a man's profession is gene- 
rally no more in his own power than his person — 
both having been made out for him — it is hard that 
he should be reproached with either, and still more 
that an honest calling should be made a reproach. 
If there is any thing more honorable to Mr. Gil- 
christ than another it is, that being engaged in 
commerce he had the taste, and found the leisure, 
to become so able a proficient in the higher litera- 
ture of his own and other countries. Mr. Bowles, 
who will be proud to own Glover, Chatterton, Burns, 
and Bloomfield for his peers, should hardly have 
quarrelled with Mr. Gilchrist for his critic. Mr. 
Gilchrist's station, however, which might conduct 
him to the highest civic honors, and to boundless 
wealth, has nothing to require apology ; but even if 
it had, such a reproach was not very gracious on 
the part of a clergyman, nor graceful on that of a 
gentleman. The allusion to " Christian criticism" 
is not particularly happy, especially where Mr. Gil- 
christ is accused of having "set the first example of 
this mode in Europe." What Pagan criticism may 
have been we know but little ; the names of Zoilus 



1048 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



and Aristarclms survive, and the works of Aristotle, 
Longinus, and Quintilian : but of " Christian criti- 
cism " we have already had some specimens in the 
works of Philelphus, Poggius, Scaliger, Milton, 
Salmasius, the Cruscanti (versus Tasso), the French 
Academy (against the Cid), and the antagonists of 
Voltaire and of Pope — to say nothing of some arti- 
cles in most of the reviews, since their earliest 
institution in the person of their respectable and 
still prolific parent, " The Monthly." Why, then, 
is Mr. Gilchrist to be singled out "as having set 
the first example ? " A sole page of Milton or 
Salmasius contains more abuse — rank, rancorous, 
unleavened abuse — than all that can be raked forth 
from the whole works of many recent critics. Trferc 
are some, indeed, who still 'keep up the good old 
custom ; but fewer English than foreign. It is a 
pity that Mr. Bowles cannot witness some of the 
Italian controversies, or become the stibject of one. 
He would then look upon Mr. Gilchrist as a pane- 
gyrist. * * * •**■** 

To me it appears of no very great consequence 
whether Martha Blount was or was not Pope's mis- 
tress, though I could have wished him a better. 
She appears to have been a cold-hearted, interested, 
ignorant, disagreeable woman, upon whom the ten- 
derness of Pope's heart in the desolation of his 
latter days was cast away, not knowing whither to 
turn, as he drew towards his premature old age, 
childless and lonely, — like the needle which, ap- 
proaching within a certain distance of the pole, 
becomes helpless and useless, and, ceasing to trem- 
ble, rusts. She seems to have been so totally un- 
worthy of tenderness, that it is an additional proof 
of the kindness of Pope's heart to have been able 
to love such a being. But we must love something. 
I agree with Mr. B. that she "could at no time 
have' regarded Pope personally with attachment," 
because she was incapable of attachment ; but I 
deny that Pope could not be regarded with personal 
attachment by a worthier woman. It is not proba- 
ble, indeed, that a woman would have fallen in love 
with him as he walked along the Mall, or. in a box 
at the opera, nor from a balcony, nor in a ball-room ; 
but in society he seems to have been as amiable as 
unassuming, and, with the greatest disadvantages 
of figure, his head and face were remarkably hand- 
some, especially his eyes. He was adored* by his 
friends — friends of the most opposite dispositions, 
ages, and talents — by the ojd and wayward Wycher 
ley, by the cynical Swift, the rough Atterbury, the 
gentle Spence, the stern attorney-bishop Warbur 
ton, the virtuous Berkeley, and' the "cankered 
Bolingbroke." Bolingbroke wept over him like a 
child; and Spence's description of his last moments 
is at least as edifying as the more ostentatious 
account of the death-bed of Addison. The soldier 
Peterborough and the poet Gay, the witty Congreve 
and the laughing Rowe, the eccentric Cromwell and 
the steady Bathurst, were all his intimates. The 
man who could conciliate so many men of the most 
opposite description, not one of whom but was a 
remarkable or a celebrated character, might well 
have pretended to all the attachment which a rea- 
sonable man would desire of an amiable woman. 

Pope, in fact, wherever he got it, appears to have 
understood the sex well. Bolingbroke, " a judge 
of the subject," says Warton, thought his "Epistle 
on the Characters of Women " his "master-piece." 
And even with respect to the grosser passion, which, 
takes occasionally the name of "romantic," ac- 
cordingly as the degree of sentiment elevates it 
above the definition of love by Buffon, it may be 
remarked, that it does not always depend upon 
personal appearance, even in a woman. Madame 
Cottin was a plain woman, and might have been 
virtuous, it may be presumed, without much inter- 
ruption. Virtuous she was, and the consequences 
of this inveterate virtue were that two different 
admirers (one an elderly gentleman) killed them- 
selves in despair (see Lady Morgan's "Prance.") 



I would not, however, recommend this rigor to plain 
women in general, in the hope of securing the glory 
of two suicides a-piece. I believe that there are 
few men who, in the course of their observations 
on life, may not have perceived that it is not the 
greatest female beauty who forms the longest and 
the strongest passions. 

But, apropos of Pope. — Voltaire tells us that the 
Marechal Luxembourg (who had precisely Pope's 
figure) was not only somewhat too amatory for a 
great man, but fortunate in his attachments. La 
Valine, the passion of Louis XIV., had an un- 
sightly defect. The Princess of Eboli, the mistress 
of Philip II. of Spain, and Maugiron, the minion of 
Henry III. of Fiance, had each of them lost an 
eye ; and the famous Latin epigram was written 
upon them, which has, I believe, been either trans- 
lated or imitated by G61dsmith : — 

" Lumine Aeon dextro, capta est Leonilla sinistio, 
Et potis est forma vincere uterque Deos ; 
Blande puer, lumen quod liabe concede sorrori, «. 
Sic tu caucus Amor, sic erit ilia Venus." 

Wilkes, with his ugliness, used to say that "he 
was but a quarter of an hour behind thevhandsomest 
man in England ; " and this vaunt of his is said not 
to have been disproved by circumstances. Swift, 
when neither young, nor handsome, nor rich, nor 
even amiable, inspired the two most extraordinary 
passions upon record — Vanessa's and Stella's. 



[ Vanesca, 
Sighs for i 



<red scarce a score 
gown of forty <-fo\ 



He requited them bitterly; for he seems to have 
broken the heart of the one, and worn out that of 
the other ; and he had his reward, for he died a soli- 
tary idiot in the hands of servants. 

For my own part, I am of the opinion of Pausa- 
nias, that success in love depends upon Fortune. 
" They particularly renounce Celestial Venus, into 
whose temple, &c, &c, &c. I rem-cmber, too, to 
have seen a building in iEgina in which there is a 
statue of Fortune, holding a horn of Amalthea ; 
and near her there is a winged Love. The meaning 
of this is, that the success of men in love affairs 
depends more on the assistance of Fortune than the 
charms of beauty. I am persuaded, too, with Pin- 
dar (to whose opinion I submit in other particulars), 
that Fortune is one of the Fates, and that in a cer- 
tain respect she is more powerful than her sisters." 
— See Pausanias, Achaics, book vii., chap, xxvi., p. 
256. Taylor's " Translation." 

Grimm has a remark of the same kind on the dif- 
ferent destinies of the younger Crebillon and Rous- 
seau. The former writes a licentious novel, and a 
young English girl of some fortune and family (a 
Miss Stratford) runs away, and crosses the sea to 
marry him ; while Rousseau, the most tender and 
passionate of lovers, is obliged to espouse his cham- 
bermaid. If I recollect rightly, this remark was also 
repeated in the Edinburgh Review of Grimm's cor- 
respondence, seven or eight years ago. 

In regard "to the strange mixture of indecent, 
and sometimes profane levity, which his conduct 
and language often exhibited," and which so much 
shocks Mr. Bowles, I object to the indefinite word 
" often ; " and in extenuation of the occasional oc- 
currence of such language it is to be recollected, 
that it was less the tone of Pope, than the tone of 
the time. With the exception of the correspondence 
of Pope and his friends, not many private letters of 
the period have come down to us ; but those, such 
as they are — a few scattered scraps from Farquhar 
and others — are more indecent and coarse than an}' 
thing in Pope's letters. The comedies of Congreve, 
Vanbrugh, Farquhar, Cibber, &c, which naturally 
attempted to represent the manners and conversa- 
tion of private life, are decisive upon this point; as 
are also some of Steele's papers, and even Addi- 
son's. We all know what the conversation of Sir 
R. Walpole, for seventeen years the prime minister 



OBSERVATIONS UPON "OBSERVATIONS. 



1049 



of the country, was at his own table, and his excuse 
for his licentious language, viz., "that everybody 
understood that, but few could talk rationally upon 
less common topics." The refinement of latter 
days, — which is perhaps the consequence of vice, 
which wishes to mask and soften itself, as much as 
of virtuous civilization, — had not yet made sufficient 
progress. Even Johnson, in his " London," has 
two or three passages which cannot be read aloud, 
and Addison's "Drummer" some indelicate allu- 
sions. 

To return to Mr. Bowles. " If what is here ex- 
tracted can excite in the mind (I will not say of any 
' layman,' of any 'Christian,' but) of any human 
being," &c, &c. Is not Mr. Gilchrist a "human 
being ? " Mr. Bowles asks " whether in attributing 
an article," &c, &c, "to the critic, he had any 
reason for distinguishing him with that courtesy," 
&c, &c. But Mr. Bowles was wrong in "attribut- 
ing the article" to Mr. Gilchrist at all; and would 
not have been right in calling him a dunce and a 
grocer, if he had written it. 

Mr. Bowles is here " peremptorily called upon to 
speak of a circumstance which gives him the great- 
est pain, — the mention of a letter he received from 
the editor of ' The London Magazine.' " Mr. Bowles 
seems to have embroiled himself on all sides ; — 
whether by editing, or replying, or attributing, or 
quoting, — it has been an awkward affair for him. 

Poor Scott is now no more. In the exercise of 
his vocation, he contrived at last to make himself 
the subject of a coroner's inquest. But he died 
like a brave man, and he lived an able one. I knew 
him personally, though slightly. Although several 
years my senior, we had been schoolfellows together 
at the " grammar-schule " (or, as the Aberdonians 
pronounce it, " sgueel") of New Aberdeen. He 
did not behave to me quite handsomely in his capa- 
city of editor a few years ago, but he was under no 
obligation to behave otherwise. The moment was 
too tempting for many friends and for all enemies. 
At a time when all my relations (save one) fell from 
me like leaves from the tree in autumn winds, and 
my few friends became still fewer, — when the whole 
periodical press (I mean the daily and weekly, not 
the literary press) was let loose against me in every 
shape of reproach, with the two strange exceptions 
(from their usual opposition) of " The Courier " and 
" The Examiner," — the paper of which Scott had 
the direction was neither the last nor the least vitu- 
perative. Two years ago I met him at Venice, when 
he was bowed in griefs, by the loss of his son, and 
had known, by experience, the bitterness of domes- 
tic privation. He was then earnest with me to 
return to England ; and on my telling him, with a 
smile, that he was once of a different opinion, he 
replied to me, "that he and others had been greatly 
misled ; and th#t some pains, and rather extraordi- 
nary means, had been taken to excite them." Scott 
is no more, but there are more than one living, who 
were present at this dialogue. He was a man of 
very considerable talents, and of great acquire- 
ments. He had made his way, as a literary charac- 
ter, with high success, and in a few years. Poor 
fellow! I recollect his joy at some appointment 
which he had obtained, or was to obtain, through 
Sir James Mackintosh, and which prevented the 
further extension (unless by a rapid run to Rome) 
of his travels in Italy. I little thought to what it 
would conduct him. Peace be with him ! — and may 
all such other faults as are inevitable to humanity 
be as readily forgiven him, as the little injury which 
he had done to one who respected his talents, and 
regrets his loss. 

I pass over Mr. Bowles's page of explanation, 
upon the correspondence between him and Mr. 

S . It is of little importance in regard to Pope, 

and contains merely a recontradiction of a contra- 
diction of Mr. Gilchrist's. We now come to a point 
where Mr. Gilchrist has, certainly, rather exagge- 
rated matters ; and, of course, Mr. Bowles makes 
132 



the most of it. Capital letters, like Kean's name, 
" large upon the bills," are made use of six or seven 
times to express his sense of the outrage. The 
charge is, indeed, very boldly made ; but, like 
" Ranold of the Mist's" practical joke of putting 
the bread and cheese into a dead man's mouth, is, 
as Dugald Dalgetty says, " somewhat too wild and 
salvage, besides wasting the good victuals." 

Mr. Bowles appeals to the " Christian reader ! " 
upon this " Gilchristian criticism." Is not this 
play upon such words " a step beyond decorum " in 
a clergyman ? But I admit the temptation of a pun 
to be irresistible. 

But "a hasty pamphlet was published, in which 
some personalities respecting Mr. Gilchrist were 
suffered to appear." If Mr. Bowles will write 
" hasty pamphlets," why is he so surprised on re- 
ceiving short answers ? The grand grievance to 
which he perpetually returns is a charge of " Hypo- 
chondriacism," asserted or insinuated in the Quar- 
terly. I cannot conceive a man in perfect health 
being much affected by such a charge, because his 
complexion and conduct must amply refute it. But 
were it true, to what does it amount ? — to an im- 
peachment of a liver complaint. " I will tell it to 
the world," exclaimed the learned Smelfungus. — 
You had better," said I, " tell it to your physician." 
There is nothing dishonorable in such a disorder, 
which is mpre peculiarly the malady of students. It 
has been the complaint of the good, and the wise, 
and the witty, and even of the gay. Regnard, the 
author of the last French comedy after Moliere, 
was atrabilious ; and Moliere himself, saturnine. 
Dr. Johnson, Gray, and Burns, were all more or less 
affected by it occasionally. It was the prelude to 
the more awful malady of Collins, Cowpcr, Swift, 
and Smart ; but it by no means follows that a par- 
tial affliction of this disorder is to terminate like 
theirs. But even were it so,— 

11 Nor best, nor wisest, are exempt from thee : 
Fully — Folly's only free." Penrose. 

If this be the criterion of exemption, Mr. Bowles's 
last two pamphlets form a better certificate of sanity 
than a physician's. Mendehlson and Bayle were at 
times so overcome with this depression, as to be 
obliged to recur to seeing " puppet-shows, and 
counting tiles upon the opposite houses," to divert 
themselves. Dr. Johnson at times " would have 
given a limb to recover his spirits." Mr. Bowles, 
who is (strange to say) fond of quoting Pope, may 
perhaps answer, — 

" Go on, obliging creatures, let me see 
All wliicli di^rac'it my betters met in me." 

But the charge, such as it is, neither disgraces them 
nor him. It is easily disproved if false; and even 
if proved true, has nothing in it to make a man so 
very indignant. Mr. Bowles himself appears to be 
a little ashamed of his " hasty pamphlet ; " for he 
attempts to excuse it by the "great provocation; " 
that is to say, by Mr. Bowles's supposing that Mr. 
Gilchrist was the writer of the article in the Quar- 
terly, which he was not. 

" But, in extenuation, not only the great provoca- 
tion should be remembered, but it ought to be said, 
that orders were sent to the London booksellers, 
that the most direct personal passages should be 
omitted entirely ," &c. This is what the proverb 
calls " breaking a head and giving a plaster ; " but, 
in this instance, the plaster was not spread in time, 
and Mr. Gilchrist does not seem at present disposed 
to regard Mr. Bowles's courtesies like the rust of 
the spear of Achilles, which had such " skill in 
surgery." 

But "Mr. Gilchrist has no right to object, as the 
reader will see." I am a reader, a " gentle reader," 
and I see nothing of the kind. Were I in Mr. Gil- 
christ's place, I should object exceedingly to being 
abused ; firstly, for what I did write, and, secondly, 
for what I did not write ; merely because it is Mr. 



1050 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Bowles's will and pleasure to be as angry with me 
for having written in the London Magazine, as for 
not having written in the Quarterly Review. 

'■'Mr. Gilchrist has had ample revenge; for he 
has, in his answer, said so and so," &c, &c. There 
is no great revenge in all this ; and I presume that 
nobody either seeks or wishes it. What revenge ? 
Mr. Bowles calls names, and he is answered. But 
Mr. Gilchrist and the Quarterly Review are not 
poets, nor pretenders to poetry ; therefore they can 
have no envy nor malice against Mr. Bowles ; they 
have no acquaintance with Mr. Bowles, and can 
have no personal pique ; they do not cross his path 
of life, nor he theirs. There is no political feud 
between them. What, then, can be the motive of 
their discussion of his deserts as an editor ? — vene- 
ration for the genius of Pope, love for his memory, 
and regard for the classic glory of their country. 
Why would Mr. Bowles edite ? Had he limited his 
honest endeavors to poetry, very little would have 
been said upon the subject, and nothing at all by 
.his present antagonists. 

Mr. Bowles calls the pamphlet a " mud-cart," and 
the writer a "scavenger." Afterwards he asks, 
" Shall he fling dirt and receive rose-water t " This 
metaphor, by-the-way, is taken from Marmontel's 
Memoirs ; who, lamenting to Chamfort the shed- 
ding of blood during the French revolution, was 
answered, " Do you think that revolutions are to be 
made with rose-water?" 

For my own part, I presume that "rose-water" 
would be infinitely more graceful in the hands of 
Mr. Bowles than the substance which he has substi- 
tuted for that delicate liquid. It would also more 
confound his adversary, supposing him a " scaven- 
ger." I remember, (and do you remember, reader, 
that it was in my earliest youth, " Consule Planeo,") 
— on the morning of the great battle, (the second) — 
between Gulley and Gregson, — Cribb, who was 
matched against Horton for the second fight, on 
the same memorable day, awaking me (a lodger at 
the inn in the next room) by a loud remonstrance 
to the waiter against the abomination of his towels, 
which had been laid in lavender. Cribb was a coal- 
heaver — and was much more discomfitted by this 
odoriferous effeminancy of fine linen, than by his 
adversary Horton, whom he " finished in style," 
though with some reluctance ; for I recollect that 
he said, " he disliked hurting him, he looked so 
pretty," — Horton being a very fine fresh-colored 
young man. 

To return to "rose-water" — that is, to gentle 
means of rebuke. Does Mr. Bowles know how to 
revenge himself upon a hacknev-coachman, when 
he has overcharged his fare ? In case he should 
not, I will tell him. It is of little use to call him a 
"rascal, a scoundrel, a thief, an impostor, a black- 
guard, a villain, a ragamuffin, a — what you please;" 
all that he is used to — it is his mother-tongue, and 
probably his mother's. But look him steadily and 
quietly in the face, and say — " Upon my word, I 
think you are the ugliest fellow I ever saw in my 
life," and he will instantly roll forth the brazen 
thunders of the charioteer Salmoneus as follows: — 
" Hugh) ! what the h — 11 are you? You a gentleman ? 

Why !" So much easier it is to provoke — and 

therefore to vindicate — (for passion punishes him 
who feels it more than those whom the passionate 
would excruciate) — by a few quiet words the aggres- 
sor, than by retorting violently. The "coals of fire 
of the Scripture are benefits ; — but they are not the 
less " coals of fire." 

I pass over a page of quotation and reprobation — 
" Sin up to my song " — " Oh let my little bark " — 
"Arcades ambo " — "Writer in the Quarterly Re- 
view and himself " — "In-door avocations, indeed" 
— " Kings of Brentford " — " One nosegay " — Peren- 
nial nosegay " — " Oh Juvenes," — and the like. 

Page 12, produces "more reasons," — (the task 
ought not to have been difficult, for as yet there 
were none) — " to show why Mr. Bowles attributed 



the critique in the Quarterly to Octavius Gilchrist." 
All these "reasons" consist of surmises of Mr. 
Bowles, upon the presumed character of his op- 
ponent. " He did not suppose there could exist a 
man in the kingdom so impudent, &c, &c, except 
Octavius Gilchrist." — " He did not think there was 
a man in the kingdom who would jtretend ignorance, 
&c, &c, except Octavius Gilchrist." — "He did not 
conceive that one man in the kingdom would utter 
such stupid flippancy, &c, &c, except Octavius 
Gilchrist." — " He did not think there was one man 
in the kingdom who, &c, &c, could so utterly 
show his ignorance, combined with conceit, &c, as 
Octavius Gilchrist." — " He did not believe there 
was a man in the kingdom so perfect Mr. Gilchrist's 
' old limes,' " &c, &c. — He did not think the mean 
mind of any one in the kingdom," &c„ and so on ; 
always beginning with " any one in the kingdom," 
and ending with " Octavius Gilchrist," like the 
word in a catch. I am not " in the kingdom," and 
have not been much in the kingdom since I was 
one-and-twenty, (about five years in the whole, since 
I was of age,) and have no desire to be in the king- 
dom again, whilst I breathe, nor to sleep there 
afterwards ; and I regret nothing more than having 
ever been "in the kingdom" at all. But though 
no longer a man "in the kingdom," let me hope 
that when I have ceased to exist, it may be said, as 
was answered by the master of Clanronald's hench- 
man, his day after the battle of Sheriff-Muir, when 
he was found watching his chief's body. He was 
asked, "Kvho that was?" he replied — "it was a 
man yesterday." And in this capacity, " in or out 
of the kingdom," I must own that I participate in 
many of the objections urged by Mr. Gilchrist. I 
participate in his love of Pope, and in his not 
understanding, and occasionally finding fault with, 
the last editor of our last truly great poet. 

One of the reproaches against Mr. Gilchrist is, 
that he is (it is sneeringly said) an F. S. A. If it 
will give Mr. .Bowles any pleasure, I am not an F. 
S. A., but a Fellow of the Royal Society at his 
service, in case there should be any thing in that 
association also which may point a paragraph. 

" There are some other reasons," but " the author 
is now not unknown." Mr. Bowles has so totally 
exhausted himself upon Octavus Gilchrist, that lie 
has not a word left for the real quarterer of his 
edition, although now " deterre." 

The following page refers to a mysterious charge 
of " duplicity, in regard to the publication of Pope's 
letters." Till this charge is made in proper form, 
we have nothing to do with it: Mr. Gilchrist hints 
it — Mr. Bowles denies it ; there it rests for the 
present. Mr. Bowles professes his dislike to Pope's 
duplicity, not to Pope — a distinction apparently 
without a difference. However, I believe that I 
understand him. We have a great dislike to Mr. 
Bowles's edition of Pope, but not to Mr. Bowles ; 
nevertheless, he takes up the subject as warmly as 
if it was personal. With regard to the fact of 
" Pope's duplicity," it remains to be proved — like 
Mr. Bowles's benevolence towards his memory. 

In page 14, we have a large assertion, that "the 
' Eloisa ' alone is sufficient to convict him of gross 
licentiousness." Thus, out it comes at last. Mr. 
Bowles does accuse Pope of "gross licentiousness," 
and grounds the charge upon a poem. The licen- 
tiousness is a " grand puet-etre," according to the 
turn of the times being. The grossness I deny. 
On the contrary, I do -believe that such a subject 
never was, nor ever could be, treated by any poet 
with so much delicacy, mingled with, at the same 
time, such true and intense passion. Is the " Atys" 
of Catullus licentious ? No, nor even gross ; and 
yet Catullus is often a coarse writer. The subject 
Is nearly the same, except that Atys was the suicide 
of his manhood, and Ahelard the victim. 

The " licentiousness " of the story was not Pope's 
— it was a fact. All that it had of gross, he has 
softened ; — all that it had of indelicate, he has 



OBSERVATIONS UPON "OBSERVATIONS.* 



1051 



purified ; — all that it had of passionate, he has 
beautified ; — all that it had of holy, he has hal- 
lowed. Mr. Campbell has admirably marked this 
in a few words (I quote from memory), in drawing 
the distinction between Pope and Dryden, and 
pointing out where Dryden was wanting. "I 
fear," says he, "that had the subject of ' Eloisa ' 
fallen into his (Dryden's) hands, that he would 
have given us but a coarse draft" of her passion." 
Never was the delicacy of Pope so much shown as 
in this poem. With the facts and the letters of 
•' Eloisa" he has done what no other mind but that 
of the best and purest of poets could have accom- 
plished with such materials. Ovid, Sappho (in the 
ode called hers) — all that we have of ancient, all 
that we have of modem poetry, sinks into nothing 
compared with him in this production. 

Let us hear no more of this trash about " licen- 
tiousness." Is not " Anacreon " taught in our 
schools ? — translated, praised, and edited ? Are 
not his Odes the amatory praises of a boy ? Is not 
Sappho's Ode on a girl ? Is not this sublime and 
(according to Longinus) fierce love for one of her 
own sex ? And is not Phillip's translation of it in 
the mouths of all your women ? And are the English 
schools or the English women the more corrupt for 
all this ? When you have thrown the ancients into 
the fire, it will be time to denounce the moderns. 
"Licentiousness!'' — there is 'more real mischief 
and sapping licentiousness in a single French prose 
novel, in a Moravian hymn, or a German comedy, 
than in all the actual poetry that ever was penned, 
or poured forth, since the rhapsodies of. Orpheus. 
The sentimental anatomy of Rousseau and Mad. de 
S. are far more formidable than any quantity of 
verse. They are so, because they sap the principles 
by I'easoning upon the passions ; whereas poetry is 
in itself passion, and does not systematise. It 
assails, but does not argue ; it may be wrong, but 
it does not assume pretensions to Optimism. 

Mr. Bowles now has the goodness " to point out 
the difference between a traducer and him who sin- 
cerely states what he sincerely believes." He might 
have spared himself the trouble. The one is a liar, 
who lies knowingly ; the other (I speak of a scandal- 
monger of course) lies, charitably believing that he 
speaks truth, and very sorry to find himself in 
falsehood ; — because he 

" Would rather that the dean should die, 
Than his prediction prove a lie." 

After a definition of a " traducer," which was 
quite superfluous (though it is agreeable to learn 
that Mr. Bowles so well understands the character), 
we are assured, that " he feels equally indifferent, 
Mr. Gilchrist, for what your malice can invent, or 
your impudence utter." This is indubitable ; for it 
rests not only on Mr. Bowles's assurance, but on 
that of Sir Fretful Plagiary, and nearly in the same 
words, — " and I shall treat it with exactly the same 
calm indifference and philosophical contempt, and 
so your servant." 

" One thing has given Mr. Bowles concern." It 
is "a passage which might seem to reflect on the 
patronage a young man has received." Might 
seem ! The passage alluded to expresses, that if 
Mr. Gilchrist be the reviewer of "a certain poet of 
nature," his praise and blame are equally con- 
temptible. — Mr. Bowles, who has a peculiarly am- 
biguous style, where it suits him, comes off with a 
" not to the poet, but the critic," &c. In my hum- 
ble opinion, the passage referred to both. Had 
Mr. Bowles really meant fairly, he would have said 
so from the first — he would have been eagerly 
transparent. — "A certain poet of nature" is not 
the style of commendation. It is the very prologue 
to the most scandalous paragraphs of the news- 
papers, when 

" Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike." 

" A certain high personage," — " a certain peeress," 



— " a certain illustrious foreigner," — what do these 
words ever precede, but defamation ? Had he felt 
a spark of kindling kindness for John Clare, he 
would have named him. There is a sneer in the 
sentence as it stands. How a favorable review of a 
deserving poet can " rather injure than promote his 
cause " is difficult to comprehend. The article 
denounced is able and amiable, and it has " served" 
the poet, as far as poetry can be served by judicious 
and honest criticism. 

With the two next paragraphs of Mr. Bowles's 
pamphlet it is pleasing to concur. His mention of 
" Pennie," and his former patronage of " Shoel," 
do him honor. I am not of those who may deny 
Mr. Bowles to be a benevolent man. I merely 
assert, that he is not a candid editor. 

Mr. Bowles has been " a writer occasionally 
upwards of thirty years," and never wrote one 
word in reply in his life "to criticisms, merely as 
criticisms." This is Mr. Lofty in Goldsmith's Good- 
natured Man ; " and I vow by all that's honorable, 
my resentment has never done the men, as mere 
men, any manner of harm, — that is, as mere men." 

"The letter to the editor of the newspaper " is 
owned ; but " it was not on account of the criticism. 
It was because the criticism came down in a frank 
directed to Mrs. Bowles ! ! ! " — (the italics and three 
notes of admiration appended to Mrs. Bowles are 
copied verbatim from the quotation,) and Mr. 
Bowles was not displeased with the criticism, but 
with the frank and the address. I agree with Mr. 
Bowles that the intention was to annoy him ; but I 
fear that this was answered by his notice of the 
reception of the criticism. An anonymous letter- 
writer has but one means of knowing the effect of 
his attack. In this he has the superiority over the 
viper; he knows that his poison has taken effect, 
when he hears the victim cry ; — the adder is deaf. 
The best reply to an anonymous intimation is to 
take no notice directly nor indirectly. I wish Mr. 
Bowles could see only one or two of the thousand 
which I have received in the course of a literary 
life, which, though begun early, has not yet ex- 
tended to a third part of his existence as an author. 
I speak of literary life only. Were I to add per- 
sonal, I might double the amount of anonymous 
letters. If he could but see the violence, the 
threats, the absurdity of the whole thing, he would 
laugh, and so should I, and thus be both gainers. 

To keep up the farce, — within the last month of 
this present writing (1821), I have had my life 
threatened in the same way which menaced Mr. 
Bowles's fame, — excepting that the anonymous 
denunciation was addressed to the Cardinal Legate 
at Romagna, instead of to Mrs. Bowles. The Car- 
dinal is, I believe, the elder lady of the two. I 
append the menace in all its barbaric but literal 
Italian, that Mr. Bowles may be convinced ; and as 
this is the only " promise to pay," which the Ital- 
ians ever keep, so my person has been at least as 
much exposed to a " shot in the gloaming," from 
"John Heatherblutter " (see Waverly), as ever Mr. 
Bowles's glory was from an editor. I am, never- 
theless, on horseback and lonely for some hours 
(one of them twilight) in the forest daily; and 
this, because it was my " custom in the afternoon," 
and that I believe if the tyrant cannot escape amidst 
his guards (should it be so written ?) so the hum- 
bler individual would find precautions useless. 

Mr. Bowles has here the humility to say, that 
"he must succumb; for with Lord Byron turned 
against him, he has no chance," — a declaration of 
self-denial not much in unison with his "promise," 
five lines afterwards, that " for every twenty-four 
lines quoted by Mr. Gilchrist, or his friend, to greet 
him with as many from the ' Gilchrisiad ; ' " but so 
much the better. Mr. Bowles has no reason to 
"succumb" but to Mr. Bowles. As a poet, the 
author of "The Missionary" may compete with 
the foremost of his contemporaries. Let if be 
recollected, that all my previous opinions of Mr. 



1052 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Bowles's poetry were written long before the pub- 
lication of his last and best poem ; and that a 
poet's last poem should be his best, is his highest 
praise. But, however, he may duly and honorably 
rank with his living rivals, there never was so 
complete a proof of the superiority of Pope, as in 
the lines with which Mr. Bowles closes his " to be 
concluded in our next." 

Mr. Bowles is avowedly the champion and the 
poet of nature. Art and the arts are dragged, some 
before, and others behind his chariot. Pope, where 
he deals with passion, and with the nature of the 
naturals of the day, is allowed even by themselves 
to be sublime ; but they complain that too soon — 

4t He stoop'd to [ruth and moralised his song." 

and there even they allow him to be unrivalled. He 
has succeeded, and even surpassed them, when he 
chose, in their own pretended province. Let us see 
what their Coryphoeus effects in Pope's. But it is 
too pitiable, it is too melancholy to see Mr. Bowles 
" sinning " not " tip " but " doum " as a poet to his 
lowest depth as an editor. By the way, Mr. Bowles 
is always quoting Pope. I grant that there is no 
poet — not Shakspeare himself — who can be so often 
quoted, with reference to life', — but his editor is so 
like the devil quoting Scripture, that I could wish 
Mr. Bowles in his proper place, quoting in. the 
pulpit. 

And now for his lines. But it is painful — painful 
— to see such a suicide, though at the shrine of 
Pope. I can't copy them all : — 

«' Shall the rank, loathsome miscreant of the age 
t Sit like a night-mare grinning o'er a page." 

- " Whose pye-bald character so aptly suit 

The two extremes of Ban torn and of Brute, 
Compound grotesque of sullenness and show, 
The chattering magpie, and the croaking crow." 

" Whose heart contends with thy Satumian head, 
A root of hemlock, and a lump of lead. 
Gilclirist proceed," &c, &c. 

" And thus stand forth, spite of thy venom'd foam, 
To give thee bile for bite, or lash thee limping home." 

"With regard to the last line, the only one upon 
which I shall venture for fear of infection, I would 
advise Mr. Gilchrist to keep out of the way of such 
reciprocal morsure — unless he has more faith in the 
" Ormskirk medicine " than most people, or may 
wish to anticipate the pension of the recent German 
professor, (I forget his name, but it is advertised 
and full of consonants,) who presented his memoir 
of an infallible remedy for the hydrophobia to the 
German diet last month, coupled with the philan- 
thropic condition of a large annuity, provided that 
his cure cured. Let him begin with the editor of 
Pope, and double his demand. 

Yours ever, 

Bykon. 
To John Murray, Esq. 

P. S. Amongst the above-mentioned lines there 
occurs the following, applied to Pope — 

" The assassin's vengeance, and the coward's lie." 

And Mr. Bowles persists that he is a well-wisher of 
Pope!!! He has, then, edited an "assassin" and 
a "coward" wittingly, as well as lovingly. In my 
former letter I have remarked upon the editor's for- 
getfulness of Pope's benevolence. But where he 
mentions his faults it is " with sorrow " — his tears 
drop, but they do not blot them out. The " record- 
ing angel" differs from the recording clergyman. 
A fulsome editor is pardonable though tiresome, 
like a panegyrical son whose pious sincerity would 
demi-deify his father. But a detracting editor is a 
paricide. He sins against the nature of his office, 
and connection — he murders the life to come of his 
victim. If his author is not worthy to be men- 
tioned, do not edit at all: if he be, edit honestly, 



and even flatteringly. The reader will forgive the 
weakness in favor of mortality, and correct your 
adulation with a smile. But to sit down " mingere 
in patriots cineres," as Mr. Bowles has done, merits 
a reprobation so strong, that I am as incapable of 
expressing as of ceasing to feel it. 

FURTHER ADDENDA. 

It is worthy of , remark that, after all this outcry 
about " in-door nature" and "artificial images," 
Pope was the principal inventor of that boast of the 
English, Modern Gardening. He divides this honor 
with Milton. HearWarton: — "It hence appears, 
that this enchanting art of modern gardening, in 
which this kingdom claims a preference! over every 
nation in Europe, chiefly owes its origin and its 
improvements to two great poets, Milton and Pope." 

Walpole (no friend to Pope) asserts that Pope 
formed Kent's taste, and that Kent was the artist 
to whom the English are chiefly indebted for diffus- 
ing " a taste in laying out grounds." The design 
of the Prince of Wales's garden was copied from 
Pope's at Twickenham. Warton applauds " his 
singular effort of art and taste, in impressing so 
much variety and scenery on a spot of five acres." 
Pope was the Jirst who ridiculed the "formal, 
French, Dutch, false and unnatural taste in gar- 
dening," both in prose and verse. (See, for the 
former, "The Guardian.") 

" Pope has given not only some of our first, but 
best rules and observations on Architecture and Gar- 
dening." (See Warton's Essay, vol. ii. p. 237, &c, 
&c.) 

Now, is it not a shaihe, after this, to hear our 
Lakers in "Kendal Green," and our Buccolical 
Cockneys, crying out (the latter in a wilderness of 
bricks and mortar) about " Nature," and Pope's 
"artificial in-door habits?" Pope had seen all of 
nature that England alone can supply. He was 
bred in Windsor Forest, and amidst the beautiful 
scenery of Eton; he lived familiarly and frequently 
at the country seats of Bathurst, Cobham, Bur- 
lington, Peterborough, Digby, and Bolingbroke; 
amongst whose seats was to be numbered Stotve. 
He made his own little " five acres " a model to 
princes, and to the first of our artists who imitated 
nature. Warton thinks " that the most engaging 
of Kent's works was also planned on the model of 
Pope's, — at least in the opening and retiring shades 
of Venus's Vale." 

It is true that Pope was infirm and deformed ; but 
he could walk, and he could ride, (he rode to Oxford 
from London at a stretch,) and he was famous for 
an exquisite eye. On a tree at Lord Barthurst's is 
carved, " Here Pope sang," — he composed beneath 
it. Bolingb/oke, in one of his letters, represents 
them both writing in the hay-field. No poet ever 
admired Nature more, or used her better, than Pope 
has done, as I will undertake to prove from his 
works, prose and verse, if not anticipated in so easy 
and agreeable a. labor. I remember a passage in 
Walpole, somewhere, of a gentleman who wished 
to give directions about some willows to a man who 
had long served Pope in his grounds: " I under- 
stand, sir," he replied: "you would have them 
hang down, sir, somewhat poetical." Now, if no- 
thing existed but this little anecdote, it would suf- 
fice to prove Pope's taste for Nature, and the 
impression which he had made on a common- 
minded man. But I have already quoted Warton 
and Walpole (both his enemies) and, were it neces- 
sary, I could amply quote Pope himself for such 
tributes to Nature as no poet of the present day has 
even approached. 

His various excellence is really wonderful : archi- 
tecture, painting, gardening, all are alike subject to 
his genius. Be it remembered, that English gar- 
dening is the purposed perfectioning of niggard 
Nature, and that without it England is but a 
hedge-and-ditch, double-post- and-rail, Hounslow- 



OBSERVATIONS UPON "OBSERVATIONS. 



1053 



Heath and Clapliam-Common sort of country, since 
the principal forests have been felled. It is, in 
general, far from a picturesque country. The case 
is different with Scotland, Wales, and Ireland; and 
I except also the lake countries and Derbyshire, 
together with Eton, Windsor, and my own dear 
Harrow on the Hill, and some spots near the coast. 
In the present rank fertility of "great poets of the 
age," and " schools of poetry " — a word which, like 
"schools of eloquence" and of "philosophy," is 
never introduced till the decay of the art has in- 
creased with the number of its professors — in the 
present day, then, there have sprung up two sorts 
of Naturals : — the Lakers, who whine about Nature 
because they live in Cumberland ; and their under- 
sect (which some one has maliciously called the 
"Cockney School,") who are enthusiastical for the 
country because they live in London. It is to be 
observed, that the rustical founders are rather anx- 
ious to disclaim any connexion with their metropo- 
litan followers, whom they ungraciously review, 
and call cockneys, atheists, foolish fellows, bad 
writers, and other hard names not less ungrateful 
than unjust. I can understand the pretensions of 
the aquatic gentlemen of Windermere to what Mr. 
Braham terms " entusymusy ," for lakes, and moun- 
tains, and daffodils, and buttercups ; but I should 
be glad to be apprised of the foundation of the Lon- 
don propensities of their imitative brethren to the 
same "high argument." Southey, Wordsworth, 
and Coleridge have rambled over half Europe, and 
seen Nature in most of her varieties, (although I 
think that they have occasionally not used her very 
well;) but what on earth — of earth, and sea, and 
Nature — have the others seen ? Not a half, nor a 
tenth part so much a Pope. While they sneer at 
Windsor Forest, have they ever seen any thing of 
Windsor except its brick? 

The most rural of these gentlemen is my friend 
Leigh Hunt, who lives at Hampstead. I' believe 
that I need not disclaim' any personal or poetical 
hostility against that gentleman. A more amiable 
man in society I know not ; nor (when he will allow 
his sense to prevail over his sectarian principles) a 
better writer. When he was writing his " Remi- 
ni," I was not the last to discover its beauties, long 
before it was published. Even then I remonstrated 
against its vulgarisms ; which are the more extra- 
ordinary, because the author is any thins; but a 
vulgar man. Mr. Hunt's answer was, that he wrote 
them upon principle; they made part of his "sys- 
tem!. 1 " I then said no more. When a man talks 
of his system, it is like a woman's talking of herciV- 
tuc. I let them talk on. Whether there are writers 
who could have written "Rimini," as it might 
have been written, I know not; but Mr. Hunt is, 
probably, the only poet who could have had the 
heart to spoil his own Capo d'Opera. 

With the rest of his young people I have no ac- 
quaintance, except through some things of theirs 
(which have been sent out without my desire,) and 
I confess that till I had read them I was not aware 
of the full extent of human absurdity. Like Gar- 
rick's " Ode to Shakspeare," they " defy criticism." 
These are of the personages who decry Pope. One 
of them, a Mr. John Ketch, has written some lines 
against him, of which it were better to be the sub- 
ject than the author. Mr. Hunt redeems himself 
by occasional beauties ; but the rest of these poor 
creatures seem so far gone that I would not "march 
through Coventry with them, that's flat ! " were I 
in Mr. Hunt's place. To be sure, he has "led his 
ragamuffins where they will be well peppered ; " but 
a system-maker must receive all sorts of prosejytes. 
When they have really seen life — when they have 
felt it — when they have travelled beyond the far 
distant boundaries of the wilds of Middlesex — when 
they have overpassed the Alps of Hisjhgate, and 
traced to its sources the Nile 'of the New River — 
then, and not till then, can it properly be permitted 
to them to despise Pope ; who had, if not in Wales, 



been near it, when he described so beautifully the 
"artificial" works of the Benefactor of Nature 
and mankind, the "Man of Ross," whose picture, 
still suspended in the parlor of the inn, I have so 
often contemplated with reverence for his memory, 
and admiration of the poet, without whom even his 
own still existing good works could hardly have 
preserved his honest renown. 

I would also observe to my friend Hunt, that 1 
shall be very glad to see him at Ravenna, not only 
for my sincere pleasure in his company, and the 
advantage which a thousand miles or so of travel 
might produce to a " natural " poet, but also to 
point out one or two little things in " Rimini," 
which he probably would not have placed in his 
opening to that poem, if he had ever seen Ravenna, 
— unless, indeed, it made "part of his system ! ! " 
I must also crave his indulgence for having spoken 
of his disciples — by no means an agreeable or self- 
sought subject. If they had said nothing of Pope, 
they might have remained " alone with their glory" 
for aught I should have said or thought about them 
or their nonsense. But if they interfere with the 
" little Nightingale " of Twickenham, they may 
find others who will bear it — i" won't. Neither 
time, nor distance, nor grief, nor age, can ever 
diminish my veneration for him, who is the great 
moral poet of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, 
and of all stages of existence. The delight of my 
bovhood, the study of my manhood, perhaps (if 
allowed to me to attain it) he may be the consola- 
tion of my age. His poetry is the Book of Life. 
Without canting, and yet without neglecting relig- 
ion, he has assembled all that a good and great man 
can gather together of moral wisdom clothed in 
consummate beauty. Sir William Temple observes, 
" that of all the members of mankind that live 
within the compass of a thousand years, for one 
man that is born capable of making a great poet, 
there may be a thousand born capable of making as 
great generals and ministers of state as any in 
story." Here is a statesman's opinion of poetry : 
it is'honorable to him and to the art. Such a "poet 
of a thousand years " was Pope. A thousand years 
will roll away before such another can be hoped for 
in our literature. But it can leant them — he him- 
self is a literature. 

One word upon his so brutally abused translation 
of Homer. " Dr. Clarke, whose critical exactness 
is well known, has not been able to point out above 
three or four mistakes in the sense through the 
whole Iliad. The real faults of the translation are 
of a different kind." So says Warton, himself a 
scholar. It appears by this, then, that lie avoided 
the chief fault of a translator. As to its other 
faults, they consist in his having made a beautiful 
English poem of a sublime Greek one. It will al- 
ways hold. Cowper and all the rest of the blank 
pretenders may do their best and their worst : they 
will never wrench Pope from the hands of a single 
reader of sense and feeling. 

The grand distinction of the under forms of the 
new school of poets in their vulgarity. By this I 
do not mean that they are coarse, but "shabby- 
genteel," as it is termed. A man may be coarse 
and yet not vulgar, and the reverse. Burns is often 
coarse, but never vulgar. Chatterton is never vul- 
gar, nor Wordsworth, nor the higher of the Lake 
school, though they treat of low life in all its 
branches. It is in their finery that that the new 
under school are most vulgar, and they may be 
known by this at once; as what we called at Har- 
row "a 'Sunday blood" might be easily distin- 
guished from a gentleman, although his clothes 
might be the better cut, and his boots the best 
blackened, of the two ; — probably because he made 
the one, or cleaned the other, with bis own hands. 

In the present case, I speak of writing, not of per- 
sons. Of the latter, I know nothing ; of the former, 
I judge as it is found. Of my friend Hunt, I have 
already said, that he is any thing but vulgar in his 



1054 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



manners ; and of his disciples, therefore, I will not 
judge of their manners from their verses. They 
may be honorable and gentlemanly men, for what I 
know; but the latter quality is studiously excluded 
from their publications. They remind me of Mr. 
Smith and the Miss Broughtons at the Hampstead 
Assembly, in " Evelina." In these things (in pri- 
vate life, at least), I pretend to some small experi- 
ence ; because, in the course of my youth, I have 
seen a little of all sorts of society, from the Christ- 
ian prince and the Mussulman sultan and pacha, 
and the higher ranks of their countries, down to 
the London boxer, the "flash and the swell," the 
Spanish muleteer, the wandering Turkish dervise, 
the Scotch highlander, and the Albanian robber ; — 
to say nothing of the curious varieties of Italian 
social life. Far be it from me to presume that there 
ever was, or can be such a thing as an aristocracy 
of poets ; but there is a nobility of thought and of 
style, open to all stations, and derived partly from 
talent, and partly from education, — which is to be 
found in Shakspeare, and Pope, and Burns, no less 
than in Dante and Alfieri, but which is nowhere to 
be perceived in the mock birds and bards of Mr. 
Hunt's little chorus. If I were asked to define 
what this gentlemanliness is, I should say that it is 
only to be defined by examples — of those who have 
it, and those who have it not. In life, I should say 
that most military men have it. and few naval ; — 
that several men of rank have it, and few lawyers ; 
— that it is more frequent among authors than 



divines (when they are not pedants) ; that fencing- 
masters have more of it than dancing-masters, and 
singers than players; and that (if it be not an 
Irishism to say so) it is far more generally diffused 
among women than among men. In poetry, as 
well as writing in general, it will never make en- 
tirely a poet or a poem ; but neither poet nor poem 
will ever be good for any thing without it. It is the 
salt of society, and the seasoning pf composition. 
Vulgarity is far worse than downright blackguard- 
ism ; for the latter comprehends wit, humor, and 
strong sense at times : while the former is a sad 
abortive attempt at all things, "signifying nothing." 
It does not depend upon low themes, or even low 
language, for Fielding revels in both ; — but is he 
ever vulgar? No. You see the man of education, 
the gentleman, and the scholar, sporting with his 
subject, — its master, not its slave. Your vulgar 
writer is always most vulgar, the higher, his sub- 
ject; as the man who showed the menagerie at 
Pidcock's was wont to say, — " This, gentlemen, is 
the eagle of the sun, from Archangel, in Russia ; 
the otterer it is, the igherer he flies." But to the 
proofs. It is a thing to be felt more than explained. 
Let any man take up a volume of Mr. Hunt's sub- 
ordinate writers, read (if possible) a couple of pages, 
and pronounce for himself, if they contain not the 
kind of writing which may be likened to " shabby- 
genteel " in actual life. When he has done this, 
let him take up Pope ; — and when he has laid him 
down, take up the cockney again — if he can. 



NOTE 



[Note referring to some remarks of Mr. Bowles, 
relative to Pope's upon Lady Mary )V. Montague.] 
I think that I could show, if necessary, that Lady 
Mary W. Montague was also greatly to blame in 
that quarrel, not for having rejected, but for having 
encouraged him : but I would rather decline the 
task — though she should have remembered her own 
line, " He comes too ?icar, that comes to be denied." 
I admire her so much — her beauty, her talents — that 
I should do this reluctantly. I, besides, am so at- 
tached to the very name of Mary, that, as Johnson 
once said, " If you called a dog Hcrvey, I should 
love him ; " so, if you were to call a female of the 
same species "Mary," I should love it better than 
others (biped or quadruped) of the same sex with a 
different appellation. She was an extraordinary 
Woman ; she could translate Epictetus, and yet write 

song worthy of Aristippus. The lines, ,, 

" And when the long hours of the puhlic are past, 
And we meet with champagne and chicken, at last, 



May every fond pleasure that moments endear ! 
Be bauish'd afar ho(h discretion and fear ! 
Forgetting or scorning the airs of the crowd, 
He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud, 
Till," &.C., &c. 

There, Mr. Bowles ! — what say you to such a supper 
with such a woman ? and her own description too ? 
Is not her " champagne and chicken" worth a forest 
or two ? Is it not poetry ? It appears to me that 
this stanza contains the "puree" of the whole 
philosophy of Epicurus : — I mean the practical phi- 
losophy of his school, not the precepts of the mas- ' 
ter ; for I have been too long at the university not 
to know that the philosopher was himself a mode- 
rate man. But, after all, would not some of us 
have been as great fools as Pope ? For my part, I 
wonder that, with his quick feelings, her coquetry, 
and his disappointment, he did no more, — instead 
of writing some lines, which are to be condemned if 
false, and regretted if true. 



SOME OBSERVATIONS 

UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 

No. XXIX., AUGUST, 1819. 



11 Why, how now, Hecate? you louk angrily." 
Macbeth. 



TO J. D'ISRAELI, ESQ 



THE AMIABLE AND INGENIOUS AUTHOR OF "THE CALAMITIES" AND "QUARRELS OF AUTHORS ; ' 
THIS ADDITIONAL QUARREL AND CALAMITY IS INSCRIBED BY ONE OF THE NUMBER. 



Ravenna, March 15, 1820. 

" The life of a writer " has been said, by Pope, I 
believe, to be " a warfare upon earth." As far as 
my own experience has gone, I have nothing to say 
against the proposition ; and, like the rest, having 
once plunged into this state of hostility, must, 
however reluctantly, carry it on. An article has 
appeared in a periodical work, entitled "Remarks 
on Don Juan," which has been so full of this spirit 
on the part of the writer, as to require some obser- 
vations on mine. 

In the first place, I am not aware by what right 
the writer assumes this work, which is anonymous, 
to be my production. He will answer, that there is 
internal evidence ; that is to say, that there are pas- 
sages which appear to be written in my name, or in 
my manner. But might not this have been done on 
purpose by another ? He will say, why not then 
deny it ? To this I could answer, that of all the 
things attributed to me within the last five years, 
— Pilgrimages to Jerusalem, Deaths upon Pale 
Horses, Odes to the Land of the Gaul, Adieus to 
England, Songs to Madame La Valette, Odes to St. 
' Helena, Vampires, and what not, — of which, God 
knows, I never composed nor read a syllable beyond 
their titles in advertisements, — I never thought it 
worth while to disavow any, except one which came 
linked with an account of my "residence in the isle 
of Mitylene," where I never resided, and appeared 
to be carrying the amusement of those persons, who 
think my name can be of any use to them, a little 
too far. 

I should hardly, therefore, if I did not take the 
trouble to disavow these things published in my 
name, and yet not mine, go out of my way to deny 
an anonymous work ; which might appear an act of 
supererogation. With regard to Don Juan, I neither 
deny nor admit it to be mine — every body may form 
their own opinion ; but, if there be any who now, or 
in the progress of that poem, if it is to be continued, 
feel, or should feel themselves so aggrieved as to 
require a more explicit answer, privately and per-l 
sonally, they shall have it. | 



I have never shrunk from the responsibility of 
what I have written, and have more than once in- 
curred obloquy by neglecting to disavow what was 
attributed to my pen without foundation. 

The greater part, however, of the "Remarks on 
Don Juan " contain but little on the work itself, 
which receives an extraordinary portion of praise as 
a composition. With the exception of some quota- 
tions, and a few incidental remarks, the rest of the 
article is neither more rior less than a personal at- 
tack upon the imputed author. It is not the first 
in the same publication : for I recollect to have 
read, some time ago, similar remarks upon " Bep- 
po " (said to have been written by a celebrated 
northern preacher) ; in which the conclusion drawn 
was, that " Childe Harold, Byron, and the Count 
in Beppo, were one and the same person ; " thereby 
making me turn out to be, as Mrs. Malaprop says, 
" like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once." That arti- 
cle was signed " Presbyter Anglicanus ; " which, I 
presume, being interpreted, means Scotch Presby- 
terian. I must here observe, — and it is at once lu- 
dicrous and vexatious to be compelled so frequently 
to repeat the same thing, — that my case, as an 
author, is peculiarly hard, in being everlastingly 
taken, or mistaken for my own protagonist. It is 
unjust and particular. I never heard that my friend 
Moore was set down for a fire-worshipper on account 
of his Guebre; that Scott was identified with Rod- 
erick Dhu, or with Balfour of Burley ; or that, not- 
withstanding all the magicians in Thalaba, any 
body has ever taken Mr. Southey for a conjuror ; 
whereas I have had some difficulty in extricating 
me even from Manfred, who, as Mr. Southey slily 
observes in one of his articles in the Quarterly, 
" met the devil on the Jungfrau, and bullied him ; " 
and I answer Mr. Southey, who has apparently, in 
his poetical life, not been so successful against the 
great enemy, that, in this, Manfred exactly followed 
the sacred precept, — " Resist the devil, and he will 
flee from you." — I shall have more to say on the 
subject of this person — not the devil, but his most 
humble servant Mr. Southey — before I conclude ; 






1056 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



but, for the present, I must return to the article in 
the Edinburgh Magazine. 

In the course of this article, amidst some extra- 
ordi?iary observations, there occur the following 
words : — " It appears, in short, as if this miserable 
man, having exhausted every species of sensual 
gratification, — having drained the cup of sin even 
to its bitterest dregs, were resolved to show us that 
he is no longer a human being even in his frailties, 
— but a cold, unconcerned fiend, laughing with a 
detestable glee over the whole of the better and 
worse elements of which human life is composed." 
In another place there appears, " the lurking-place 
of his selfish and polluted exile." — " By my troth, 
these be bitter words ! " — With regard to the first 
sentence, I shall content myself with observing, 
that it appears to have been composed for Sardana- 
palus, Tiberius, the Regent Duke of Orleans, or 
Louis XV. ; and that I have copied it with as much 
indifference as I would a passage from Suetonius, or 
from any of the private memoirs of the regency, 
conceiving it to be amply refuted by the terms in 
which it is expressed, and to be utterly inapplicable 
to any private individual. On the words, " lurking- 
place," and "selfish and polluted exile," I have 
something more to say. — How far the capital city 
of a government, which survived the vicissitudes of 
thirteen hundred years, and might still have existed 
but for the treachery of Bonaparte, and the iniquity 
of his imitators, — a city which was the emporium 
of Europe, when London and Edinburgh were dens 
of barbarians, — may be termed a " lurking-place," 
I leave to those who have seen or heard of Venice, 
to decide. How far my exile may have been " pol- 
luted," it is not for me to say, because the word is 
a wide one, and, with some of its branches, may 
chance to overshadow the actions of most men ; 
but that it has been "selfish" I deny. If, to the 
extent of my means and my power, and my infor- 
mation of their calamities, to have assisted many 
miserable beings, reduced by the decay of the place 
of their birth, and their consequent loss of sub- 
stance — if to have never rejected an application 
which appeared founded on truth — if to have ex- 
pended in this manner sums far out of proportion to 
my fortune, there and elsewhere, be selfish, then 
have I been selfish. To have done such things I do 
not deem much : but it is hard indeed to be com- 
pelled to recapitulate them in my own defence, by 
such accusations as that before me, like a panel be- 
fore a jury calling testimonies to his character, or 
a soldier recording his services to obtain his dis- 
charge. If the person who has made the charge of 
"selfishness" wishes to inform himself further on 
the subject, he may acquire, not what he would 
wish to find, but what will silence and shame him, 
by applying to the Consul-General of our nation, 
resident in the place, who will be in the case either 
to confirm or deny what I have asserted. 

I neither make, nor have ever made, pretensions 
to sanctity of demeanor, nor regularity of conduct ; 
but my means have been expended principally on 
my own gratification, neither now nor heretofore, 
neither in England nor out of it ; and it wants but 
a word from me, if I thought that word decent or 
necessary, to call forth the most willing witnesses, 
and at once witnesses and proofs, in England itself, 
to show that there are those who have derived, not 
the mere temporary relief of a wretched boon, but 
the means which led them to immediate happiness 
and ultimate independence, by my want of that 
• r ery " selfishness," as grossly and falsely now im- 
puted to my conduct. 

Had I been a selfish man — had I been a grasping 
man — had I been, in the worldly sense of the word, 
even a. prudent man, — I should not be where I now 
am ; I should not have taken the step which was 
the first that led to the events which have sunk and 
swoln a gulf between me and mine ; but in this re- 
spect the truth will one day be made known : in 
the mean time, as • Durandearte says, in the 



Cave of Montesinos, "Patience, and shuffle the 
cards." 

I bitterly feel the ostentation of this statement, 
the first of the kind I have ever made : I feel the 
degradation of being compelled to make it ; but I 
also feel its truth, and I trust to feel it on my death- 
bed, should it be my lot to die there. I am not less 
sensible of the egotism of all this ; but, alas ! who 
have made me thus egotistical in my own defence, 
if not they, who, by perversely persisting in refer- 
ring fiction to truth, and tracing poetry to life, and 
regarding characters of imagination as creatures of 
existence, have made me personally responsible for 
almost every poetical delineation which fancy and a 
particular bias of thought, may have tended to pro- 
duce ? 

The writer continues: — "Those who' are ac- 
quainted, cts who is not? with the main incidents of 
the private life of Lord B.," &c. Assuredly, who- 
ever may be acquainted with these " main inci- 
dents," the writer of the " Remarks on Don Juan " 
is not, or he would use a very different language. 
That which I believe he alludes to as a "main inci- 
dent," happened to be a very subordinate one, and 
the natural and almost inevitable consequence of 
events and circumstances long prior to the period 
at which it occurred. It is the last drop which 
makes the cup run over, and mine was already full. 
But, to return to this man's charge : he accuses 
Lord B. of "an elaborate satire on the character 
and manners of his wife." From what parts of 
Don Juan the writer has inferred this, he himself 
best knows. As far as I recollect of the female 
characters in that production, there is but' one who 
is depicted in ridiculous colors, or that could be in- 
terpreted as a satire upon any body. But here my 
poetical sins are again visited upon me, supposing 
that the poem be mine. If I depict a corsair, a 
misanthrope, a libertine, a chief of insurgents, or 
an infidel, he is set down to the author ; and if, in 
a poem by no means ascertained to be my production, 
there appears a disagreeable, casuistical, and by no 
means respectable female pedant, it is set down for 
my wife. Is there any resemblance ? If there be, 
it is in those who make it. I can see none. In my 
writings I have rarely described any character under 
a fictitious name: those of whom I have spoken 
have had their own — in man) 7 cases a stronger satire 
in itself than any which could be appended to it. 
But of real circumstances I have availed myself 
plentifully, both in the serious and the ludicrous — 
they are to poetry what landscapes are to the pain- 
ter ; but my figures are not portraits. It may even 
have happened, that I have seized on some events 
that have occurred under my own observation, or in 
my own family, as I would paint a view from my 
grounds, did it harmonize with my picture ; but I 
never would introduce the likenesses of its living 
members, unless their features could be made as fa- 
vorable to themselves as to the effect ; which, in the 
above instance, would be extremely difficult. 

My learned brother proceeds to observe, that " it 
is in vain for Lord B. to attempt in any way to 
justify his own behavior in that affair; and now 
that he has so openly and audaciously invited in- 
quiry and reproach, we do not see any good reason 
why he should not be plainly told so by the voice of 
his countrymen. How far the "openness" of an 
anonymous poem, and the " audacity " of an imag- 
inary character, which the writer supposes to be 
meant for Lady B., may be deemed to merit this 
formidable denunciation from their "most sweet 
voices," I neither know nor care ; but when he tells 
me that I cannot "in any way justify my own be- 
havior in that affair," I acquiesce, because no man 
can "justify" himself until he knows of what he 
is accused; and I have never had — and, God knows, 
my whole desire has ever been to obtain it — any 
specific charge, in a tangible shape, submitted to 
me by the adversary, nor by others, unless the atro- 
cities of public rumor and the mysterious silence of 



OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 1Q57 



the lady's legal advisers may be deemed such. But 
is not the writer content with what has been already 
said and done ? Has not " the general voice of his 
countrymen " long ago pronounced upon the sub- 
ject — sentence without trial, and condemnation 
without a charge ? Have I not been exiled by 
ostracism, except that the shells which proscribed 
me were anonymous ? Is the writer ignorant of the 
public opinion and the public Conduct upon that 
occasion ? If he is, I am not : the public will for- 
get both, long before I shall cease to remember 
either. 

The man who is exiled by a faction has the con- 
solation of thinking that he is a martyr ; he is 
upheld by hope and the dignity of his cause, real 
or imaginary : he who withdraws from the pressure 
of debt may indulge in the thought that time and 
prudence will retrieve his circumstances : he who is 
condemned by the law, has a term to his banish- 
ment, or a dream of its abbreviation ; or, it may be, 
the knowledge or the belief of some injustice of the 
■law, or of its administration in his own particular; 
but he who is outlawed by general opinion, without 
the intervention of hostile politics, illegal judgment, 
or embarrassed circumstances, whether he be inno- 
cent or guilty, nyist undergo all the bitterness of 
exile, without hope, without pride, without allevia- 
tion. This case was mine. Upon what grounds 
the public founded their opinion, I am not aware ; 
but it was general, and it was decisive. Of me or 
of mine they knew little, except that I, had written 
what is called poetry, was a nobleman, had married, 
became a father, and was involved in differences 
with my wife and her relatives, no one knew why, 
because the persons complaining refused to state 
their grievances. The fashionable world was divided 
into parties, mine consisting of a very small minor- 
ity : the reasonable world was naturally on the 
stronger side, which happened to be the lady's, as 
was most proper and polite. The press was active 
and scurrilous ; and such was the rage of the day, 
that the unfortunate publication of two copies of 
verses, rather complimentary than otherwise to the 
subjects of both, was tortured into a species of 
crime, or constructive petty treason. I was accused 
of every monstrous vice by public rumor and private 
rancor : my name, which had been a knightly or a 
noble one since my fathers helped to conquer the 
kingdom for William the Norman, was tainted. I 
felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and 
murmured, was true, I was unfit for England; if 
false, England was unfit for me. I withdrew : but 
this was not enough. In other countries, in Swit- 
zerland, in the shadow of the Alps, and by the blue 
depth of the lakes, I was pursued and breathed 
upon by the same blight. I crossed the mountains, 
but it was the same ; so I went a little farther, and 
settled myself by the waves of the Adriatic, like 
the stag at bay, who betakes him to the waters. 

If I may judge by the statements of the few friends 
who gathered round me, the outcry of the period to 
which I allude was beyond all precedent, all parallel, 
even in those cases where political motives have 
sharpened sland,er and doubled enmity. I was 
advised not to go to the theatres, lest I should 
be hissed, rior to my duty in parliament, lest I 
should be insulted by the way ; even on the day of 
my departure, my most intimate friend told me 
afterwards, that he was under apprehensions of vio- 
lence from the people who might be assembled at 
the door of the carriage. However, I was not de- 
terred by these counsels from seeing Kean in his 
best characters, nor from voting according to my 
principles ; and with regard to the third and last 
apprehensions of my friends, I could not share in 
them, not being made acquainted with their extent, 
till some time after I had crossed the Channel. 
Even if I had been so, I am not of a nature to be 
much affected be men's anger, though I may feel 
hurt by their aversion. Against all individual out- 
rage, I could protect or redress myself; and against 
133 



that of a crowd, I should probably have been en- 
abled to defend myself, with the assistance of others, 
as has been done on similar occasions. 

I retired from the country, perceiving that I was 
the object of general obloquy ; I did not indeed 
imagine, like Jean Jacques Rousseau, that all man- 
kind was in a conspiracy against me, though I had 
perhaps as good grounds for such a chimera as ever 
he had : but I perceived that I had to a great extent 
become personally obnoxious in England, perhaps 
through my own fault, but the fact was indisputa- 
ble ; the public in general would hardly have been 
so much excited against a more popular character, 
without at least an accusation or a charge of some 
kind actually expressed or substantiated, for I can 
hardly conceive that the common and every-day 
occurrence of a separation between man and wife 
could in itself produce so great a ferment. I shall 
say nothing of the usual complaints of "being pre- 
judged," " condemned unheard," " unfairness," 
"partiality," and so forth, the usual charges rung 
by parties who have had, or are to have, a trial ; but 
I was a little surprised to find myself condemned 
without being favored with the act of accusation, 
and to perceive in the absence of this portentous 
charge or charges, whatever it or they were to be, 
that every possible or impossible crime was rumored 
to supply its place, and taken for granted. This 
could only occur in the case of a person very much 
disliked, and I knew no remedy, having already 
used to their extent whatever little powers I might 
possess of pleasing in society. I had no party in 
fashion, though I was afterwards told that there 
was one — but it was not of my formation, nor did I 
then know of its existence — none in literature ; and 
in politics I had voted with the whigs, with precise- 
ly that importance which a whig vote possesses in 
these Tory days, and with such personal acquaint- 
ance with the leaders in both houses as the society 
in which I lived sanctioned, but without claim or 
expectation of any thing like friendship from any 
one, except a few young men of mv own age and 
standing, and a few others more advanced in life, 
which last it had been my fortune to serve in cir- 
cumstances of difficulty. This was, in fact, to stand 
alone : and I recollect, some time after, Madame de 
StaGl said to me in Switzerland, "You should not 
have warred with the world — it will not do — it is too 
strong always for any individual : I myself once 
tried it in early life, but it will not do." I perfectly 
acquiesce in the truth of this remark ; but the world 
had done me the honor to begin the war ; and, 
assuredly, if peace is only to be obtained by court- 
ing and paying tribute to it, I am not qualified to 
obtain its countenance. I thought, in the words of 
Campbell, 

11 Then wee! thee to an exiled lot, 
And if the world hath loved thee not, 
Its absence may be borne." 

I recollect, however, that, having been much hurt 
by Romilly's conduct, (he, having a general retainer 
for me, had acted as adviser to the adversary, alleg- 
ing, on being reminded of his retainer, that he had 
forgotten it, as his clerk had so many,) I observed 
that some of those who were now eagerly laying the 
axe to my roof-tree, might see their own shaken, 
and feel a portion of what they had inflicted. — His 
fell, and crushed him. 

I have heard of, and believe, that there are human 
beings so constituted as to be insensible to injuries ; 
but I believe that the best mode to avoid taking 
vengeance is to get out of the way of temptation. 
I hope that I may never have the opportunity, for 
I am not quite sure that I could resist it, having 
derived from my mother something of the " perfer- 
vidum ingenium Scotorum." I have not sought, 
and shall not seek it, and perhaps it may never 
come in my path. I do not in this allude to the 
party who might be right or wrong ; but to many 
who made her cause the pretext of their own bitter- 
ness. She, indeed, must have long avenged me in 



1058 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



her own feelings ; for whatever her reasons may 
have been (and she never abduced them to me at 
least), she probably neither contemplated nor con- 
ceived to what she became the means of conducting 
the father of her child, and the husband of her 
choice. 

So much for " the general voice of his country- 
men : " I will now speak of some in particular. 

In the beginning of the year 1817, an article ap- 
peared in the Quarterly Review, written, I believe, 
by Walter Scott,* doing great honor to him, and no 
disgrace to me, though both poetically and person- 
ally more than sufficiently favorable to the work 
and the author of whom it treated. It was written 
at a time when a selfish man would not, and a timid 
one dared not, have said a word in favor of either ; 
it was written by one to whom temporary public 
opinion had elevated me to the rank of a rival — a 
proud distinction, and unmerited ; but which has 
not prevented me from feeling as a friend, nor him 
from more than corresponding to that sentiment. 
The article in question was written upon the third 
canto of Childe Harold ; and after many observa- 
tions, which it would as ill become me to repeat as 
to forget, concluded with " a hope that I might yet 
return to England." How this expression was re- 
ceived in England itself I am not acquainted, but it 
gave great offence at Rome to the respectable ten 
or twenty thousand English travellers then and 
there assembled. I did not visit Rome till some 
time after, so that I had no opportunity of knowing 
the fact ; but I was informed, long afterwards, that 
the greatest indignation had been manifested in the 
enlightened Anglo-circle of that year, which hap- 
pened to comprise within it — amidst a considerable 
leaven of Welbeck street and Devonshire Place, 
broken loose upon their travels — several really well- 
born and well-bred families, who did not the less 
participate in the feeling of the hour. " Why 
should he return to England ? " was the general 
exclamation — I answer why? It is a question I 
have occasionally asked myself, and I never yet 
could give it a satisfactory reply. I had then "no 
thoughts of returning, and if I have any now, they 
are of business, and not of pleasure. Amidst the 
ties that have been dashed to pieces, there are links 
yet entire, though the chain itself be broken. There 
are duties, and connections, which may one day re- 
quire my presence — and I am a father. I have still 
some friends whom I wish to meet again, and it 
may be an enemy. These things, and those min- 
uter details of business, which time accumulates 
during absence, in every man's affairs and property, 
may, and probably will, recall me to England; but 
I shall return with the same feelings with which I 
left it, in respect to itself, though altered with re- 
gard to individuals, as I have been more or less 
informed of their conduct since my departure ; for 
it was only a considerable time after it that I wa-s 
made acquainted with the real facts and full extent 
of some of their proceedings and language. My 
friends, like other friends, from conciliatory mo- 
tives, withheld from me much that they could, and 
some things which they should have unfolded ; how- 
ever, that which is deferred is not lost — but it has 
been no fault of mine that it has been deferred at 
all. 

I have alluded to what is said to have passed at 
Rome merely to show that the sentiment which I 
have described was not confined to the English in 
England, and as forming part of my answer to the 
reproach cast upon what has been called my "selfish 
exile," and my " voluntary exile." " Voluntary" it 
has been ; for who would dwell among a people en- 
tertaining strong hostility against him ? How far 
it has been " selfish " has been already explained. 

I have now arrived at a passage describing me as 
having vented my " spleen against the lofty-minded 
and virtuous men," men "whose virtues few indeed 



See Quarterly Review, »ol. xvi., p. F72. 



can equal ; " meaning, I humbly presume, the no- 
torious triumvirate known by the name of "Lake 
Poets " in their aggregate capacity, and by Southey, 
Wordsworth, and Coleridge, when taken singly. I 
wish to say a word or two upon the virtues of one 
of those persons, public and private, for reasons 
which will soon appear. 

When I left England in April, 1816, ill in mind, 
in body, and in circumstances, I took up my resi- 
dence at Coligny, by the lake of Geneva. The sole 
companion of my journey was a young physician,* 
who had to make his way in the world, and having 
seen very little of it, was naturally and laudably 
desirous of seeing more society than suited my pres- 
ent habits or my past experience. I therefore pre- 
sented him to those gentlemen of Geneva for whom 
1 had letters of introduction ; and having thus seen 
him in a situation to make his own way, retired for 
my own part entirely from society, with the excep- 
tion of one English family, living at about a quar- 
ter of a mile's distance from Diodati, and with the 
further exception of some occasional intercourse 
with Coppet, at the wish of Madame de Stael. The 
English family to which I allude consisted of two 
ladies, a gentleman and his son, a boy of a year 
old.f 

One of " these lofty-minded a?id virtuous men," in ' 
the words of the Edinburgh Magazine, made, I un- 
derstand, about this time, or soon after, a tour in 
Switzerland. On his return to England, he circu- 
lated — and for any thing I know, invented — a report, 
that the gentleman to whom I have alluded and 
myself were living in promiscuous intercourse with 
two sisters, " having formed a league of incest" (I 
quote the words as they were stated to me), and 
indulged himself on the natural comments upon 
such a conjunction, which are said to have been 
repeated publicly, with great complacency, by on- 
other of that poetical fraternity, of whom I shall 
say only, that even had the story been true, he 
should not have repeated it, as far as it regarded 
myself, except in sorrow. The tale itself requires 
but a word in answer — the ladies were not sisters, 
nor in any degree connected, except by the second 
marriage of their respective parents, a widower with 
a widow, both being the offspring of former mar- 
riages ; neither of them were, in 1816, nineteen 
years old. " Promiscuous intercourse " could hard- 
ly have disgusted the great patron of pantisocracy, 
(does Mr. Southey remember such a scheme ?) but 
there was none. 

How far this man, who, as author of Wat Tyler, 
has been proclaimed by the Lord Chancellor guilty 
of a treasonable and blasphemous libel, and de- 
nounced in the House of Commons, by the upright 
and able member for Norwich, as a "rancorous ren- 
egade," be fit for sitting as a judge upon others, let 
others judge. He has said that for this expression 
" he brands William Smith on the forehead as a 
calumniator," and that " the mark will outlast his 
epitaph." How long William Smith's epitaph will 
last, and in what words it will be written, I know 
not ; but William Smith's words form the epitaph 
itself of Robert Southey. He has written Wat 
Tyler, and taken the office of poet laureate — he 
has, in the Life of Henry Kirke White, denomi- 
nated reviewing " the ungentle craft," and has be- 
come a reviewer — he was one of the projectors of a 
scheme, called "pantisocracy," for having all things, 
including women, in common, (query, common wo- 
men ?) and he sits up as a moralist — he denounced 
the battle of Blenheim, and he praised the battle of 
Waterloo — he loved Mary Wollstoncraft, and he 
tried to blast the character of her daughter (one of 
the young females mentioned) — he wrote treason, 
and serves the king — he was the butt of the An*i- 
jacobin, and he is the prop of the Quarterly Review; 
licking the hands that smote him, eating the bread 



• Dr. Polidori — author of the " Vampire." 

t Mr. and Mrs. Shelley, Misa Clermont, and Matter SheUer. 



OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 1059 



of his enemies, and internally writhing beneath his 
own contempt, — he would fain conceal, under anony- 
mous bluster, and a vain endeavor to obtain the 
esteem of others, after having for ever lost his own, 
his leprous sense of his own degradation. What is 
there in such a man to " envy ? " Who ever envied 
the envious ? Is it his birth, his name, his fame, or 
his virtues, that I am to "envy ? " I was born of 
the aristocracy, which he abhorred ; and am sprung, 
by my mother, from the kings who preceded those 
whom he has hired himself to sing. It cannot, 
then, be his birth. As a poet, I have, for the past 
eight years, had nothing to apprehend from a com- 
petition ; and for the future, " that life to come in 
every poet's creed," is open to all. I will only re- 
mind Mr. Southey, in the words of a critic, who, if 
still living, would have annihilated Southey's lite- 
rary existence now and hereafter, as the sworn foe 
of charlatans and impostors, from Macpherson down- 
wards, that " those dreams were Settle's once an>d 
Ogilby's ; " and for my own part, I assure him, that 
whenever he and his sect are remembered, I shall 
be proud to be " forgot." That he is not content 
with his success as a poet may reasonably be be- 
lieved — he has been the ninepin of reviews ; the 
Edinburgh knocked him down, and the Quarterly 
set him up ; the government found him useful in 
the perodical line, and made a point of recommend- 
ing his works to purchasers, so that he is occasion- 
ally bought, (I mean his book, as well as the au- 
thor,) and may be found on the same shelf, if not 
upon the table, of most of the gentlemen employed 
in the different offices. With regard to his private 
virtues, I know nothing — of his principles, I have 
heard enough. As far as having been, to the best 
of my power, benevolent to others, I do not fear the 
comparison ; and for the errors of the passions, was 
Mr. Southey always so tranquil and stainless ? Did 
he never covet his neighbor's wife ? Did he never 
calumniate his neighbor's wife's daughter, the off- 
spring of her he coveted ? So much for the apostle 
of pantisocracy. 

Of the "lofty-minded, virtuous" Wordsworth, 
one anecdote will suffice to speak his sincerity. In 

a conversation with Mr. upon poetry, he 

concluded with, " After all, I would not give five 
shillings for all that Southey has ever written." 
Perhaps this calculation might rather show his 
esteem for five shillings than his low estimate of Dr. 
Southey ; but considering that when he was in his 
need, and Southey had a shilling, Wordsworth is 
said to have had generally a sixpence out of it, it 
has an awkward sound in the way of valuation. 
This anecdote was told me by persons who, if 
quoted by name, would prove that its genealogy is 
poetical as well as true. I can give my authority 
tor this ; and am ready to adduce it also for Mr. 
Southey's circulation of the falsehood before men- 
tioned. 

Of Coleridge, I shall say nothing — why, he may 
divine. 

I have said more of these people than I intended 
in this place, being somewhat stirred by the remarks 
which induced me to commence upon the topic. I 
see nothing in these men as poets, or as individuals — 
little in their talents, and less in their characters, 
to prevent honest men from expressing for them 
considerable contempt, in prose or rhyme, as it may 
happen. Mr. Southey has the Quarterly for his 
field of rejoinder, and Mr. Wordsworth his post- 
scripts to " Lyrical Ballads," where the two great 
instances of the sublime are taken from himself and 
Milton. "Over her own sweet voice the stock- 
dove broods; " that is to say, she has the pleasure 
of listening to herself, in common with Mr. Words- 
worth upon most of his public appearances. "What 
divinity doth hedge" these persons; that we should 
respect them ? Is it Apollo ? Are they not of those 
who called Dryden's Ode "a drunken song? " who 
have discovered that Grab's Elegy is full of faults, 
(see Coleridge's Life, vol. i., note, for Wordsworth's 



kindness in pointing this out to him,) and have 
published what is allowed to be the very worst prose 
that ever was written, to prove that Pope was no 
poet, and that William Wordsworth is ? 

In other points, are they respectable, or respected? 
Is it on the open avowal of apostasy, on the patron- 
age of government, that their claim is founded ? 
Who is there who esteems those parricides of their 
own principles ? They are, in fact, well aware that 
the reward of their change has been any thing but 
honor. The times have preserved a respect for 
political consistency, and, even though changeable, 
honor the unchanged. Look at Moore : it will be ■ 
long ere Southey meets with such a triumph in 
London as Moore met with in Dublin, even if the 
government subscribe for it, and set the money 
down to secret service. It was not less to the man 
than to the poet, to the tempted but unshaken 
patriot, to the not opulent but incorruptible fellow- 
citizen, that the warm-hearted Irish paid the 
proudest of tributes. Mr. Southey may applaud 
himself to the world, but he has his own heartiest 
contempt ; and the fury with which he foams against 
all who stand in the phalanx which he forsook, is, 
as William Smith described it, " the rancor of the 
renegado," the bad language of the prostitute who 
stands at the corner of the street, and showers her 
slang upon all, except those who may have bestowed 
upon her her " little shilling." 

Hence his quarterly overflowings, political and 
literary, in what he has himself termed "the 
ungentle craft," and his especial wrath against Mr. 
Leigh Hunt, notwithstanding that Hunt has done 
more for Wordsworth's reputation as a poet (such 
as it is), than all the Lakers could in their inter- 
change of self-praises for the last twenty-five years. 

And here I wish to say a few words on the present 
state of English poetry. That this is the age of 
the decline of English poetry will he doubted by 
few who have calmly considered the subject. That 
there are men of genius among the present poets 
makes little against the fact, because it has been 
well said, that " next to him who forms the taste 
of his country, the greatest genius is he who cor- 
rupts it." No one has ever denied genius to 
Marino, who corrupted not merely the taste of 
Italy, but that of all Europe, for nearly a century. 
The great cause of the present deplorable state of 
English poetry is to be attributed to that absurd 
and systematic depreciation of Pope, in which 
for the last few years, there has been a kind 
of epidemical concurrence. Men of the most 
opposite opinions have united upon this topic. 
Warton and Churchill began it, having borrowed 
the hint probably from the heroes of the Dunciad, 
and their own internal conviction that their proper 
reputation can be as nothing till the most perfect 
and harmonious of poefte — he who, having no fault, 
has had reason made his reproach — was reduced 
to what they conceived to be his level ; but even 
they dared not degrade him below Dryden. Gold- 
smith, and Rogers, and Campbell, his most suc- 
cessful disciples ; and Hayley, who, however feeble, 
has left one poem " that will not be willingly let 
die " (the Triumphs of Temper), kept up the 
reputation of that pure and perfect style ; and 
Crabbe, the first of living poets, has almost equalled 
the master. Then came Darwin, who was put down 
by a single poem in the Antijacobin ; * and the 
Cruscans, from Merry to Jerningham, who were 
annihilated (if Nothing can be said to be anni 
lated) by Gifford, the last of the wholesome sati- 
rists. 

At the same time, Mr. Southey was favoring the 
public with Wat Tyler and Joan of Arc, to the 
great glory of the Drama and Epos. I beg pardon, 
Wat Tyler, with Peter Bell, was still in MS., and 
it was not till after Mr. Southey had received his 



* " The Loves of tha-Triangles," Ihe John production of Messrs. Cauinc 
and Frere. 



1060 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Malmsey butt, and Mr. Wordsworth * became quali- 
fied to guage it, that the great revolutionary tragedy 
came before the public and the Court of Chancery. 
Wordsworth was peddling his lyrical ballads, and 
brooding a preface, "to be succeeded in due course 
by a postscript ; both couched in such prose as must 
give peculiar delight to those who have read the 
prefaces of Pope and Dryden ; scarcely less cele- 
brated for the beauty of their prose, than for the 
charms of their verse. Wordsworth is the reverse 
of Moliere's gentleman who had been " talking 
prose all his life, without knowing it;" for he 
thinks that he has been all his life writing both 
prose and verse, and neither of what he conceives 
to be such can be properly said to be either one or 
the other. Mr. Coleridge, the future vates, poet 
and seer of the Morning Post, (an honor also 
claimed by Mr. Fitzgerald, of the "Rejected Ad- 
dresses,") who ultimately prophesied the downfall 
of Bonaparte, to which he himself mainly con- 
tributed, by giving him the nickname of "the Cor- 
sican," was then employed in predicating the 
damnation of Mr. Pitt, and the desolation of Eng- 
land, in the two very best copies of verses he ever 
wrote : to wit, the infernal eclogue of " Fire, Famine, 
and Slaughter," and the " Ode to the departing Year. " 

These three personages, Southey, Wordsworth, 
and Coleridge, had all of them a very natural 
antipathy to Pope ; and I respect them for it, as 
the only original feeling or principle which they 
have contrived to preserve. But they have been 
joined in it by those who have joined them in no- 
thing else ; by the Edinburgh Reviewers, by the whole 
heterogeneous mass of living English poets, except- 
ing Crabbe, Rogers, Gilford, and Campbell, who, 
both by precept and practice, have proved their 
adherence ; and by me, who have shamefully 
deviated in practice, but have ever loved and 
honored Pope's poetry with my whole soul, and 
hope to do so till my dying day! I would rather 
see all I have ever written lining the same trunk in 
which I actually read the eleventh book of a modern 
epic poem at Malta, in 1811, (I opened it to take 
out a change after the paroxysm of a tertian, in the 
absence of my servant, and found it lined with the 
name of the maker, Eyre, Cockspur street, and 
with the epic poetry alluded to), than sacrifice what 
I firmly believe in as the Christianity of English 
poetry, the poetry of Pope. 

But the Edinburgh Reviewers, and the Lakers, 
and Hunt and his school, and every body else 
with their school, and even Moore without a 
6chool, and dilettanti lecturers at institutions, 
and elderly gentlemen who translate and imitate, 
and young ladies who listen and repeat, baronets 
who draw indifferent frontispieces for bad poets, 
and noblemen who let them dine with them in the 
country, the small body of the wits and the great 
body of the blues, have latterly united in a deprecia- 
tion, of which their fathers would have been as 
much ashamed as their children will be. In the 
mean time, what have we got instead ? The Lake 
school, which begun with an epic poem, written in 
six weeks, (so Joan of Arc proclaimed herself,) and 
finished with a ballad composed in twenty years, as 
" Peter Bell's " creator takes care to inform the 
few whe will inquire. What have we got instead ? 
A deluge of flimsy and unintelligible romances, 
imitated from Scott and myself, who have both 
made the best of our bad materials and erroneous 
system. What have we got instead ? Madoc, which 
is neither an epic nor any thing else ; Thalaba, 



• Goldsmith has anticipated the definition of the I.alte poetry, as far as 
such things can be defined. " Gentlemen, the present piece is not of your 
common epic -poems, which come from the press like paper kites in summer ; 
there are none of your Tumuses or Didos in it ; it is an historical descrip- 
&m of nature. I only beg you'll endeavor to make your soul's in unison 
with mine, and hear with Vie same enthusiasm with which I have written." 
Would not this have made a proper proem to the Excursion, and the poet 
and his pedler .' It would have answered perfectly for that purpose, had it 
not unfortuuately been written in goud English. 



Kehama, Gebir, and such gibberish, written in all 
metres and in no language. Hunt, who had powers 
to have made " the Story of Rimini" as perfect a» 
a fable of Dryden, has thought fit to sacrifice his 
genius and his taste to some unintelligible notions 
of Wordsworth, which 1 defy him to explain. 

Moore has but why continue ? — All, with 

the exception of Crabbe, Rogers, and Campbell, 
who may be considered as having taken their 
station, will, by the blessing of God, survive their 
own reputation, without attaining any very extra- 
ordinary period of longevity. Of course there must 
be a still further exception in favor of those who, 
having never obtained any reputation at all, unless 
it be among provincial literati, and their own 
families, have none to lose; and of Moore, who, as 
the Burns of Ireland, possesses a fame which can- 
not be lost. 

The greater part of the poets mentioned, how- 
ever, have been able to gather together a few 
followers. A paper of the Connoisseur says, that 
"it is observed by the French, that a cat, a priest, 
and an old woman, are sufficient to constitute a 
religious sect in England." The same number of 
animals, with a difference in kind, will suffice for a 
poetical one. If we take Sir George Beaumont 
instead of the priest, and Mr. Wordsworth for the 
old woman, we shall nearly complete the quota 
required; but I fear that Mr. Southey will but 
indifferently represent the CAT, having shown him- 
self but too distinctly to be of a species to which 
that noble creature is peculiarly hostile. 

Nevertheless, I will not go so far as Wordworth 
in his postscript, who pretends that no great poet 
ever had immediate fame ; which being interpreted, 
means that William Wordsworth is not quite so 
much read by his cotemporaries as might be 
desirable. This assertion is as false as it is foolish. 
Homer's glory depended upon his present popu- 
larity : he recited, — and without the strongest im- 
pression of the moment, who would have gotten 
the Iliad by heart, and given it to tradition ? En- 
nius, Terence, Plautus, Lucretius, Horace, Virgil, 
iEschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Sappho, Anacreon, 
Theocritus, all the great poets of antiquity, were 
the delight of their cotemporaries. The very 
existence of a poet, previous to the invention of 
printing, depended upon his present popularity ; 
and how often has it impaired his future fame ? 
Hardly ever. History informs us that the best 
have come down to us. The reason is evident ; the 
most popular found the greatest number of transcri- 
bers for their MSS., and that the taste of their 
cotemporaries was corrupt can hardly be avouched 
by the moderns, the mightiest of whom have but 
barely approached them. Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, 
and Tasso, were all the darlings of the cotem- 
porary reader. Dante's poem was celebrated long 
before his death : and, not long after it, states 
negotiated for his ashes, and disputed for the sites 
of the composition of the Divina Commedia. Pe- 
trarch was crowned in the Capitol. Ariosto was 
permitted to pass free by the public robber who had 
read the Orlando Furioso. I would not recommend 
Mr. Wordsworth to try the same experiment with 
his Smugglers. Tasso, notwithstanding the criti- 
cisms of the Cruscanti, would have been crowned 
in the Capitol, but for his death. 

It is easy to prove the immediate popularity of 
the chief poets of the only modern nation in Europe 
that has a poetical language — the Italian. In our 
own, Shakspeare, Spencer, Johnson, Waller, Dry- 
den, Congreve, Pope, Itoung, Shenstone, Thomson, 
Johnson, Goldsmith, Gray, were all as popular in 
their lives as since. Gray's Elegy pleased instantly, 
and eternally. His Odes did not, nor yet do they 
please like his Elegy. Milton's politics kept him, 
down. But the Epigram of Dryden,* and the very 



• The well-known lines under Milton's picture, — 

" Three poets in three distant ages born," &c. 



OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 1061 



Bale of his work, in proportion to the less reading 
time of its publication, prove him to have been 
honored by his cotemporaries. I will venture to 
assert, that the sale of the Paradise Lost was great- 
er in the first four years after its publication, than 
that of "The Excursion" in the same number, 
with the difference of nearly a century and a half 
between them of time, and of thousands in point of 
general readers. Notwithstanding Mr. Wordsworth's 
having pressed Milton into his service as one of 
those not presently popular, to favor his own par- 
pose of proving that our grandchildren will read him 
(the said William Wordsworth) I would recommend 
him to begin first with our grandmothers. But he 
need not be alarmed ; he may yet live to see all the 
envies pass away, as Darwin and Seward, and Hoole, 
and Hole, and Hoyle have passed away ; but their 
declension will not be his ascension : lie is essentially 
•a bad writer, and all the failures of others can never 
strengthen him. He may have a sect, but he will 
never have a public; and his "audience" will 
always be "few," without being "Jit," — except for 
Bedlam. 

It may be asked, why having this opinion of the 
present state of poetry in England, and having had 
it long, as my friends and others well knew — pos- 
sessing, or having possessed too, as a writer, the 
ear of the public for the time being — I have not 
adopted a different plan in my own compositions, 
and endeavored to correct rather than encourage 
the taste of the day. To this I would answer, that 
it is easier to perceive the wrong than to pursue the 
right, and that I have never contemplated the pros- 
pect " of filling (with Peter Bell, see its Preface) 
permanently a station in the literature of the coun- 
try." Those who know me best, know this, and 
that I have been considerably astonished at the 
temporary success of my works, having flattered no 
person and no party, and expressed opinions which 
are not those of the general reader. Could I have 
anticipated the degree of attention which has been 
accorded me, assuredly I would have studied more 
to deserve it. But I have lived in far countries 
abroad, or in the agitating world at home, which 
was not favorable to study or reflection ; so 
tnat almost all I have written has been mere pas- 
sion, — passion, it is true, of different kinds, but 
always passion; for in me (if it be not an Irishism 
to say so) my indifference was a kind of passion, 
the result of experience, and not the philosophy of 
nature. Writing grows a habit, like a woman's 
gallantry : there are women who have had no in- 
trigue, but few who have,had but one only ; so there 
are millions of men who have never written a book, 
but few who have written only one. And thus, 
having written once, I wrote on ; encouraged no 
doubt by the success of the moment, yet by no means 
anticipating its duration, and I will venture to say, 
scarcely even wishing it. But then I did other 
things besides write, which by no means contrib- 
uted either to improve my writings or my prosperity. 

I have thus expressed publicly upon the poetry of 
the day, the opinion I have long entertained and 
expressed of it to all who have asked it, and to 
some who would rather not have heard it : as I told 
Moore not very long ago " we are all wrong except 
Rogers, Crabbe, and Campbell." Without being 
old in years, I am old in days, and do not feel the 
adequate spirit within me to attempt a work which 
should show what I think right in poetry, and must 
content myself with having denounced what is 
wrong. There are,' I trust, younger spirits rising up 
in England, who, escaping the contagion which has 
swept awayipoetry from our literature, will recall it 
to their country, such as it once was and may still 
be. 

In the mean time, the best sign of amendment 
will be repentance, and new, and frequent editions 
of Pope and Dryden. 

There will be found as comfortable metaphysics, 
and ten times more poetry in the " Essay on Man," 



than in the " Excursion." If you search for pas 
sion, where is it to be found stronger than in the 
epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, or in Palamon and 
Arcite ? Do you wish for invention, imagination, 
sublimity, character ? seek them in the Rape of 
the Lock, the Eables of Dryden, the Ode of Saint 
Cecilia's Day, and Absalom and Achitophel : yon 
will discover in these two poets only, all for which 
you must ransack innumerable metres, and God 
only knows how many writers of the day, without 
finding a tittle of the same qualities, — with the ad- 
dition, too, of wit, of which the latter have none. 
I have not, however, forgotten Thomas Brown the 
Younger, nor the Fudge Family, nor Whistlecraft ; 
but that is not wit — it is humor. I will say nothing of 
the harmony of Pope and Dryden in comparison, 
for there is not a living poet (except Rogers, Gif- 
ford, Campbell, and Crabbe), who can write an 
heroic couplet. The fact is, that the exquisite beau- 
ty of their versification has withdrawn the public 
attention from their other excellences, as the vulgar 
eye will rest more upon the splendor of the uniform 
than the quality of the troops. It is this very har- 
mony, particularly in Pope, -which has raised the 
vulgar and atrocious cant against him : — because 
his versification is perfect, it is assumed that it is 
his only perfection ; because his truths are so clear, 
it is asserted that he has no invention ; and because 
he is always intelligible, it is taken for granted that 
he has no genius. We are sneeringly told that he 
is the "Poet of Reason," as if this was a reason 
for his being no poet. Taking passage for passage, 
I will undertake to cite more lines teeming with 
imac/i/iation from Pope than from any two living 
poets, be they who they may. To take an instance 
at random from a species of composition not very 
favorable to imagination — Satire : set down the 
character of Sporus,* with all the wonderful play 
of fancy which is scattered over it, and place by its 
side an equal number of verses, from any two exist- 
ing poets, of the same power and the same variety 
— where will you find them ? 

I merely mention one instance of many, in reply 
to the injustice done to the memory of him who 
harmonized our poetical language. The attorneys' 
clerks, and other self-educated genii, found it easier 
to distort themselves to the new models, than to 
toil after the symmetry of him who had enchanted 
their fathers. They were besides smitten by being 
told that the new school were to revive the language 
of Queen Elizabeth, the true English : as every 
body in the reign of Queen Anne wrote no better 
than French, by a species of literary treason. 



' Lei Sporus tremble— jl. What ? that thing of silk, 
Sporus, tlmt mere white curd of ass's milk ? 
Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus leel ? 
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel ? 
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, 
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and sings : 
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, 
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys ; 
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight 
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. 
Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, 
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. 
Whelhor in florid impotence he speaks, 
And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks, 
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad, 
Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad 
In puns, or politics, or taies, or lies, 
Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies, 
His wit all see-saw between that and this, 
Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, 
And he himself one vile antithesis. 
Amphibious thing ! that acting either part, 
The trifling head or the corrupted heart, 
Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, 
Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. 
Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have express'd, 
A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest, 
Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, 
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust." 

Prol. Jo Sal 



1062 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Blank verse, which, unless in the drama, no one 
except Milton ever wrote who could rhyme, became 
the order of the day, — or else such rhyme as looked 
still blanker than the verse without it. I am aware 
that Johnson has said, after some hesitation, that 
he could not "prevail upon himself to wish that 
Milton had been a rhymer." The opinions of that 
truly great man, whpm it is also the present fashion 
to decry, will ever be received by me with that def- 
erence which time will restore to him from all ; but, 
with all humility, I am not persuaded that the 
Paradise Lost would not have been more nobly con- 
veyed to posterity, not perhaps in heroic couplets, 
although even they could sustain the subject if well 
balanced, but in the stanza of Spencer or of Tasso, 
or in the terza rima of Dante, which the powers of 
Milton could easily have grafted on our language. 
The Seasons of Thomson would have been better in 
rhyme, although still inferior to his Castle of Indo- 
lence ; and Mr. Southey's Joan of Arc no worse, 
although it might have taken up six months instead 
of weeks in the composition. I recommend also 
to the lovers of lyrics the perusal of the present 
laureate's Odes by the side of Dryden's on Saint 
Cecilia, but let him be sure to read first those of 
Mr. Southey. 

To the heaven-born genii and inspired young 
scriveners of the day much of this will appear par- 
adox : it will appear so even to the higher order of 
our critics ; but it was a truism twenty years ago, 
and it will be a reacknowledged truth in ten more. 
In the mean time, I will conclude with two quota- 
tions, both intended for some of my old classical 
friends who have still enough of Cambridge about 
them to think themselves honored by having had 
John Dryden as a predecessor in their college, and 
to recollect that their earliest English poetical 
pleasures were drawn from the "little nightingale" 
of Twickenham. The first is from the notes to the 
poem of the "Friends."* 

"It is only within the last twenty or thirty years 
that those notable discoveries in criticisms have 
been made which have taught our recent versifiers 
to undervalue thfs energetic, melodious, and moral 
poet. The consequences of this want of due esteem 
for a writer whom the good sense of our predeces- 
sors had raised to his proper station have been 

NUMEROUS AND DEGRADING ENOUGH. This is not 

the place to enter into the subject, even as far as it 
affects our poetical numbers alone, and there is mat- 
ter of more importance that requires present reflec- 
tion." 

The second is from the volume of a young person 
learning to write poetry, and beginning by teaching 
the art. Hear him : f 

" But ye were dead 

To things ye knew not of— were closely wed 
To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
And compass vile ; so that ye taught a school J 
Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and chip, and Jit, 
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, 
Thiir verses tallied. Easy was the task : 
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
Of poesy. Ill-fated, impious r3ce, 
That blasphemed the bright lyrist to his face, 



• Written by Lord Byron's early friend, the Rev. Francis Hodgson. 

t In a manuscript note on this passage of the pamphlet, dated Nov. 12, 
1821, Lord Byron says, — " Mr. Keats died at Rome about a year after this 
was written, of a decline produced by his having burst a blood-vessel on 
reading the article on his ' Endymion,* in the Quarterly Review. 1 have 
read the article before and since ; and although it is bitter, 1 do not think that 
a man should permit himself to be killed by it. But a young man little 
dreams what he must inevitably encounter in the course of a life ambitious of 
public notice. My indignation at Mr. Keats's depreciation of Pope has 
hardly permitted me to do justice to his own genius, which, malgre all the 
fantastic fopperies of his style, was undoubtedly of great promise. His 
Iragment of ' Hyperion ' seems actually inspired by the Titans, and is as 
sublime as JEschylus. He is a loss to onr literature J and the more so, as he 
himself, before his death, is said to have been persuaded that he had not 
taken the right line, and was reforming his style upon the more classical 
models of the language.'* 

J It was at least a grammar " school." 



And did nnt know it ; no, they went about 
Holding a poor decrepit standard out 
Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large 
The name of one Boileau I 

A little before, the manner of Pope is termed, 

11 A seism,* 
Nurtured by foppery and barbarism. 
Made great Apollo blush for this his land." f 

I thought "foppery" was a consequence of re» 
finement : but n'hnporte. 

The above will suffice to show the notions enter- 
tained by the new performers on the English lyre 
of him who made it most tuneable, and the great 
improvements of their own " variazioni." 

The writer of this is a tadpole of the Lakes, a 
young disciple of the six or seven new schools, in 
which he has learnt to write such lines and such 
sentiments as the above. He says " easy was the 
task " of imitating Pope, or it may be of equalling 
him, I presume. I recommend him to try before he 
is so positive on the subject, and then compare what 
he will have then written and what he has now writ- 
ten with the humblest and earliest compositions of 
Pope, produced in years still more youthful than 
those of Mr. Keats when he invented his new "Es- 
say on Criticism," entitled " Sleep and Poetry," (an 



* So spelt by the author. 

f As a balance to these lines, and to the sense and sentiment of the new 
ichool, 1 will put down a passage or two from Pope's earliest poems, taken 
it random : — 

" Envy her own snakes shall feel, 
And Persecution mourn her broken wheel, 
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain, 
And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain." 

11 Ah 1 what avails his glossy varying dyes, 
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes; 
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, 
His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold." 

" Round Woken columns clasping ivy twined, 
O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind; 
The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires, 
Anil savage bowlings fill the sacred quires." 

11 Hail, bards triumphant ! born in happier days ; 
Immortal heirs of universal praise I 
Whose honors with increase of ages grow, 
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ; 
Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, 
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found I 
Oh may sirae spark of your celestial fire, 
The hist, the meanest of your sons inspire, 
That on weak wings, from far pursues your flights ; 
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes, 
To leach vain wits a science little known, 
T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own I " 

" Amphion there the loud creating lyre 
t Strikes, and behold a sudden Thebes aspire I 
Cithffiron's echoes answer to his call, 
And half the mountain rolls into a wall." 

11 So Zembla's rocks, the beauteous work of frost, 
Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast ; 
Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away, 
And on Ui' impassive ice the lightnings play ; 
Eternal snows the growing mass supply, 
Till the bright mountains prop the incumbent sky, 
As Atlas fix'd each hoary pile appears, 
The gathcr'd winter of a thousand years." 

11 Thus, when we view some well-proportlonM dome, 
The world's just wonder, and even thine, Rome ! 
No single parts unequally surprise, 
All comes united to the admiring eyes : 
No monslroMs height, or breadth, or length appear; 
The whole at once is bold and regular." 

A thousand similar passages crowd upon me, all composed by Pope before 
his two-and-twentieth year ; and yet it is contended that he is np_poet, and 
we are tojd so in such lines as I beg the reader to compare with these youth- 
ful verses ot the "no poet." Must we repeal the question of Johnson, 
" If Pope is not a poet, where is poetry to be found ? " Even in descriptive 
poetry, the (ouwst department of the art, he will be found, on a fair examina- 
tion, to surpass any living writer. 



OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 1063 



ominous title,) fromAvhence the above canons are 
taken. Pope's was written at nineteen, and pub- 
lished at twenty-two. 

Such are the triumphs of the new schools, and 
such their scholars. The disciples of Pope were 
Johnson, Goldsmith, Rogers, Campbell, Crabbe, 
Gifford, Matthias, Haley, and the author of the 
Paradise of Coquettes ; to whom may be added 
Richards, Heber, Wrangham, Bland, Hodgson, 
Merivale, and others who have not had their full 
fame, because " the race is not always to the swift, 
nor the battle to the strong," and because there is 
a fortune in fame as in all other things. Now, of 
all the new schools — I say all, for, "like Legion, 
they are many" — ha,s there appeared a single scholar 
who has not made his master ashamed of him ? 
unless it be Sotheby, who has imitated every body, 
and occasionally surpassed his models. Scott found 
peculiar favor and imitation among the fair sex : 
there was Miss Holford, and Miss Mitford, and Miss 
Francis ; but, with the greatest respect be it spoken, 
none of his imitators did much honor to the origi- 
nal, except Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, until the 
appearance of " The Bridal of Triermain," and 
"Harold the Dauntless," which in the opinion of 
some equalled if not surpassed him ; and lo ! after 
three or four years, they turned out to be the Mas- 
ter's own compositions. Have Southey, or Cole- 
ridge, or t'other fellow, made a follower of renown ? 
Wilson never did well till he set up for himself in 
the "City of the Plague." -Has Moore, or any 
other living writer of reputation, had a tolerable 
imitator, or rather disciple ? Now, it is remark- 
able, that almost all the followers of Pope, whom I 
have named, have produced beautiful and standard 
works , and it was not the number of his imitators 
who finally hurt his fame, but the despair of imi- 
tation, and the ease of not imitating him sufficiently. 
This, and the same reason which induced the Athen- 
ian burgher to vote for the banishment of Aristides, 
"because he was tired of always hearing him called 
the Just," have produced the temporary exile of 
Pope from the State of Literature. But the term 
of his ostracism will expire, and the sooner the bet- 
ter, not for him, but for those who banished him, 
and for the coming generation, who 

" Will blush to find their fathers were his foes." 

I will now return to the writer of the article which 
has drawn forth these remarks, whom I honestly 
take to be John Wilson, a man of great powers and 
acquirements, well known to the public as the 
author of the " City of the Plague," " Isle of 
Palms," and other productions. I take the liberty 



of naming him, by the same species of courtesy 
which has induced him to designate me as the 
author of Don Juan. Upon the score of the Lake 
Poets, he may perhaps recall to mind that I merely 
express an opinion long ago entertained and speci- 
fied in a letter to Mr. James Hogg, which he the 
said James Hogg, somewhat contrary to the law of 
pens, showed to Mr. John Wilson, in the year 1814, 
as he himself informed me in his answer, telling me 

by way of apology, that " he'd be d dif he could 

help it ; " and I am not conscious of any thing like 
"envy" or "exacerbation" at this moment which 
induces me to think better or worse of Southey, 
Wordsworth, and Coleridge as poets than I do now, 
although I do know one or two things more which 
have added to my contempt for them as individuals. 
And, in return for Mr. Wilson's invective, I shall 
content myself with asking one question : Did he 
never compose, recite, or sing any parody or paro- 
dies upon the Psalms (of what nature this deponent 
saith not), in certain jovial meetings of the youth 
of Edinburgh ? It is not that I think any great 
harm if he did ; because it seems to me that all de- 
pends upon the intention of such a parody. If it 
be meant to throw ridicule on the sacred original, it 
is a sin ; if it be intended to burlesque the profane 
subject, or to inculcate a moral truth, it is none. If 
it were, the unbelievers' Creed, the many political 
parodies of various parts of the Scriptures and 
liturgy, particularly a celebrated one of the Lord's 
Prayer, and the beautiful moral parable in favor of 
toleration by Franklin, which has often been taken 
for a real extract from Genesis, would all be sins of 
a damning nature. But I wish to know, if Mr. 
Wilson ever has done this, and if he has, why he 
should be so very angry with similar portions of 
Don Juan? — Did no " parody profane " appear in 
any of the earlier numbers of Blackwood's Maga- 
zine ? 

I will now conclude this long answer to a short 
article, repenting of having said so much in my own 
defence, and so little on the " crying, left-hand fall- 
ings off and national defections " of the poetry of 
the present day. Having said this, I can hardly be 
expected to defend Don Juan, or any other "living" 
poetry, and shall not make the attempt. And al- 
though I do not think that Mr. John Wilson has in 
this instance treated me with candor or considera- 
tion, I trust that the tone I have used in speaking 
of him personally will prove that I bear hi'm as lit- 
tle malice as I really believe at the bottom of his 
heart he bears towards me ; but the duties of an 
editor, like those of a tax-gatherer, are paramount 
and peremptory. I have done. 

BYRON. 



•/ 



LETTER 

TO THE EDITOR OF MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW, 

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE "LIBERAL." 



In the first canto of Don Juan appeared the fall- 
owing passage : 

" For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, 
I've bribed My Grandmother's Review,— the British ! 

" I sent it in a letter to the editor, 

Who th.uik'd me duly by return of post — 
I'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 

Yet if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 
And break a promise after having made it her, 

Denying the receipt of what it cost, 
Ami smear his page with gall instead of honey, 

All 1 can say is— that lie had the money." 

On the appearance of the poem, the learned editor 
of the Review in question allowed himself to be de- 
coyed into the ineffable absurdity of taking the 
charge as serious, and, in his succeeding number, 
came forth with an indignant contradiction of it ; 
to which Lord Byron replied in the following letter : 



"to the editor of the british review. 

" My Dear Roberts, 

" As a believer in the Church of England — to say 
nothing of the State — I have been an occasional 
reader, and great admirer of, though not a sub- 
scriber to, your Review, which is rather expensive. 
But I do not know that any part of its contents 
ever give me much surprise till the eleventh article 
of your twenty-seventh number made its appear- 
ance. You have there most vigorously refuted a 
calumnious accusation of bribery and corruption, 
the credence of which in the public mind might not 
only have damaged your reputation as a barrister 
and an editor, but, what would have been still 
worse, have injured the circulation of your journal; 
which, I regret to hear, is not so extensive as the 
' purity (as you well observe) of its,' &c, &c, and 
the present taste for propriety would induce us to 
expect. The charge itself is of a solemn nature, 
and, although in verse, is couched in terms of such 
circumstantial gravity, as to induce a belief little 
short of that generally accorded to the thirty-nine 
articles, to which you so frankly subscribed on 
taking your degrees. It is a charge the most re- 
volting to the heart of man, from its frequent oc- 
currence ; to the mind of a lawyer, from its occa- 
sional truth ; and to the soul of an editor, from its 
moral impossibility. You are charged, then, in the 
last line of one octave stanza, and the whole eight 
lines of the next, viz., two hundred and ninth and 
two hundred and tenth of the first canto of that 
'pestilent poem,' Don Juan, with receiving, and 
still more foolishly acknowledging the receipt of 



certain monies, to eulogize the unknown author, 
who by this account must be known to you, if to 
nobody else. An impeachment of this nature, so 
seriously made, there is but one way of refuting ; 
and it is my firm persuasion, that whether you did 
or did not (and / believe that you did not) receive 
the said monies, of which I wish that he had speci- 
fied the sum, you are quite right in denying all 
knowledge of the transaction. If charges of this 
nefarious description are to go forth sanctioned by 
all the solemnity of circumstance, and guaranteed 
by the veracity of verse (as Counsellor Phillips 
would say) what is to become of readers hitherto 
implicitly confident in the not less veracious prose 
of our critical journals ? what is to become of the 
reviews ? And if the reviews fail, what is to become 
of the editors ? It is common cause, and you have 
done well to sound the alarm. I myself, in my 
humble sphere, will be one of your echoes. In the 
words of the tragedian Liston, ' I love a row,' and 
you seem justly determined to make one. 

" It is barely possible, certainly improbable, that 
the writer might have been in jest; but this only 
aggravates his crime. A joke, the proverb says, 
' breaks no bones ; ' but it may break a bookseller, 
or it may be the cause of bones being broken. The 
jest is but a bad one at the best for the author, and 
might have been a still worse one for you, if your 
copious contradiction did not certify to all whom it 
may concern your own indignant innocence, and the 
immaculate purity of the British Review. I do not 
doubt your word, my dear Roberts, yet I cannot 
help wishing that in a ease of such vital importance, 
it had assumed the more substantial shape of an 
affidavit sworn before the Lord Mayor. 

" I am sure, my dear Roberts, that you will take 
these observations of mine in good part; they are 
written in a spirit of friendship not less pure than 
your own editorial integrity. I have always admired 
you ; and not knowing any shape which friendship 
and admiration can assume more agreeable and use- 
ful than that of good advice, I shall continue my 
lucubrations, mixed with here and there a monitory 
hint as to what I conceive to be the line you should 
pursue, in case you should ever again be assailed 
with bribes, or; accused of taking them. By-the- 
way, you don't say much about the poem, except 
that it is ' flagitious.' This is a pity — you should 
have cut it up ; because, to say the truth, in not 
doing so, you somewhat assist any notions which 
the malignant might entertain on the score of the 
anonymous asseveration which has made you so 
angry. 

" You say, no bookseller ' was willing to take 
upon himself the publication, though most of them 
disgrace themselves by selling it.' Now, my dear 



LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW. 



1065 



friend, though we all know that those fellows will 
, do any thing for money, raethinks the disgrace is 
more with the purchasers ; and some such, doubt- 
less, there are, for there can be no very extensive 
selling (as you will perceive by that of the British 
Review) without buying. You then add, ' what can 
the critic say ? ' I am sure I don't know ; at pres- 
ent he says very little, and that not much to the 
purpose. Then comes, ' for praise, as far as regards 
the poetry, many passages might be exhibited ; for 
condemnation, as far as regards the morality, all.' 
Now, my dear, good Roberts, I feel for you and for 
your reputation; my heart bleeds for both; and I 
do ask you, whether or not such language does not 
come positively under the description of ' the puff 
collusive,' for which see Sheridan's farce of ' The 
Critic,' (by-the-way, a little more facetious than 
your own farce under the same title) towards the 
close of scene second, act the first. 

" The poem is, it seems, sold as the work of Lord 
Byron ; but you feel yourself ' at liberty to suppose 
it not Lord B.'s composition.' Why did you ever 
suppose that it was ? I approve of your indigna- 
tion — I applaud it — I feel as angry as you can ; but 
perhaps your virtuous wrath carries you a little too 
far, when you say that ' no misdemeanor, not even 
that of sending into the world obscene and blas- 
phemous poetry, the product of studious lewdness 
and labored impiety, appears to you in so detestable 
a light as the acceptance of a present by the editor 
of a review, as the condition of praising an author.' 
The devil it doesn't ! Think a little. This is being 
critical overmuch. In point of Gentile benevolence 
or Christian charity, it were surely less criminal to 
praise for a bribe, than to abuse a fellow-creature for 
nothing ; and as to the assertion of the compara- 
tive innocence of blasphemy and obscenity, con- 
fronted with an editors' ' acceptance of a present,' 
I shall merely observe, that as an editor you say 
very well, but as a Christian barrister, I would not 
recommend you to transplant this sentence into a 
brief. 

"And yet you say, ' the miserable man, (for misera- 
ble he is, as having a soul of which he cannot get 
rid.') But here I must pause, and inquire what is 
the meaning of this parenthesis. We have heard of 
people of ' little soul,' or of ' no soul at all,' but never 
till now of ' the misery of having a soul of which we 
cannot get rid ; ' a misery under which you are pos- 
sibly no great sufferer, having got rid apparently of 
some of the intellectual part of your own, when you 
penned this pretty piece of eloquence. 

" But to continue. You call upon Lord Byron, 
always supposing him not the author, to disclaim 
1 with all gentlemanly haste,' &c, &c. I am told 
that Lord B. is in a foreign country, some thousand 
miles off it may be ; so that it will be difficult for 
him to hurry to your wishes. In the mean time, 
perhaps you yourself have set an example of more 
haste than gentility ; but ' the more haste the worse 



: Let us now look at the charge itself, my dear 
Roberts, which appears to me to be in some degree 
not quite explicitly worded : 

" I bribed my Grandmotlier's Review, the British." 

" I recollect hearing, soon after the publication, 
this subject discussed at the tea-table of Mr. S. the 
poet, who expressed himself, I remember, a good 
deal surprised that you had never reviewed his epic 
poem, nor any of his six tragedies, of which, in one 
instance, the bad taste of the pit, and in all the 
rest, the barbarous repugnance of the principal 
actors, prevented the performance. Mrs. and the 
Misses S. being in a corner of the room perusing 
the proof sheets of some new poems on Italy, (I 
wish, by-the-by, Mrs. S. would make the tea a little 
stronger,) the male part of the conversazione were 
at liberty to make a few observations on the poem 
and passage in question, and there was a difference 
of opinion. Some thought the allusion was to the 
134 



' British Critic ; ' others, that by the expression, 
'my Grandmother's Review,' it was intimated that 
' my grandmother ' was not the reader of the review, 
but actually the writer ; thereby insinuating, my 
dear Roberts, that you were an old woman ; because, 
as people often say, 'Jeffrey's Review,' ' Gifford's 
Review,' in lieu of Edinburgh and Quarterly; so 
' my Grandmother's Review ' and Roberts's might 
be also synonymous. Now, whatever color his in- 
sinuation might derive from the circumstance of 
your wearing a gown, as well as from your time of 
life, your general style, and various passages of your 
writings, — I will take upon myself to exculpate you 
from all suspicion of the kind, and assert, without 
calling Mrs. Roberts in testimony, that if ever you 
should be chosen Pope, you will pass through all 
the previous ceremonies with as much credit as any 
pontiff since the parturition of Joan. It is very 
unfair to judge of sex from writings, particularly 
from those of the British Review. We are all liable 
to be deceived ; and it is an indisputable fact, that 
many of the best articles in your journal, which 
were attributed to a veteran female, were actually 
written by you yourself; and yet to this day there 
are people who could never find out the difference. 
But let us return to the more immediate question. 

"I agree with you that it is impossible Lord Byron 
should be the author, not only because as a British 
peer and a British poet, it would be impracticable 
for him to have recourse to such facetious fiction, 
but for some other reasons which you have omitted 
to state. In the first place, his lordship has no 
grandmother. Now the author — and we may be- 
> lieve him in this — doth expressly state that the 
• ' British ' is his ' Grandmother's Review ; ' and if, 
as I think I have distinctly proved, this was not a 
mere figurative allusion to your supposed intellec- 
tual age and sex, my dear friend, it follows, whether 
you be she or no, that there is such an elderly lady 
still extant. And I can the more readily credit this, 
having a sexagenary aunt of my own, who perused 
you constantly, till unfortunately falling asleep over 
the leading article of your last number, her specta- 
cles fell off and were broken against the fender, 
after a faithful service of fifteen years, and she has 
never been able to fit her eyes since ; so that I have 
been forced to read you aloud to her ; and this is in 
fact the way in which I became acquainted with the 
subject of my* present letter, and thus determined 
to become your public correspondent. 

"In the next place, Lord B.'s destiny seems in 
some sort like that of Hercules of old, who became 
the author of all unappropriated prodigies. Lord 
B. has been supposed the author of the 'Vampire,' 
of a ' Pilgrimage to Jerusalem,' ' To the Dead Sea,' 
of 'Death upon the Pale Horse,' of odes to ' Lava- 
lette,' to ' Saint Helena,' to the ' Land of the Gaul,' 
and to a sucking child. Now he turned out to have 
written none of these things. Besides, you sav, he 
knows in what a spirit of, &c, you criticise. "Are 
you sure he knows all this ? that he has read you 
like my poor dear aunt ? They teil me he is a queer 
sort of a man ; and I would not be too sure, if I 
were you, either of what he has read or what he has 
written. I thought his style had been the serious 
and terrible. As to his sending you money, this is 
the first time that ever I heard of his paying his 
reviewers in that coin ; I thought that it was rather 
in their own, to judge from some of his earlier pro- 
ductions. Besides, though he may not be profuse 
in his expenditure, I should conjecture that his re- 
viewer's bill is not so long as his tailor's. 

"Shall I give you what I think a prudent opin- 
ion ? I don't mean to insinuate, God forbid ! but if, 
by any accident, there should have been such a cor- 
respondence between you and the unknown author, 
whoever he may be, send him back his money : I 
dare say he will be very glad to have it again : it 
can't be much, considering the value of the article 
and the circulation of the journal ; and you are too 
modest to rate your praise beyond its real worth.— 



1066 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Don't be angry, — I know you won't, — at this ap- 
praisement of your powers of eulogy ; for on the 
other hand, my dear friend, depend upon it your 
abuse is worth, not its own weight — that's a feather, 
— but your weight in gold. So don't spare it : if he 
has bargained for that, give it handsomely, and de- 
pend upon your doing him a friendly office. 

" But I only speak in case of possibility ; for, as 
I said before, I cannot believe in the first instance, 
that you would receive a bribe to praise any person 
whatever ; and still less can I believe that your 
praise could ever produce such an offer. You are a 
good creature, my dear Roberts, and a clever fellow ; 
else I could almost suspect that you had fallen into 
the very trap set for you in verse by this anonymous 
wag, who will certainly be but too happy to see you 
saving him the trouble of making you ridiculous. 
The fact is, that the solemnity of your eleventh ar- 
ticle does make you look a little more absurd than 
you ever yet looked, in all probability, and at the 
same time does no good ; for if any body believed 
before in the octave stanzas, they will believe still, 
and you will find it not less difficult to prove your 
negative, than the teamed Partridge found it to de- 
monstrate his not being dead, to the satisfaction of 
the readers of almanacs. 

" What the motives of this writer may have been 
for (as you magnificently translate his quizzing you) 
' stating, with the particularity which belongs to 
fact, the forgery of a groundless fiction,' (do pray, 
my dear R., talk a little less ' in King Cambyses' 
vein,') I cannot pretend to say ; perhaps to laugh at 
you, but this is no reason for your benevolently 
making all the world laugh also. I approve of your 
being angry ; I tell you I am angry too ; but you 
should not have shown it so outrageously. Your 
solemn ' t/'somebody personating the Editor of the,' 
&c, &c, 'has received from Lord B., or from any 
other person,' reminds me of Charley Incledon's 
usual exordium when people came into the tavern 
to hear him sing without paying their share of the 
reckoning — ' If a maun, or ony maun, or ony other 



maun,' &c, &c. ; you have both the same redun- 
dant eloquence. But why should you think any 
body would personate you ? Nobody would dream 
of such a prank who ever read your compositions 
and perhaps not many who have heard your conver- 
sation. But I have been inocculcated with a little oi 
your prolixity. The fact is, my dear Roberts, that 
somebody has tried to make a fool of you, and what 
he did not succeed in doing, you have done for him 
and for yourself. 

" With regard to the poem itself, or the author, 
whom I cannot find out, (can you ?) I have nothing 
to say ; my business is with you. I am sure that 
you will, upon second thoughts, be really obliged to 
me for the intention of this letter, however far short 
my expressions may have fallen of the sincere good 
will, admiration, and thorough esteem, with which 
I am ever, my dear Roberts, 

" Most truly yours, 
" WORTLEY CLUTTERBUCK. 

• Sept. —,1819. 
" Liule Pidlington. 

"P. S. My letter is too long to revise, and the 
post is going. I forget whether or not I asked you 
the meaning of your last words, ' the forgery of a 
groundless fiction.' Now, as all forgery is fiction, 
and all fiction a kind of forgery, is not this tauto- 
logical ? The sentence would have ended more 
strongly with ' forgery ; ' only it hath an awful Bank- 
of-England sound, and would have ended like an 
indictment, besides sparing you several words, and 
conferring some meaning upon the remainder. But 
this is mere verbal criticism. Good bye — once more 
yours truly, " W. C. 

" P. S. 2d. Is it true that the Saints make up the 
losses of the review ? — It is very handsome in them 
to be at so great an expense. — Pray pardon my 
taking up so much of your time from the bar, and 
from your clients, who I hear are about the same 
number with the readers of your journal. Twice 
more yours, " W. C." 



LORD BACON'S APOTHEGMS. 



bacon's apothegms. 



91. 

Michael Angelo, the 
famous painter, painting 
in the pope's chapel the 
portraiture of hell and 
damned souls, made one 
of the damned souls so 
like a cardinal that was 
his enemy, as every body 
at first sight knew it ; 
whereupon the cardinal 
complained to Pope Cle- 
ment, humbly praying it 
might be defaced. The 
pope said to him, Why, 
you know very well I have 
power to deliver a soul 
out of purgatory, but not 
out of hell. 



OBSERVATIONS. 



This was not the por- 
trait of a cardinal, but of 
the pope's master of the 
ceremonies. 



155. 

Alexander, after the 
battle of Granicum, had 
very great offers made him 
by Darius. Consulting 
with his captains con- 
cerning them, Parmenio 
said, Sure, I would ac- 
cept of these offers, if I 
were as Alexander. Al- 
exander answered, So 
would I, if I were as Par- 
menio. 

158. 

Antigonus, when it was 
told him that the enemy 
had such volleys of ar- 
rows, that they did hide 
the sun, said, That falls 
out well, for it is hot 
weather, and so we shall 
fight in the shade. 



It was after the battle 
of Issus, and during the 
seige of Tyre, and not im- 
mediately after the pas- 
sage of the Granicus, 
that this is said to have 
occurred. 



This was not said by 
Antigonus, but by a 
Spartan, previously to 
the battle of Thermopy- 
lae. 



LORD BACON'S APOTHEGMS. 



1067 



162. 
There was a philoso- 
pher that disputed with 
Adrian the Emperor, and 
did it but weakly. One 
of his friends that stood 
by, afterwards said unto 
him, Methinks you were 
not like yourself last day, 
in argument with the 
Emperor : I could have 
answered better myself. 
Why, said the philoso- 
pher, would you have me 
contend with him that 
commands thirty legions? 

164. 

There was one that 
found a great mass of 
money digged under 
ground in his grandfath- 
er's house, and being 
somewhat doubtful of the 
case, signified it to the 
emperor that he had 
found such treasure. The 
emperor made a rescript 
thus : Use it. He writ 
Dack again, that the sum 
was greater than his state 
or condition could use. 
The emperor writ a new 
rescript, thus : Abuse it. 

178. 
One of the seven was 
wont to say, that laws 
were like cobwebs : where 
the small flies were 
caught, and the great 
brake through. 

209. 
An orator of Athens 
said to Demosthenes, 
The Athenians will kill 
you if they wax mad. 
Demosthenes replied, 
And they will kill you, if 
they be in good sense. 

221. 
There was a philoso- 
pher about Tiberius that, 
looking into the nature 
of Caius, said of him, 
That he was mire min- 
gled with blood. 

97. 
There was a king of 
Hungary took a bishop 
in battle, and kept him 
prisoner ; whereupon the 
pope writ a monitory to 



This happened under 
Augustus Caesar, and not 
during the reign of Ad- 
rian. 



This happened to the 
father of Herodes Atti 
cus, and the answer was 
made by the emperor 
Nerva, who deserved that 
his name should have 
been stated by the"great- 
est — wisest — meanest of 
mankind." 



This was said by Ana- 
charsis the Scythian, and 
not by a Greek. 



This was not said by 
Demosthenes, but to De- 
mosthenes by Phocion. 



This was not said of 
Caiu3 (Caligula, 1 pre- 
sume, is intended by Ca- 
ius), but of Tiberius him- 
self. 



This reply was not 
made by a king of Hun- 
gary, but sent by Richard 
the first, Cceur de Lion, 
of England to the Pope, 



him, for that he had with the breastplate of 

broken the privilege of the bishop of Beauvais. 

holy church, and taken 

his son : the king sent 

an embassage to him, and 

sent withal the armor 

wherein the bishop was 

taken, and this only in 

writing — Vide num. hece 

sit vestisfilii tut ! Know 

now whether this be thy 

son's coat ? 

267. 
Demetrius, king of Ma- This did not happen to 
cedon, had a petition of- Demetrius, but to Philip 
fered him divers times by King of Macedon. 
an old woman, and an- 
swered he had no leisure ; 
whereupon the woman 
said aloud, Why then 
give over to be king. 

VOLTAIRE. 

Having stated that Bacon was frequently incor- 
rect in his citations from history, I have thought it 
necessary in what regards so great a name (however 
trifling), to support the assertion by such facts as 
more immediately occur to me. They are but tri- 
fles, and yet for such trifles a schoolboy would be 
whipped (if still in the fourth form) ; and Voltaire 
for half a dozen similar errors has been treated as a 
superficial writer, notwithstanding the testimony of 
the learned Warton : — "Voltaire, a writer of tnuch 
deeper research than is imagined, and the first who 
hds displayed the literature and customs of the 
dark ages with any degree of penetration and com- 
prehension." For another distinguished testimony 
to Voltaire's merits in literary research, see also 
Lord Holland's excellent Account of the Life and 
Writings of Lope de Vega, vol. i., p. 215, edition of 
1817. 

Voltaire has even been termed " a shallow fel- 
low," by some of the same school who called Dry- 
den's Ode "a drunken song;" — a school (as it is 
called, I presume, from their education being still 
incomplete) the whole of whose filthy trash of Epics, 
Excursions, &c, &c, &c, is not worth the two 
words in Zaire, " Vous pleurez," or a single speech 
of Tancred : — a school, the apostate lives of whose 
renegadoes, with their tea-drinking neutrality of 
morals, and their convenient treachery in politics — 
in the record of their accumulated pretences to 
virtue can produce no actions (were all their good 
deeds drawn up in array) to equal or approach the 
sole defence of the family of Calas, by that great 
and unequalled genius — the universal Voltaire. 

I have ventured to remark on these little inaccu- 
racies of Hthe greatest genius that England or per- 
haps any other country ever produced,"* merely to 
show our national injustice in condemning generally, 
the greatest genius of France for such inadverten- 
cies as these, of which the highest of England has 
been no less guilty. Query, was Bacon a greater 
intellect than Newton ? 



• Pope, in Spence's Anecdotes, p. 158. Malone's edition. 



TRANSLATION OF TWO EPISTLES 

FROM THE ARMENIAN VERSION. 



THE EPISTLE OF THE CORINTHIANS 
TO ST. PAUL THE APOSTLE * 

1 Stephen, f and the ciders with him, Dabnus, 
Eubulus, Theophilus, and Xinon, to Paul, our fa- 
ther and evangelist, and faithful master in Jesus 
Christ, health, j 

2 Two men have come to Corinth, Simon, by 
name, and Cleobus,$ who vehemently disturb the 
faith of some with deceitful and corrupt words ; 

3 Of which words thou shouldst inform thyself: 

4 For neither have we heard such words from 
thee, nor from the other apostles : 

5 But we know only that what we have heard 
from thee and from them, that we have kept firmly. 

6 But in this chiefly has our Lord had compas- 
sion, that, whilst thou art yet with us in the flesh, 
we are again about to hear from thee. 

7 Therefore do thou write to us, or come thyself 
among us quicklv. 

8 We believe in the Lord, that, as it was revealed 
to Theonas, he hath delivered thee from the hands 
of the uririghteous.il 

9 But these are the sinful words of these impure 
men, for thus do they say and teach : 

10 That it behooves not to admit the Prophets. IT 

11 Neither do they affirm the omnipotence of 
God: 

12 Neither do they affirm the resurrection of the 
flesh : 

13 Neither do they affirm that man was altogether 
created by God : 

14 Neither do they affirm that Jesus Christ was 
born in the flesh from the Virgin Mary : 

15 Neither do they affirm that the world was the 
work of God, but of some one of the angels. 

16 Therefore do thou make haste** to come among 
us. 

17 That this city of the Corinthians may remain 
without scandal. 

18 And that the folly of these men may be made 
manifest by an open refutation. Fare thee well. ft 

The deacons Thereptus and TichusjJ received 



* Some MSS. have the tille thus: Epistle of Sleplien the Elder to Paul 
the Apostle, from the Corintftians . 

t In the MSS., the marginal verses published by the Whiston's are want- 
ing- 

X In some MSS. we find, The elders Numenus, Eubulus, Theophilus, 
and Nomeson, to Paul their brother, health I 

§ Others read, There came certain men, . . . and Clobeus, who vehemently 
$hake. 

II Some MSS. have, We believe in the Lord, that his presence was made 
manifest ; and by this hath the Lord delivered us from the hands of the 
unrighteous. 

T[ Others read, To read the Prophets. 

" Some MSS. have Therefore, brotiier, do tliou make haste. 

1 1 Others read, Fare tliee well in the Lord. 

XX Some MSS. have, The Deacons Therepus and Techus. 



and conveyed this Epistle to the city of the Philip- 
pians.* 

When Paul received the Epistle, although he was 
then in chains on account of Stratonice,t the wife 
of Apofolanus,+ yet, as it were forgetting his 
bonds, he mourned over these words, and said, 
weeping, " It were better for me to be dead, and 
with the Lord. For while I am in this body, and 
hear the wretched words of such false doctrine, be- 
hold, grief arises upon grief, and my trouble adds a 
weight to my chains ; when I behold this calamity 
and progress of the machinations of Satan, who 
searcheth to do wrong." 

And thus with deep affliction Paul composed his 
reply to the Epistle. J 



EPISTLE OF PAUL TO THE CORINTHIANS.|| 

1 Paul, in bonds for Jesus Christ, disturbed by so 
many errors, *& to his Corinthian brethren, health. 

2 I nothing marvel that the preachers of evil 
have, made this progress. 

3 For because the Lord Jesus is about to fulfil his 
coming, verily on this account do certain men per- 
vert and despise his words. 

4 But I, verily, from the beginning, have taught 
you that only which I myself received from the 
former apostles, who always remained with the Lord 
Jesus Christ. 

5 And I now say unto you, that the Lord Jesus 
Christ was born of the Virgin Mary, who was of tha 
seed of David, 

6 According to the annunciation of the Holy 
Ghost, sent to her by our Father from heaven ; 

7 That Jesus might be introduced into the world,** 
and deliver our flesh by his flesh, and that he might 
raise us up from the dead ; 

8 As in this also he himself became the example : 

9 That it might be made manifest that man was 
created by the Father, 

10 He has not remained in perdition unsought ;++ 

11 But he is sought for, that he might be revived 
by adoption. 

12 For God, who is the Lord of all, the Father ot 



• The Whiston's have, To the city of Phoenicia; but in all the MSS. we 
find, To the city af the PhUlijiians. 

f O'hers read, On accoui\t of Onotice. 

X The Whistons have, Of Apollophanus : but in all the MSS. we read 
Apofolanus. 

§ In the text of this Epistle there are some other variations in the words, 
but the sense is the same. 

|| Some MSS. have, Paul's Epistle from Prison, for the insti uclxon of 
the Corinthians. 

TT Others read, Disturbed by various compunctions. 

** Some MSS. have, That Jesus might comfort the world. 

ft Others read, He has not remained indifferent. 



TRANSLATION OF TWO EPISTLES. 



1069 



our Lord Jesus Christ, who made heaven and earth, 
sent firstly, the Prophets to the Jews : 

13 That he would absolve them from their sins, 
and bring them to his judgment. 

14 Because he wished to save, firstly, the house 
of Israel, he bestowed and poured forth his Spirit 
upon the Prophets ; 

15 That they should for a long time preach the 
worship of God, and the nativity of Christ. 

16 But he who was the prince of evil, when he 
wished to make himself God, laid his hand upon 
them, 

17 And bound all men in sin,* 

18 Because the judgment of the world was ap- 
proaching. 

19 But Almighty God, when he willed to justify, 
was unwilling to abandon his creature ; 

20 But when he saw his affliction, he had com- 
passion upon him : 

21 And at the end of a time he sent the Holy 
Ghost into the Virgin foretold by the Prophets. 

22 Who, believing readily, f was made worthy to 
conceive, and bring forth our Lord Jesus Christ. 

23 That from this perishable body, in which the 
evil spirit was glorified, he should be cast out, and it 
should be made manifest 

24 That he was not God : For Jesus Christ, in 
his flesh, had recalled and saved this perishable 
flesh, and drawn it into eternal life by faith, 

25 Because in his body he would prepare a pure 
temple of justice for all ages ; 

26 In whom we also, when we believe, are saved. 

27 Therefore know ye that these men are not the 
children of justice, but the children of wrath ; 

28 Who turn away from themselves the compas- 
sion of God ; 

29 Who say that neither the heavens nor the earth 
were altogether works made by the hand of the 
Father of all things. J 

30 But these cursed men§ have the doctrine of 
the serpent. 

31 But dej ye, by the power of God, withdraw 
yourselves far from these, and expel from among you 
the doctrine of the wicked. 

32 Because you are not the children of rebellion, 
but the sons of the beloved church. 

33 And on this account the time of the resurrec- 
tion is preached to all men. 

34 Therefore they who affirm that there is no 
resurrection of the flesh, they indeed shall not be 
raised up to eternal life ; 

35 But to judgment and condemnation shall the 
unbeliever arise in the flesh : 

36 For to that body which denies the resurrection 
of the body, shall be denied the resurrection : be- 
cause such are found to refuse the resurrection. 

37 But you also, Corinthians! have known, from 
the seeds of wheat, and from other seeds, 

38 That one grain falls U dry into the earth, and 
within it first dies, 

39 And afterward rises again, by the will of the 
Lord, endued with the same body : 



* Some MSS. have, Laid his hand, and Oiem anil all body bound i 

t Others read, Believing with a pure heart. 

t Some MSS. have, Of God the Father of all tilings. 

§ Othere read, They curse themselves in tliis thing* 

|| Others read. Children of die disobedient. 

17 Some MSS. have, That one grain falls not dry into the earth. 



40. Neither indeed does it arise with the same 
simple body, but manifold, and filled with blessing. 

41 But we produce the example not only from 
seeds, but from the honorable bodies of men!* 

42 Ye also have known Jonas, the son of Amit- 
tai.f 

43 Because he delayed to preach to the Ninevites 
he was swallowed up in the belly of a fish for three 
days and three nights : 

_ 44 And after three days, God heard his supplica- 
tion, and brought him out from the deep abyss ; 

45 Neither was any part of his body corrupted ; 
neither was his eyebrow bent down.t 

46 And how much more for you, oh men of little 
faith ! 

47 If you believe in our Lord Jesus Christ, will 
he raise you up, even as he himself hath arisen. 

4S If the bones df Elisha the prophet, falling upon 
the dead, revived the dead, 

49 By how much more shall ye, who are sup- 
ported by the flesh and the blood and the Spirit of 
Christ, arise again on that day with a perfect body ? 

50 Elias the prophet, embracing the widow's son, 
raised him from the dead : 

51 By how much more shall Jesus Christ revive 
you, on that day, with a perfect body, even as he 
himself hath arisen ? 

52 But if ye receive other things vainly, § 

53 Henceforth no one shall cause me to travail ; 
for I bear on my body these fetters, || 

54 To obtain Christ ; and I suffer with patience 
these afflictions to become worthy of the resurrec- 
tion of the dead. 

55 And do each of you, having received the law 
from the hands of the blessed Prophets and the holy 
gospel, H firmly maintain it ; 

56 To the end that you may be rewarded in the 
resurrection of the dead, and the possession of the 
life eternal. < 

57 But ifany of ye, not believing, shall trespass, 
he shall be judged with the misdoers, and punished 
with those who have false belief. 

58 Because such are the generations of vipers, 
and the children of dragons and basilisks. 

59 Drive far from among ye, and fly from such, 
with the aid of our Lord Jesus Christ. 

60 And the peace and grace of the beloved Son be 
upon you.** Amen. 

Done into English by me, January-February, 1817, 
at the Convent of San Lazaro, toith the aid and ex- 
position of the Armenian text by the Father Paschal 
Aucher, Armenian Friar. Byron. 



" Venice, April 10, 1817. 

I had also the Latin text, but it is in many places 
very corrupt, and with great omissions. 



• Others read, But we have not only produced from seeds, but from tht 
honorable body of man. 

| Others read, The son of Ematdiius. 

X Others add, Nor did a liair of his body fall therefrom. 

§ Some MSS. have, Ye shall not receive oilier things in vain. 

|| Others finished here thus, Henceforth no one can trouble me fardier, 
for I bear in my body tlie sufferings of Christ. The grace of our Lorit 
Jesus Christ be with your spirit, my breUiren. Amen. 

If Some MSS. have, Of Vie holy evangelist. 

• * Others add, Our Lord be with ye all. Amen. 



THE WILL OF LORD BYRON. 

EXTRACTED FROM THE REGISTRY OF THE PREROGATIVE COURT OF CANTERBURY- 



This is the last will and testament of me, George 
Gordon, Lord Byron, Baron Byron, of Rochdale, in 
the county of Lancaster, as follows: — I give and 
devise all that my manor or lordship of Rochdale, 
in the said county of Lancaster, with all its rights, 
royalties, members, and appurtenances, and all my 
lands, tenements, hereditaments, and premises sit- 
uate, lying, and being within the parish, manor, 
or lordship of Rochdale aforesaid, and all other my 
estates, lands, hereditaments, and premises whatso- 
ever and wheresoever, unto my friends John Cam 
Hobhouse, late of Trinity College, Cambridge, 
Esquire, and John Hanson, of Chancery Lane, Lon- 
don, Esquire, to the use and behoof of them, their 
heirs and assigns, upon trust that they the said 
John Cam Hobhouse and John Hanson, and the 
survivor of them, and the heirs and assigns of such 
survivor, do and shall, as soon as conveniently may 
be after my decease, sell and dispose of all my said 
manor and estates for the most money that can or 
may be had or gotten for the same, either by private 
contract or public sale by auction, and either to- 
gether or in lots, as my said trustees shall think 
proper ; and for the facilitating such sale and sales, 
I do direct that the receipt and receipts of my said 
trustees, and the survivor of them, and the heirs 
and assigns of such survivor, shall be a good and 
sufficient discharge, and good and sufficient dis- 
charges to the purchaser or purchasers of my said 
estates, or any part or parts thereof, for so much 
money as in such receipt or receipts shall be expressed 
or acknowledged to be received ; and that such 
purchaser or purchasers, his, her, or their heirs and 
assigns, shall not afterward be in any manner an- 
swerable or accountable for such purchase-money, 
or be obliged to see to the application thereof; and 
I do will and direct that my said trustees shall stand 
possessed of the moneys to arise by the sale of my 
said estates upon such trusts and for such intents 
and purposes as I have hereinafter directed of and 
concerning the same : And whereas I have by cer- 
tain deeds of conveyance made on my marriage 
with my present wife conveyed all my manor and 
estate of Newstead, in the parishes of Newstead 
and Linley, in the county of Nottingham, unto 
trustees, upon trust to sell the same, and apply the 
sum of sixty thousand pounds, part of the money 
to arise by such sale, upon the trusts of my mar- 
riage settlement: Now I do hereby give and be- 
queath all the remainder of the purchase-money to 
arise by sale of my said estate at Newstead, and 
all the whole of the said sixty thousand pounds, or 
such part thereof as shall not become vested and 
payable under the trusts of my said marriage settle- 
ment, unto the said John Cam Hobhouse and John 
Hanson, their executors, administrators, and as- 
signs, upon such trusts and for such ends, intents, 



ing the residue of my personal estate. I give and 
bequeath unto the said John Cam Hobhouse and 
John Hanson the sum of one thousand pounds 
each. I give and bequeath all the rest, residue, and 
remainder of my personal estate whatsoever and 
wheresover unto the said John Cam Hothouse and 
John Hanson, their executors, administrators, and 
assigns, upon trust that they, my said trustees, and 
the survivor of them, and the executors and admin- 
istrators of such survivor, do and shall stand pos- 
sessed of all such rest and residue of my said 
personal estate and the money to arise by sale of 
my real estates hereinbefore devised to them for 
sale and such of the moneys to arise by sa.)e of my 
said estate at Newstead as I have power to dispose 
of, after payment of my debts and legacies hereby 
given, upon the trusts and for the ends, intents, and 
purposes hereinafter mentioned and directed of and 
concerning the same, that is to say, upon trust, 
that they, my said trustees, and the survivor of 
them, and the executors and administrators of such 
survivor, do and shall lay out and invest the same in 
the public stocks or funds, or upon government or 
real security at interest, with power from time to 
time to change, vary, and transpose such securities, 
and from time to time during the life of my sister, 
Augusta Mary Leigh, the wife of George Leigh, 
Esquire, pay, receive, apply, and dispose of the 
interest, dividends, and annual produce thereof 
when and as the same shall become due and pay- 
able into the proper hands of the said Augusta 
Mary Leigh, to and for her sole^and separate use 
and benefit, free from the control, debts, or engage- 
ments of her present or any future husband, or unto 
such person or persons as she my said sister shall 
from time to time, by any writing under her hand, 
notwithstanding her present or any future cover- 
ture, and whether covert or sole, direct or appoint - 
and from and immediately after the decease of my 
said sister, then upon trust that they, my said trus- 
tees, and the survivor of them, his executors or 
administrators, do and shall assign and transfe,r .ill 
my said personal estate and other the trust prop- 
erty hereinbefore mentioned, or the stocks, funds, 
or securities wherein or upon which the same shall 
or may be placed out or invested unto and among 
all and every the child and children of my said 
sister, if more than one, in su~h parts, shares, and 
proportions, and to become a vested interest, and 
to be paid and transferred at such time and times, 
and in such manner, and with, under, and sub- 
ject to such provisions, conditions, and restric- 
tions, as my said sister at any time during her life, 
whether covert or sole, by any deed or deeds, in 
strument or instruments, in writing, with or without 
power of revocation, to be sealed and delivered in 
the presence of two or more credible witnesses, or 



and purposes as hereinafter directed of and concern-J by her last will and testament in writing, or any 



THE WILL OF LORD BYRON. 



1071 



writing of appointment in the nature of a will, shall 
direct or appoint, and in default of any such ap- 
pointment, or in case of the death of my said sister 
in my lifetime, then upon trust that they, my said 
trustees, and the survivor of them, his executors, 
administrators, and assigns, do and shall assign and 
transfer all the trust, property and funds unto and 
among the children of my said sister, if more than 
one, equally to be divided between them, share and 
share alike, and if only one such child, then to su-:h 
only child the share and shares of such of them as 
shall be a son or sons, to be paid and transferred 
unto him and them when and as he or they shall re- 
spectively attain his or their age or ages of twenty- 
one years ; and the share and shares of such of them 
as shall be a daughter or daughters, to be paid and 
transferred unto her or them when and as she or 
they shall respectively attain his or their age or 
ages of twenty-one years, or be married, which shall 
first happen, and in case any of such children shall 
happen to die, being a son or sons, before he or 
they shall attain the age of twenty-one years, or 
being a daughter or daughters, before she or they 
shall attain the said as;e of twenty-one, or be mar- 
ried ; then it is my will and I do direct that the 
share and shares of such of the said children as 
shall so die shall go to the survivor or survivors of 
such children, with the benefit of further accruer in 
case of the death of any such surviving children 
before their shares shall become vested. And I do 
direct that my said trustees shall pay and apply the 
interest and dividends of each of the said children's 
shares in the said trust funds for his, her, or their 
maintenance and education during their minorities, 
notwithstanding their shares may not become vested 
interests, but that such interest and dividends as 
shall not have been so applied shall accumulate, 
and follow, and go over with the principal. And I 
do nominate, constitute, and appoint the said John 
Cam Hobhouse and John Hanson executors of this 
my will. And I do will and direct that my said 
trustees shall not be answerable the one of them for 
the other of them, or for the acts, deeds, receipts, 
or defaults of the other of them, but each of them 
for his own acts, deeds, receipts, and wilful defaults 
only, and that they my said trustees shall be entitled 
to retain and deduct out of the moneys which shall 
come to their hands under the trusts aforesaid all 
such costs, charges, damages, and expenses which 
they or any of them shall bear, pay, sustain, or be 
put untojvin the execution and performance of the 
trusts herein reposed in them. I make the above 
provision for my sister and her children, in conse- 
quence of my dear wife Lady Byron and any chil- 
dren I may have, being otherwise amply provided 
for; and, lastly, I do revoke all former wills by me 
at any time heretofore made, and do declare this 
only to be my last will and testament. In witness 
whereof, I have to this my last will, contained in 
three sheets of paper, set my hand to the first two 



sheets thereof, and to this third and last sheet my 
hand and seal this 29th day of July, in the year of 
our Lord 1815. BYRON, [L. S.] 

Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the 
said Lord Byron, the testator, as and for his last 
will and testament, in the presence of us, who, at 
his request, in his presence, and in the presence of 
each other, have hereto subscribed our names as 
witnesses. Thomas Jones Mayvse, 

Edmund Griffin, 
Frederick Jervis, 
Clerks to Mr. Hanson, Chancey Lane. 

CODICIL.— This is a Codicil to the last will and 
testament of me, the Right Honorable George 
Gordon, Lord Byron. I give and bequeath unto 
Allegra Biron, an infant of about twenty months 
old, by me brought up, and now residing at Venice, 
the sum of five thousand pounds, which I direct 
the executors of my said will to pay to her on her 
attaining the age of twenty-one years, or on the 
day of her marriage, on condition that she does not 
marry with a native of Great Britain, which shall 
first happen. And I direct my said executors, as 
soon as conveniently may be after my decease, to 
invest the said sum of five thousand pounds upon 
government or real security, and to pay and apply 
the annual income thereof in or towards the main- 
tenance and education of the said Allegra Biron, 
until she attains her said age of twenty-one years, 
or shall be married as aforesaid ; but in case she 
shall die before attaining the said age and without 
having been married, then I direct the said sum of 
five thousand pounds to become part of the residue 
of my personal estate, and in all other respects I 
do confirm my said will, and declare this to be a 
codicil thereto. In witness whereof, I have here- 
unto set my hand and seal, at Venice, this 17th day 
of November, in the year of our Lord 1818. 

BYRON, [L. S.] 

Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the 
said Lord Byron, as and for a codicil to his will, in 
the presence of us, who, in his presence, at his re- 
quest, and in the presence of each other, have sub- 
scribed our names as witnesses. 

Newton Hanson, 
William Fletcher. 

Proved at London, (with a codicil,) 6th of July, 
1824, before the Worshipful Stephen Lushington, 
Doctor of Laws, and surrogate, by the oaths of 
John Cam Hobhouse and John Hanson, Esquires, 
the executors to whom administration was granted, 
having been first sworn duly to administer. 

Nathaniel Griskins, 
George Genner, 
Charles Dyneley, 

Deputy Registrars. 



THE END, 



4j 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: March 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 



